The Voices of Azania from Cape Town

Transcription

27
vol
2015
vol.
musikologian
vuosikirja
1
2
musikologian
vuosikirja
3
vuosikirja 2015
Toimittaneet:
Meri Kytö, Tampereen yliopisto
Saijaleena Rantanen, Taideyliopiston Sibelius-Akatemia
Vertaisarviointitunnuksen
merkitseminen julkaisuihin
Käyttöoikeuden saanut tiedekustantaja merkitsee tunnuksella vertaisarvioinnin läpikäyneet kirjat ja artikkelit. Tunnus tulee asetella julkaisuun siten, että käy yksiselitteisesti ilmi, mitkä kirjoituksista on vertaisarvioitu. Tunnuksesta on olemassa kaksi versiota:
tekstillä varustettu
ja tekstitön.
1. Tunnuksen tekstiä sisältävä versio liitetään aina vertaisarvioituSuomen
Etnomusikologinen Seura
ja kirjoituksia sisältävän lehden tai kirjan nimiölehdelle tai muualle
Helsinki
julkaisutietojen yhteyteen. Jos julkaisu on kokonaan vertaisarvioitu,
merkintä nimiösivuilla tai vastaavalla riittää.
2. Kun julkaisu sisältää sekä arvioituja että arvioimattomia kirjoituksia, tunnus merkitään myös:
•
•
sisällysluetteloon (tekstitön versio)
yksittäisten vertaisarvioitujen lukujen/artikkelien yhteyteen
4
Etnomusikologian vuosikirjan
Toimitusneuvosto:
aiemmin ilmestyneet osat:
Mikko Vanhasalo (Tampereen yliopisto)
Vol. 1 (1986)
Lari Aaltonen (Tampereen yliopisto)
Vol. 2 (1987 – 1988)
Salli Anttonen (Itä-Suomen yliopisto)
Vol. 3 (1989 – 1990)
Sampsa Heikkilä (Helsingin yliopisto)
Vol. 4 (1991 – 1992)
Joonas Keskinen (Kulttuuriosuuskunta Uulu)
Vol. 5 (1993)
Anna-Elena Pääkkölä (Turun yliopisto)
Vol. 6 (1994)
Kim Ramstedt (Åbo Akademi)
Vol. 7 (1995)
Pekka Toivanen (Jyväskylän yliopisto)
Vol. 8 (1996)
Vol. 9 (1997)
Vol. 10 (1998)
© Kirjoittajat & SES
Vol. 11 (1999)
Vol. 12 (2000)
Kansikuva: Kuvassa vasemmalla Paavo
Vol. 13 (2001)
Einiö ja oikealla Harry Orvomaa tutkimassa
Vol. 14 (2002)
uusia levyjä Scandia-Musiikin toimistossa
Vol. 15 (2003)
Helsingin Hietalahdenrannassa. (Lähde:
Vol. 16 (2004)
Musiikkiarkisto JAPA/Harry Orvomaan
Vol. 17 (2005)
arkisto.)
Vol. 18 (2006)
Vol. 19 (2007)
Taitto: Viestintätoimisto Kirjokansi
Vol. 20 (2008)
www.kirjokansi.fi
Vol. 21 (2009)
Vol. 22 (2010)
Helsinki 2015
Vol. 23 (2011)
Vol. 24 (2012)
ISSN-1799-5256
Vol. 25 (2013)
Vol. 26 (2014)
5
Kirjoittajat
FM Salli Anttonen, nuorempi tutkija, Itä-Suomen yliopisto
FT Pekka Gronow, dosentti, Helsingin yliopisto
FT Elina Hytönen-Ng, vapaa tutkija
TM Tuomas Järvenpää, tohtoriopiskelija, Itä-Suomen yliopisto
FT Vesa Kurkela, professori, Taideyliopiston Sibelius-Akatemia
MA Kwok Ng, tohtorikoulutettava, Jyväskylän yliopisto
FT Terhi Skaniakos, erikoissuunnittelija, Jyväskylän yliopisto
FT Heikki Uimonen, professori, Taideyliopiston Sibelius-Akatemia
os-Mari Djupsund, doktorand, Åbo Akademi
TaT Tero Heikkinen, tutkijatohtori, Aalto-yliopisto
FT Petri Hoppu, dosentti, Tampereen yliopisto
FT Meri Kytö, tutkijatohtori, Tampereen yliopisto
FT Esa Lilja, tutkijatohtori, Helsingin yliopisto
MuT Saijaleena Rantanen, tutkijatohtori, Taideyliopiston Sibelius-Akatemia
TkL, TaM Markku Reunanen, lehtori, Aalto-yliopisto
FT Pekka Suutari, professori, Itä-Suomen yliopisto
6
Sisällys
Artikkelit
8
Pekka Gronow
Music from New Orleans and Warsaw
Records from the Harry Orvomaa Collection
28
Heikki Uimonen
Transphonic sounds
Commercial radio music in a shared urban environment
48
Vesa Kurkela
Jalostavaa huvittelua
Robert Kajanuksen helppotajuiset konsertit sivistämisprojektina
82
Salli Anttonen
”The lie becomes the truth”
Constructions of authenticity in Rolling Stone’s cover stories of Lady Gaga
122
Tuomas Järvenpää
Rastafarian Reggae Music’s Claim to Autochthonous African Belonging
142
Elina Hytönen-Ng, Terhi Skaniakos & Kwok Ng
“I Was a Soldier in Kosovo”
Discourses of war in James Blunt’s early musical career
7
Pekka Gronow
Music from New Orleans and Warsaw
The record industry was born in the 1890s. For almost half a century, the 78 rpm
shellac record was the principal format of recorded music. By the end of the shellac era in the mid-1950s, the industry had issued almost a million titles, featuring
many different categories of music. Commercially published recordings can be
said to constitute the world’s greatest music archive, although it is a “virtual” archive, as many of them cannot be found in any public collection (Gronow 2014).
During the past decades, scholars have increasingly begun using commercial
recordings as sources for musicological and ethnomusicological research (Philip
2004; Yampolsky 2014).
The rapid expansion of the record industry at the beginning of the 20th century was made possible by of the industry’s ability to adapt its products to many
different markets. Record companies soon learned how to find the artists and
repertoire which would be most successful in each market, and consequently researchers have been able to use recordings as documents of musical traditions at
specific historical periods. Originally, only a small part of the recorded repertoire
was marketed across national borders. (Gronow & Englund 2006.)
However, 78 rpm records were industrial products which were manufactured
in large numbers. Once a record had been published, copies could be distributed
almost anywhere. Recorded music made it easy for expatriates and immigrants
© SES & Pekka Gronow, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 8 – 27.
8
Music from New Orleans and Warsaw:
to stay in touch with the music of their homelands. Recorded music also offered
curious individuals the opportunity to become familiar with new types of music.
Suvi Raj Grubb (1917–1999) was trained in Madras, India as a broadcasting technician and became familiar with Western classical music only through the medium of recordings. He recounts in his memoirs how he moved to England and
became a successful producer of classical music at EMI Records on the strength
of his knowledge of the classical repertoire (Grubb 1986). The Finnish composer
Toivo Kärki claimed that hearing a Louis Armstrong record in a café in 1928 made
him decide on his career (Niiniluoto 1982: 37). Other musicians have presented
similar accounts. The role of recorded music should thus also be studied from
the viewpoint of the listeners. What records do people actually own, how do they
use them, how have they acquired them? Have recordings helped individuals
to become familiar with musical traditions which are not normally heard in their
own local surroundings?
So far there seems to be little documentation of private record collections. Few
people keep catalogues of their collections. Even the records of the most dedicated collector are usually dispersed after his or her death. The largest collection
of 78 rpm records in Finland, consisting of several hundred records, which has
survived intact from the 1950s belonged to the jazz collector and record producer Harry Orvomaa, who had a very successful career in the Finnish music
business. The collection is deposited in Suomen äänitearkisto (Finnish Institute
of Recorded Sound). This paper is an attempt to reconstruct the musical world
of a record collector and at the same time study the ways in which records were
circulated in the 1950s.1
Emanuel Zwi Harry Orvomaa (until 1944 Orscholik) (1927–1990) started collecting records as a teenager. The production of 78rpm records ended in the late
1950s. His interest in collecting seems to have waned after he became personally
involved in the record business in 1955, when he became co-owner of ScandiaMusiikki Oy. Orvomaa was also a founding member of Suomen äänitearkisto.
Before his death, he donated his collection of 78 rpm records to the archive. As
far as we know, Orvomaa never sold records from his private collection, so the
collection represents his “musical world” circa 1945–1955.
1 This research has been supported by the Kone Foundation.
9
Pekka Gronow
Picture 1. The successful record producer. Harry Orvomaa proudly presents his first three gold
records in the late 1950s at the offices of Scandia-Musiikki Oy. (Source: JAPA Music Archives/
Orvomaa collection.)
After 1955, Orvomaa became a record producer and music publisher. His career
in the music industry is well documented (see Kukkonen & Gronow 2011). Together with his business partner Paavo Einiö he modernized record production
in Finland and created a large number of best-selling records which influenced
Finnish popular music from the 1950s to the 1970s. In the 1960s Scandia was the
second largest record company in Finland. In 1972 it was sold to Fazer Music.
Today the catalogue is owned by Warner Music.
The collection shows that Orvomaa’s personal tastes were far from the mainstream. The largest part of the collection consists of traditional New Orleans jazz,
which was the music of a small but active group in Europe at the time. A smaller
part consists of Jewish music, reflecting Orvomaa’s family traditions. He came
from Finland’s small Jewish community and his parents were clothing merchants
10
in Helsinki. Mainstream popular and classical music are absent. Orvomaa was a
jazz enthusiast and amateur drummer. In the early 1950s he was a regular contributor to the magazine Rytmi. As the collection has not been completely catalogued, it is not yet possible to present detailed statistics of the contents, but it
was limited almost exclusively to jazz and Jewish music. I shall illustrate it the
by way of examples, discuss the origins of the collection and its eventual influence on Orvomaa’s professional career.
Jazz records and the New Orleans revival
As far as recordings are considered, jazz is one of the best documented genres of
music. Practically all jazz records ever made can be found in discographies covering various periods, artists, and labels. If we wish to study a collection of jazz
records, it is easy to find out when the recordings were made and where they
were published. Jazz periodicals have published reviews of new recordings since
the 1930s, so it is also possible to study the contemporary reception of the recordings. All jazz recordings in the Orvomaa collection are listed in Brian Rust’s Jazz
Records 1897–1942 (1978) or Jorgen Grunnet Jepsen’s Jazz Records 1943–1962/1969
(1963–1970). Many books on jazz which were available in the 1940s contained detailed lists of recommended records (Blesh 1944, Häme 1949). Jazz records were
reviewed regularly in the Swedish Orkester Journalen, which also circulated in
Finland, and the Finnish publication Rytmi.
A quick scan of the collection reveals that Orvomaa was a “traditionalist”. According to his own testimony (Orvomaa 1989), bebop and modern jazz were of
no interest to him. His tastes ran to jazz of the 1920s and 1930s, and especially
original New Orleans jazz and post-war recreations of the idiom. The traditional
jazz movement (also known as the New Orleans revival) was born in the United
States in the late 1930s, encouraged by writers such as Frederick Ramsay (1939)
and Rudy Blesh (1944) who advocated the “purity” of early jazz. The movement
spread spontaneously to Europe and Australia in the 1940s, fuelled first by reissues of historical recordings, and later also by amateur bands attempting to
emulate the style of the jazz pioneers (Gronow 2006). Jazz magazines of the period show that jazz enthusiasts in many countries were divided into two camps,
11
Pekka Gronow
“traditionalists” and “modernist”, which both saw their own music as the only
real jazz. Allmo (2000) and Nylöf (2006) have discussed the development of the
traditionalist movement in Sweden. A similar movement existed on a smaller
scale also in Finland, where traditional jazz was usually known as “Dixieland”
(Haavisto 1991: 131–141).
Jazz me blues belongs to
the standard jazz tunes of the
1920s. Brian Rust lists 32 recordings of this composition
made before 1943 (1974: 1913);
the best known is probably
by the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band (1921). This record from
the Orvomaa collection was
made by a small group led by
Gene Krupa, which includes
Benny Goodman on clarinet.
It illustrates the revived interest in early jazz, which was
becoming apparent in the
mid-1930s. The original issue
2
Example 1. Jazz me blues (Delaney). Parlophone
was in the British Parlophone
(Finland) DPY 1052. Original issue Parlophone R 2268.
Rhythm Style Series, indicating
that there was more demand
Gene Krupa and his Chicagoans. Chicago 1935.
for this type of music in Europe than in the United States.
Goodman and Krupa were members of one of the best-known swing bands of the
decade, but on this recording they recreate the jazz style of the previous decade.2
After the war, Finland suffered from a shortage of foreign currencies and imports were restricted. Most records sold in Finland were local pressings; only a
small amount of imports were available. In 1950, about 300 000 records were
sold in Finland; of these, only about 16000 were imports (Gronow 1992: 429).
However, in addition to their domestic repertoire, Finnish companies pressed
2 All the examples are audible at http://www.etnomusikologia.fi/p/av2015.html.
12
foreign recordings for the local market from masters licensed from international
companies. The list of recommended records in Häme (1949) indicates that imported jazz records were available to Finland in limited quantities. However, this
copy of Jazz me blues was pressed in Finland in the early 1950s. Pohjoismainen
Sähkö Oy, which represented the Parlophon label in Finland, issued a considerable number of historical jazz records for the
Finnish market, including recordings by Louis
Armstrong, Bessie Smith,
Benny Goodman, etc. This
suggests that there was a
steady (although probably
limited) interest in traditional jazz in Finland.
One of the results of
the “New Orleans revival”
in Europe was the emergence of amateur or semiprofessional bands which
tried to emulate the music of the New Orleans Example 2. Bugalusa Strut. Gazell 1001. Bunta’s Storyville Jazz
bands of the 1920s. Many Band. Stockholm 1949.
of them survived only a
few years, while a few
had longer professional careers. As records had been essential to the diffusion
of jazz, amateur bands were eager to have their own performances documented
on records and listed in jazz discographies. This encouraged the growth of small
specialist labels devoted to recording traditional jazz for idealist reasons. Major
record companies at first considered the amateur bands commercially uninteresting, although they later changed their minds as the style grew more popular,
especially in Britain (Gronow 2009).
The Orvomaa collection contains a broad selection of European revivalist
bands from the 1940s and 1950s: George Webb’s Dixielanders on Decca, Humphrey
Lyttelton’s Jazz Band on Parlophone, Mick Mulligan’s Magnolia Jazz Band on Eclipse,
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Pekka Gronow
the Yorkshire Jazz Band on Tempo, the Dutch Swing College Band on Philips, Claude
Luter et son Lorientais on Blue Star and Swing, Grav-Olles Hot Five and Bunta’s
Storyville Jazz Band on Gazell. There is even Graeme Bell’s Australian Jazz Band on
the Czechoslovakian Supraphon label, recorded in Prague when the Australians
travelled to Europe to participate in the first International Youth Festival in 1948.
Some of these may have been available in record shops in Finland, but Orvomaa
must have acquired many of them abroad, as we cannot find any evidence that
they were marketed in Finland or even mentioned in the Finnish music press.
Bunta’s Storyville Jazz Band was typical of the Swedish traditionalist movement. The band was founded in 1948 by high school students in Stocksund, a
wealthy suburb of Stockholm. The Gazell label was operated by John Engelbrekt,
the founder of the Gazell Jazz Club (Allmo 2000: 14). The band recorded many
compositions which belonged to the standard repertoire of European revival
bands, but the choice of Bogalusa strut (actually Bogalousa strut) is interesting.
The original recording, by Sam Morgan’s Jazz Band (1927), is discussed in detail
in Rudi Blesh’s Shining trumpets (1944: 189–191), but there had been no European
reissues of the recording (Rust 1978: 196). Bunta’s Storyville Jazz Band follows the
original fairly closely. To acquire a copy of the Sam Morgan recording in immediate post-war Sweden was quite a feat.
Example 3. In Gloryland. Bunk’s
Brass Band. American Music
534. New Orleans 1945.
14
Although the Orvomaa collection must have been the largest of its type in
Finland, it lacks the real “gems” of a New Orleans jazz collection. There are no
American first editions of King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band, Louis Armstrong and his
Hot Five, Jelly Roll Morton’s Red Hot Peppers, and other famous bands of the 1920s.
Orvomaa had these recordings as later, European reissues. By the 1940s, the original editions had become expensive collectors’ items even in the United States.
The direct import of records from the USA, new or used, was quite difficult because of currency and customs regulations.
Yet the Orvomaa collection contains an impressive selection of contemporary American “revivalist” bands which were not distributed in Europe as 78
rpm pressings. Bunk Johnson (1879–1949) was one of the heroes of the revivalist movement. Frederick Ramsay Jr. and Charles Edward Smith, the authors of
Jazzmen (1939), had found the former New Orleans musician working in the rice
fields in Louisiana. According to the legend, Johnson had known Buddy Bolden,
the “founding father” of New Orleans jazz, and was able to recreate early New
Orleans jazz in its purest form. Bunk’s Brass Band was recorded in New Orleans in
1945 by the American Music label. Gloryland is a religious song which belonged
to the repertoire of marching bands in New Orleans. This recording is an attempt
to recreate the style of such bands, circa 1900, which were believed to have influenced the birth of jazz (Blesh 1944: 166–172).
Jewish music
A smaller part of the Orvomaa collection consists of 78 rpm recordings of Jewish
music. Strictly speaking there is no such thing as “Jewish music”. Persons of Jewish
ancestry have had successful careers in many fields of music, including Western
art music and jazz. In Finland, Simon Pergament-Parmet was a well-known classical conductor. Herbert Katz had a career as jazz guitarist, Johnny Liebkind helped
to launch the beat music boom, and Marion Rung was Finland’s representative in
the Eurovision Song Contest in 1973. These names illustrate the wide contribution
of Jewish musicians to Finnish musical life. However, certain musical genres have
been closely associated with Jews in Europe. At the beginning of the 20th century,
there was a thriving Yiddish-language theatrical scene in many Eastern and Cen-
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Pekka Gronow
tral European countries, with a large original repertoire. There is also a tradition
of Jewish religious music in Hebrew. Aylward (2003) has shown that there was
an extensive production of Jewish recordings in Europe before the Second World
War; according to Aylward, the most typical genres were “Yiddish theatre music”,
“Yiddish songs” and “Cantorial songs”. Jewish recordings were also produced in
the United States for immigrants (Spottswood 1990; Gronow 1991). If a recording
contains songs in Yiddish or Hebrew, and/or the labels are printed in either of
these languages, it seems fair to describe them as “Jewish music”.
The small Jewish community in Finland (between 1000 and 2000 individuals)
was too small to support domestic record production. Yet there seems to have
been a lively interest in Yiddish song; Muir (2004, 2006, 2011) has documented
Yiddish revues, visits by foreign artists, and a regular Jewish choir in Helsinki.
It would be natural to expect that some members of the community would also
have been interested in acquiring recordings of “Jewish” music. But what recordings of Jewish music were available in Finland? Where they were originally made,
and how were they distributed in Finland? The Orvomaa
collection gives some answers
to this question.
Abe Schwartz (1881–1963)
was a well-known JewishAmerican musician who made
several hundred recordings in
New York between 1917 and
1938 both as bandleader and
accompanist to various singers (Spottswood 1990, 1497–
1503). His compositions influenced the “klezmer revival”,
the attempts by young American musicians to recreate in
Example 4. Unzer Toirele (Alte hebräische Melodie). Abe
the 1970s the dance music of
East European and American
Schwartz’s Orchestra. Columbia DI 31. Original issue
Jews. Most of his recordings
Columbia 8160-F. New York 1928.
16
were made for Columbia’s Jewish series, but the repertoire and labels indicate
that many were also aimed at Russian, Polish, Lithuanian, Finnish and other
eastern European immigrants.
Unzer Toirele is an instrumental dance tune in the style which has later been
described as “klezmer music”. According to Spottswood (1990: 1502), the group
includes the well-known clarinettist Dave Tarras (1897–1989). It was recorded in
New York in January 1928 and originally issued as Columbia 8160-F. The catalogue number indicates that it was issued in a series especially aimed at Jewish
customers (Gronow 1991: 22–23).
The American Columbia Phonograph Company was owned by the British
Columbia Graphophone Company Ltd. Consequently, it was easy for the companies to exchange material, so that European recordings could also be pressed
in the USA, and American recordings in Europe (Gronow 1991). Unzer Toirele was
also pressed in the United Kingdom with the catalogue number DI 31. The DI
series was used for pressings of American recordings, beginning in 1931. The record in the Orvomaa collection
is particularly interesting as it
has a sticker indicating that it
was sold in Finland by Chester Oy, a company which was
also the Finnish representative
for Columbia in 1929–1933. It
indicates that at least some
American Jewish records were
regularly available in record
shops in Helsinki as European
pressings. Unfortunately, we
do not know how widely other
Columbia Jewish records were
circulated in Finland.
Syrena was the leading record company in Poland between 1908 and 1939. Until Example 5. Der Rebe und Gabe. Wiera Kaniewska & Pawel
1914, it was also active on the Brajtman. Syrena-Electro 19956. Warsaw early 1930s.
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Pekka Gronow
Russian market, as Warsaw and large parts of Poland belonged to the Russian
empire. During its existence, the company produced nearly twenty thousand records, including Polish, Russian, Ukrainian, German and Jewish music.3
The history of Syrena illustrates the role of the Jewish middle class in creating
the European music industry. Juliusz (Jehoszija) Feigenbaum was born in Warsaw in 1872. In 1897 he became the owner of a music shop, and in 1902 the local
representative of the Russian branch of the Gramophone Company. As the business grew, Feigenbaum became the representative of the German Homophone
company. This move may be connected with the opening of Feigenbaum’s first
record factory, which produced records on the Ideal label (Lerski 2004: 10–13).
In 1908 the company’s name was changed to Syrena Record, and Feigenbaum
opened a gramophone factory and a recording studio in Warsaw. A Moscow
branch was opened in 1910. In the next year, annual production was over a million records, and a new larger factory was built on Chmielna Street in Warsaw.
Syrena soon acquired a considerable share of the Russian market. The company
made recordings of Polish, Russian, Jewish and German music.
The war, the Russian revolution and the independence of Poland disrupted
the business. The activities of Syrena in the early 1920s are poorly documented,
and the production seems to have consisted mainly of reissues of pre-war recordings. By the end of the 1920s the business was again operating on a considerable
scale, and the recordings show that the company was using modern electrical
recording technology. Although the focus of the business was in Poland, Syrena
exported records into many countries, and in 1930 even pressed records for a
Finnish record company, Columbus. After the German occupation of Poland in
1939 the company was forced to close down. Juliusz Feigenbaum died in exile in
Zurich in 1944 (Lerski 2004: 16–24).
Lerski (2004: 9) has estimated that out of the 14000 known Syrena recordings,
about 1200 were aimed the Jewish market. They include many types of music,
but the most prominent are theatrical songs in Yiddish and cantorial songs in Hebrew. Der Rebe und Gabe (Syrena 19956, by Wiera Kaniewska and Pawel Brajtman)
is in many ways typical. In the 1920s and 1930s, many Eastern European cities
had Jewish theatres presenting plays, revues and musical comedies in Yiddish.
On the label, Kaniewska and Brajtman are billed as artists of the Jewish theatres
3 For a history of the company, see Lerski (2004).
18
of Vienna and Bucharest. Der
Rebe und Gabe (also known as
Gabe vos vil der Rebe) is a Yiddish traditional song which
has also been documented
in folk tradition in Western
Ukraine and Belarus (see the
website: The Yiddish Song of
the Week). It is a comic song
mocking a rabbi who collects
gifts of food from his parishioners. It has not been possible to determine the exact
date of recording, but Lerski
estimates that it was recorded between 1929 and 1935. It Example 6. Noveau pot-pourri. Bernard Potock et son
is not known how the record Orchestre. Elesdisc LS-4. Paris, early 1950s.
was distributed in Finland,
but in addition to this item,
the Orvomaa collection includes eleven more recordings on the Syrena label, with dates between 1910 and
1935.
Millions of Jews were killed in the Holocaust, and Yiddish culture was to a large
extent decimated in Eastern Europe. The new state of Israel adopted Hebrew as its
official language. However, there were exceptions. In Paris, there was still a lively
Yiddish music scene after the war. Michael Aylward (2015) has characterized the
French Elesdisc company as “the last of the Jewish record companies in Europe”.
Elesdisc records were issued by the record shop owned by Leon Speiser in
the Marais district of Paris, the centre of the Jewish population in the city. The
location had previously housed a Jewish book shop owned by his father. Elesdisc
produced at least 138 78 rpm recordings and some LPs of mostly Jewish content
(Aylward 2015). The Orvomaa collection includes eleven Elesdisc records and a
few others with stickers showing they were sold by Speiser’s shop. These include
three by Cantor Mordechai Hershman: religious Hebrew songs and Yiddish folk
19
Pekka Gronow
songs originally issued on Columbia in the USA and reissued on the Columbia
label in France. It is no longer possible to establish how these records found their
way into Finland, but evidently Jewish records from many sources were available in the Jewish community.
Most Elesdisc recordings are by artists who appeared in Jewish cabarets in
Paris in the post-war years. Most are sung in Yiddish. The repertoire consists
mainly of older Yiddish popular and theatre songs, but there are also Yiddish versions of recent American popular songs, which suggests that they may have been
aimed at American Jewish servicemen stationed in Europe. Noveau pot-pourri is
an instrumental medley of popular Jewish melodies, and the orchestra is billed
as Bernard Potock et son Orchestre de Cabaret La Riviera.
From collector to producer
In the immediate post-war years it was very difficult for Finns to travel abroad.
The few who were able to travel usually brought back coffee, butter, chocolates and
other goods which were in short supply in Finland. Harry Orvomaa had suffered
polio as a child, and for medical reasons he was allowed after the war to visit relatives in Denmark. He later recollected in a radio interview (Orvomaa 1989) how
he spent his meagre travel budget on a copy of Charles Delaney’s Discographie hot
(1943), printed in Paris during the occupation, and a box of rare jazz records.
Orvomaa’s jazz collection was built systematically over a decade. Although
some of the records were available in record shops in Finland at the time, most
were acquired from abroad though personal contacts. With the aid of books and
periodicals and a network of like-minded enthusiasts, he created an imaginary
musical world of New Orleans in the 1920s (for an elaboration of the concept, see
Gronow 2009: 61–63). At the time, it would have gained the respect on any jazz
enthusiast. The Jewish collection is smaller and its provenience is more difficult to
ascertain. It does not suggest a similar systematic approach to collecting as the jazz
records, and it is possible that some of the records were the legacy of his parents.
In any case it proves that by the 1930s at least some Jewish records were marketed
in Finland, and it was also possible to obtain Jewish records from other sources.
20
As Orvomaa later became
a record producer, we should
ask whether his collection also influenced his professional
work. The answer is yes, but
the influences were both direct and indirect. Orvomaa’s
first personal contacts with
recording took place in 1950,
when he played drums with
Rolle Lindström Dixieland
Band. The group recorded
Jazz me blues for the Finnish
Rhythm Clubs Federation label (Haavisto 1991: 135–141).
The label proudly declares Example 7. Jazz me blues (Delaney). Finnish Rhythm
that the session was “Super- Clubs Federation FRCF 1. Rolle Lindström Dixieland Band.
vised by Harry Orvomaa”. Helsinki 1950. “Supervised by Harry Orvomaa”.
Otherwise his career as a musician did not go far. In 1955,
on the first (and for a long time, only) LP record of traditional jazz produced in
Finland, he played the bass drum on a recording of High Society by Fenno Jazz
Band (Finnish Dixieland Jazz, Scandia SLP 3), an attempt to recreate the style of
New Orleans marching bands such as Bunk’s Brass Band.
Although Orvomaa did not become a professional musician, he became a very
successful record producer. In 1955, Orvomaa acquired a 49 % share of ScandiaMusiikki Oy. At the time, the company was in financial difficulty, as their first thirty
releases had not been sold as expected. Orvomaa is credited with saving the company,
but the record that turned its fortunes would have been anathema to any jazz lover.
It was a sentimental waltz song, Muistatko Monrepos’n, by Annikki Tähti (Scandia KS
238), which sold more than 30000 copies in 1955–1956 (Gronow 1992: 425). More such
recordings followed, as Scandia produced music for mainstream Finnish consumers,
and by the end of the 1950s it was the second largest record company in Finland.4
4 For a more detailed account of the development of Scandia-Musiikki and its role in the Finnish
record industry, see Gronow (1995), Muikku (2006) and Kukkonen and Gronow (2011).
21
Pekka Gronow
Later in the 1960s, the company also played a major role in promoting the
tango boom in Finland. However, a large part of the success of Scandia was due
to the introduction of a new type of jazz-influenced popular song in Finland, female vocalists accompanied by a small jazz group. A typical example of this genre is Suklaasydän by Brita Koivunen (Scandia KS 247, 1956). It was a Finnish cover
version of the American hit Mama’s Pearls and sold over 28000 copies (Gronow
1992: 426). Some of the tunes Scandia recorded were actually well known jazz
standards with new Finnish lyrics, such as Musta Pekka (Sing, sing, sing, Scandia
KS 285), and Trumpetin tanssiinkutsu (That’s a plenty, Scandia KS 278). It is clear
that Orvomaa’s productions were often influenced by his love of jazz. Direct
influences of older New Orleans jazz are more difficult to find, and there is an
economic explanation for this. The few Dixieland records that Scandia produced
were commercial disasters. Dippermouth blues, a King Oliver composition recorded by Fenno Jazz Band (KS 263, 1956), only sold 170 copies (Gronow 1992: 426).
It is more questionable
how much Orvomaa’s interest in Jewish music influenced his productions. Over
the years, many Jewish tunes
have entered the repertoire
of Finnish popular song, and
they have been recorded by
various companies, including Scandia. Pennanen (1989)
lists several such examples,
some going back to the 1930s.
For instance, in 1969, Scandia issued a recording by the
Hazamir chorus, the choir of
the Jewish community in Helsinki. Their record Balalaikka
Example 8. Käy tanssimaan, Scandia KS-341, Brita
(Scandia KS 796) reached the
number ten spot on the chart
Koivunen, Jaakko Salon yhtye 1960 (from the collection of
of best-selling singles in FinSuomen äänitearkisto).
22
land (Nyman 2002: 124). The original version the song (Tumbalalaika) had long
belonged to the choir’s repertoire (Muir 2006: 35), but it is unlikely that any other
record producer besides Orvomaa would have considered the idea of commissioning a Finnish translation of an old Yiddish song and recording a choir which
had so far been little known outside the Jewish community.
There is also at least one case where we can demonstrate a direct connection
between Orvomaa’s Jewish records and Scandia’s productions. Bernard Potock’s
Noveau pot-pourri (Elesdisc LS-4) includes the Yiddish wedding song Khosn Kale
Mazeltov (Good Luck to the Bride and the Groom) which later appeared as Käy tanssimaan on a Scandia record (Scandia KS-341, Brita Koivunen). The arrangement
has a strong jazz flavour, which reminds us that musical influences can be mixed.
Conclusions
In the late 1940s, Harry Orvomaa was a teenager with a lively interest in jazz. He
played in amateur bands, was active in the rhythm club movement and started
systematically collecting jazz records. Like many contemporaries, he had been convinced by authors such as Charles Edward Smith and, Rudi Blesh that traditional
New Orleans jazz was the only authentic music of the century, a “miracle of creative synthesis” (Blesh 1944: 3). Over the next decade he acquired an impressive
collection of 78 rpm jazz records which he retained almost to the end of his life.
In 1955, he became professionally involved in the music business. He eventually produced a large number of records himself and acted as the representative
of several international labels. However, when this writer visited his home during his retirement in the 1980s, it was apparent that he had felt no need to retain
copies of his company’s best-sellers or his own productions.
Today, large record collections are commonplace. Anyone with an interest
in music is likely to have a record collection at home, and those with sufficient
funds and a burning interest can accumulate collections which would have been
unthinkable in the 1950s. In 2015, the National Library of Finland received a collection of more than 15000 jazz records as the legacy of the painter and collector
Lars-Gunnar Nordström (Helsingin Sanomat 29.5.2015). Yet there has been little
research on the role of record collecting in musical life.
23
Pekka Gronow
Our study of the Orvomaa collection suggests that at least in some cases, records have had a decisive role in the diffusion of new musical genres. Very few
New Orleans musicians ever visited Finland, and the number of followers of traditional jazz has always been relatively small. With the help of records, they were
able to surround themselves with the music they loved and stay in contact with
likeminded individuals in other countries. Until the late 1950s, when traditional
jazz had become commercially successful in the United Kingdom and some other
European countries, major record companies showed little interest in promoting
New Orleans jazz, so the diffusion of traditional jazz records was more a question of “pull” than “push”. In many cases enthusiasts such as Orvomaa were able
to obtain at considerable expense records which were not distributed in Finland
through normal commercial channels. It would be interesting to attempt to reconstruct the record collections of the followers of other musical subgenres and
see if we could find the same pattern.
The Orvomaa collection also suggests that even the most single-minded follower of a musical genre can also have other musical interests. In his case, it was
the music of his parents and ancestors, Yiddish folk songs and songs from the
Yiddish stage. As Gronow (1991) has suggested, recordings provide immigrants
and diasporic groups with a practical way of keeping in contact with their traditions.
On a more general level, it would be interesting to study the collections of other record producers and professional musicians and find out how records have
influenced their work. A study of the Orvomaa collection shows that as a record
producer, he was able to use in his work influences both from his Yiddish family traditions and from his interest in jazz. However, the collection also suggests
that at least in some cases, people keep their private and professional interests
apart. Although Orvomaa must have listened to a large number of pop and rock
recordings in the course of his career, he did not add of them to his private collection. Nor did he keep an archive of his own productions at home. They were
kept at the office and sold with the company.
24
References
Archival sources
The Harry Orvomaa collection. Suomen äänitearkisto.
Radio programs (Yleisradio, radio archives).
Orvomaa, Harry (1989) “Traditionaalisen jazzin teemailta. Fenno-jazzin nostalgiaa. Harry
Orvomaa muistelee, haastattelijana Pekka Gronow”. 22 March 1989, tape AST-50123-0.
Periodicals
Helsingin Sanomat 29.5.2015, “Jättilahjoitus jazzlevyjä valtiolle”.
Orkester journalen 1945–1955
Rytmi 1949–1955
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Heikki Uimonen
Transphonic sounds
Urban acoustic environments are composed of acoustic and electroacoustic
sound events. Alongside typical everyday city sounds from vehicles, human beings, electric appliances and other machinery, the musical or non-musical sounds
emitted by different sources occupy public and semi-public spaces.
A music source that is preferred significantly more in shops and enterprises
than in any other location is a public service or commercial radio channel (Teosto
2012). According to previous research on Finnish enterprises regarding their use
of background music, it is somewhat evident that the music contents of commercial radio station broadcasts, as defined by the economic and cultural motives of their owners and employees, are manifested sonically in the urban space,
thus contributing to the overall characteristics of various shared acoustic spaces,
whether mobile or sedentary (Uimonen 2009).
However, sonically manifested economic and cultural motives do not necessarily meet the preferences of each urban dweller within the range of the radio
station’s transmitter, as pointed out in the research (Uimonen 2009). The research
examined the relationship among the construction of contemporary urban acoustic environments, popular music and the cultures of radio music broadcasts, and
it was inspired by letters to the editor published in a Finnish newspaper expressing the diverse opinions of commuters, who were exposed to mainly rock and
popular music on public transportation. Letters to the editor also initiated the
research questions for the study, which concentrate on matters such as on what
© SES & Heikki Uimonen, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 28– 46.
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Transphonic sounds:
grounds radio stations select their music contents, who is in charge of music selection and what the implications are of radio stations’ music selections for the
construction of different urban spaces. In addition, the economic, legislative and
cultural contexts that set the stage for commercial radio enterprises, including
whether this has an effect on the urban sonic environment, were studied.
With the help of statistics provided by the International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) Finland, it was possible to reconstruct the actual electroacoustic environments of local public transportation and to clarify in detail what
the music content was like at a given time of day. The research was put in context
with the help of the three-year study of the music contents of individual commercial radio stations in Finland. The empirical data in this study consisted of interviews conducted with radio station personnel on the music selection process, including managing directors, journalists and show hosts. (Uimonen 2011.)
The recent centralised ownership of commercial radio stations suggests a
need for a continuation study on music contents and their effect on the shared
sonic environment in urban settings. The aforementioned questions of the study
will also be answered in this research putting emphasis on further theorisation
to clarify the topic in more detail. This article also seeks to answer whether music
content has changed during recent years and to further elaborate theoretically on
the concepts of transphonic and ubiquitous listening, referring to both diverse
everyday and everyplace listening enabled by contemporary consumer music
technology (Kassabian 2002; Uimonen 2005).
The theoretical concepts of transphonic and ubiquitous listening will be outlined and clarified in the first section of the article. This will be followed by information on how contemporary urban spaces and radio music cultures are intertwined, including a description of commercial radio stations and how they
select and standardise their music contents. This will be clarified by a case study
on a radio station called Radio 957. Founded in Tampere in 1985 and being among
the first commercial Finnish stations, it has changed its ownership, name and
style over the years. Within 30 years, this formerly local radio station and its local transmitting area have transitioned to become a member of a semi-national
radio group called Radio City, which mainly broadcasts mainstream rock in various towns and cities.
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Heikki uimonen
In addition, this case study will shed light on how music content is related to
overall changes in radio business and how this affects not only the local soundscape but also the different sonic environments on a semi-national level. The case
study is followed by an analysis of letters to the editor of the local newspaper
Aamulehti in relation to the radio music culture of Radio 957. Finally, this article
will outline the implications of radio broadcasters’ processes of selecting music
for urban acoustic spaces.
Transphonia, ubiquitous listening and radio music culture
Some of the first scholarly attempts to study sonic environments and urban spaces were initiated at the Communications Department of Simon Fraser University
in Vancouver. Soundscape studies and research projects were influenced by the
environmental activism of the 1970s. To raise awareness on the issues of soundscape, several pedagogical actions were taken, including publishing educational
booklets and advocating listening.
Certain concepts introduced were developed intentionally to be provocative to stir up discussion; sound imperialism referred to loud Western colonialism,
which manifested in, for example, aircraft noise. Schizophonia was used to describe a “split between an original sound and its electro-acoustic reproduction”,
and it was introduced by composer R. Murray Schafer “to dramatize the aberrational effect” of the developments of the 20th century (Schafer 1977: 77, 273).
The term, deliberately loaded with heavy connotations, can be reinterpreted as
a reaction towards the widely popular background music business of the 1970s.
Displacing sounds electro-acoustically has changed the soundscape and listening profoundly. However, the effects are not only the negative ones to which
schizophonia seems to be referring. It can be assumed that the term is not meant
to criticise the detachability of sound per se, but more likely the reckless use of
these sounds. Ethnomusicologist Steven Feld has pointed out that schizophonia
cannot be understood as a major transformation in the history of technology, but
as practice, and he introduces the concept of schismogenesis to describe “progressive mutual differentiation” (Feld 1995: 107) which can be found in issues such
as musical ownership, fandom and musical styles.
30
Transphonic sounds:
Another concept inspired by Schafer’s idea, but which differentiates itself
from the scholarly legacy and connotations of it, is transphonia (Uimonen 2005:
63). Drawing from schismogenesis, it underlines the processual nature of restated
sounds, particularly when studying the reception of music. Transphonia refers
to the mechanical, electroacoustic and digital storing, moulding, reproducing
and transmitting of sounds. Most of all, it pays scholarly attention to past and
current music performance practices in light of multiple individual and social
meanings compared to the original contexts of the sounds. Thus, compared to
the pre-phonographic era, music today can have multiple meanings, depending
on where one listens to it.
The popularity of transphonic equipment not only advocates background listening, but it also increases attentive listening. Phonographs, gramophones, radios, compact cassette players, transistor radios, digital recordings and playback
devices have all enabled music listening in an increasing variety of places and
spaces. As a result, whereas once music listening was confined by technological
limitations, nowadays, both background and foreground music have become an
inseparable part of the contemporary urban sonic environment. That music is
part of the sonic environment is seldom questioned, and music reception ranges
from going unnoticed and ignored to the creating conflicts and friction among
urban dwellers. Among the first scholars to notice this was Shuhei Hosokawa
(1981), who, in the context of writing a short history of mobile music, stated that
in urban environments, there are no clear frontiers for music and noise, noting
“most of this music is made involuntarily or without motive – without any conscious aesthetic motivation”.
New ways of consuming musical sounds are closely related to the concept
of ubiquitous listening, as well as how music is connected to genre-normative
ways of listening. Music scholar Anahid Kassabian writes how modes of listening, listening situations and music styles are co-producing each other. Most of
the music that we hear daily is intended to be listened to inattentively, and it is
often selected by someone other than ourselves. This poses challenges to music
studies: if contemplative listening has created a canon of Western classical music, are there other canons and repertoires created by other modes of listening?
(Kassabian 2002: 131–135.)
31
Heikki uimonen
Kassabian’s question can be answered and studied in detail with the help of
commercial radio music policies. The everyday music content of the station is
not supposed to disturb radio listeners, but at the same time, it must be interesting enough to create a cosy background to make daily chores more endurable. If
a station does not succeed in fulfilling these expectations, they assume the audience will switch to another channel. To avoid this, in creating their music canons,
radio channels are testing their music content before broadcasting it to please the
tastes of their audience. All this should be considered when studying radio music
culture, which is defined as all practices that have an effect on music broadcast
on the radio including process of acquiring music, music selection, and the governing of music. (Uimonen 2011: 18–19, 23.)
To some extent, cultural conventions and ideas about how classical music,
rock, folk or any music is supposed to be listened to or danced to lose their meanings in the context of ubiquitous music. Although almost any genre can be classified as ubiquitous music, this is not to say that ubiquitous music can be any
kind of music or that selecting it would be an indifferent act. On the contrary,
switching the background music of a gym with that of a fine-dining restaurant
would most likely lead to undesired results for both locations (see also Boschi,
Kassabian & Quiñones 2013).
In addition, consuming ubiquitous music requires contextual listening skills
and competence to act in various acoustic environments. A musical work can be
listened to attentively in a concert hall, but it is understood that the same contemplative attention given to a piece of music from a car stereo or Walkman might
become a safety risk for the listeners and their fellow commuters.
Radio music in an urban environment
Although we perceive spaces as physical, they all have sounds, be they music
or sounds considered part of the environment (Boschi, Kassabian & Quiñones
2013: 11). The urban public space is understood here as something that is shared
and that is in constant transformation, also sonically (Kytö 2013: 20–22). This
suggests that a space composed of electroacoustic sounds would be in constant
transformation, too, and it would be a target of constant negotiations and strug-
32
Transphonic sounds:
gles regarding its nature, e.g. in relation to the genders, classes, ages and socioeconomic statuses of its users.
Commercial radios are constructing playlists in accordance with their music
culture and making them available for anyone who wants to take advantage of
this ready-made product at home, in the workplace or in any other acoustic environment. They have an outstanding effect on moulding diverse public environments in Finland, as well. The Finnish Composers’ Copyright Society Teosto has
carried out studies on how much, in what premises and under which situations
background music is being used. Diverse spaces include accommodation facilities, buses, coaches, customer premises, outdoor spaces, restaurants, cafes, sports
halls and tracks, staff premises, taxis, gyms, exercise classes, telephone hold music and so on. In 2012, Teosto had nearly 30000 customers using background music
(Uimonen 2009: 61; Teosto 2013) and they were divided as follows:
Diagram 1. Customers using background music in 2012 (Teosto 2012: 42).
Yearly surveys provide data that are more detailed on the music used, including
customer preferences. According to a survey conducted in 2012, over 76 per cent
of enterprises were using the radio for background music. The radio was pre-
33
Heikki uimonen
ferred by hairdressers, barbers, shops and taxis, whereas restaurants preferred
other sources of music. In addition, 50 per cent of the respondents considered
background music important, as it covered the uneasy silence and the hums of
the machinery and enabled confidential discussions (Uimonen 2009; Teosto 2012).
Radio use is monitored not only in public spaces but also in private premises. In Finland, radio listening is being evaluated by Kansallinen Radiotutkimus
(National Radio Survey). The informants participating in this survey complete
diaries stating when, where, how much and to which channel they are listening.
The listening sites listed in the diary include the home, car, work and ‘other’.
Public transportation is not included, due to the challenging listening environment, as it cannot be verified whether a bus commuter is receiving the advertiser’s message, which makes radio advertising a futile investment (Uimonen 2009:
65; KRT 2015). Information on listening to the radio on a bus or in other public
spaces is not collected, which is somewhat peculiar considering the strong opinions on the matter. To put it bluntly, the urban space is very much constructed
by music that is not meant to be listened to, at least according to some users of
these spaces.
However, it should be noted that not only radio music but also specially ordered background music is used in different public spaces. This alternative is being chosen when companies want their customers to stay at their premises for a
relatively long time, such as at enterprises selling luxury cars. Also, companies
find it undesirable to expose customers to radio advertisements from competing enterprises. In addition, music is found to be more desirable than radio talk.
The placed order is not completed before the customer has given feedback to the
producer on the music and the producer has made the necessary adjustments
(Uimonen 2009: 69). Quite interestingly, the feedback might include a wish for
the repetition of an individual song – a wish that has been clearly affected by
commercial radio station music policies in broadcasting hit tunes recurrently,
which have changed the standards regarding how contemporary foreground
music should sound.
34
Transphonic sounds:
On becoming ubiquitous: standardised radio music contents
As the urban environment consists of electroacoustic musical sounds, it raises
the question regarding what the criteria are for music to become ubiquitous and,
more precisely, who is responsible for defining these criteria and in the end making the actual music selection. The contemporary radio music selection process is
carried out according to given standards, which involve several individual tasks
before music is actually broadcasted. The outcome of this automated process is
a playlist, which is targeted to radio listeners.
Opposed to European public service radio, American style commercial radio is predominantly built on advertising and music. Nevertheless, it is not the
advertised consumables or services that are being sold to listeners so much as
the listeners are sold as prospective audiences to advertisers manifested as ratings (Smythe 1981: 27). Most format radios use selected music genres to attract
an audience and maintain them as loyal listeners of the station. The success or
failure of a station is measured in its ability to fulfil the genre expectations of a
radio listener.
To meet the listener’s expectations and to select the right kind of music, the
radio consultants launched auditorium music testing in the 1990s. Later, the tests
were supported by data supplied through Internet questionnaires. During auditorium music testing, less that ten-second samples of familiar music are played
to an audience consisting of 200 listeners, who belong to the target group of the
station. Usually, between 500 and 600 individual samples are evaluated in one
session. The test is followed by selecting, classifying and placing the individual
songs on a radio playlist with the help of music programming software. The locations and the time of day are considered crucial while selecting songs; the listening rates are highest in passenger cars at commuting hours 8:00 and 17:00 and at
the work place in the morning and in the afternoons (Uimonen 2011; ARH 2015).
The auditorium tests as an empirical method were already being criticised by
music sociologist Theodor W. Adorno (1906–1969) in the 1940s. Although some
of his critical arguments on popular music may not necessarily hold in the contemporary media environment, his concepts and notions are still applicable, especially in the radio music context. The strength of Adorno’s arguments is further
enhanced by his personal encounters with music testing in commercial settings.
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Heikki uimonen
Adorno’s experience with American-style radio was based on his occupation
in the radio music programming division at the Princeton Radio Research Project in 1939. Contrary to the goals of the radio project, he was not interested in
classifying facts and making them available as information, but instead in interpreting phenomena. Adorno considered the listener response survey results to
be superficial and more ideological than empirical: for instance, the division of
the musical experience into classical and popular is a “final one, somehow part
of the natural order of things” (Leppert 2002: 217). In addition, in his memoir of
his American experience, Adorno describes a machine that allowed the listener to
indicate his or her likes and dislikes during the musical performance by pushing
a button, which measured “mere stimulus” (Leppert 2002: 213–217).
There is little or no doubt that this machine was a predecessor of the equipment used in contemporary auditorium tests launched in 1990s Finland, where
participants were required to use a dial to select their preferences from different
fragments of music. According to the Scandinavian Broadcasting Systems music director, the listeners were asked to evaluate the music fragments by selecting from among a few alternatives (“love it”/“like it/“OK/“dislike it”/“hate
it”/“bored of it”), and they were also asked whether they thought that a given
song was broadcast too recurrently (Uimonen 2011: 197; see also ARH 2015). The
alternatives presented in the auditorium test are parallel to Adorno’s critical
comments on “mere stimulus”. They were selected to support the company’s
corporate culture instead of to collect information for a more profound analysis
and to interpret the phenomena in a wider context, which, of course, might not
be in the best interests of the owners of an economically prosperous radio station in the first place.
Nevertheless, contemporary auditorium music testing that serves commercial radio music policies can be interpreted as standardisation and pseudo-individualisation. According to Adorno’s critical view, “standardization of song hits
keeps the customers in line by doing their listening for them, as it were. Pseudoindividualization, for its part, keeps them in line by making them forget that why
they listen is already ‘pre-digested’” for them. (Adorno 2002 [1941]: 445.) Indeed,
during the auditorium tests, new music is not evaluated, only songs already familiar to listeners, i.e. “standardized musical goods”. Because auditorium music
testing consists of familiar songs, it is evident that the ability of the listener to
36
Transphonic sounds:
recognise samples of such songs has been a method for constructing radio music
content successfully for over 70 years now.
Adorno considered that the production of popular music could be called “industrial” only in its promotion and distribution. The production of popular music is centralised in economic organisations; the act of producing a hit song is still
handcrafted and individualistic (Adorno 2002 [1941]: 443). These two aspects of
producing a popular song in the contemporary media environment are not necessarily exclusive of each other, as popular music producers had already begun to
consider Top 40 radio format requirements in the late 1950s to ensure their songs
were broadcasted. In commercial radio, the industrial aspects are explicit, as they
involve both promoting and distributing popular music. The radio music culture
in turn shapes the act of producing or composing a hit song, because the artists
and individual songs must fit with the radio channel’s sound to be broadcast. As
a result, standardisation is carried out at least twice: first in music production,
when a tune is being composed, written and arranged, and second in the auditorium, where music is being selected to or excluded from a radio station’s playlist.
Adorno’s Marxist stance was that the customers of musical entertainment are
objects or products of the same mechanisms, which determine the production of
popular music: “Their spare time serves only to reproduce their working capacity. It is a means instead of an end” (Adorno [1941] 2002: 458). Standardised music and the evolution of music dissemination have changed the sites of listening
to the extent that radio music – or any music from any transphonic source for
that matter – is being listened to while working or engaging in other activities.
Reproducing the working capacity is thus already carried out while listening to
music. The music selection process further underlines this: radio content is not
allowed to irritate the listener to the extent that the task it accompanies would
be interrupted. Rhythm and tempo among other parameters are being constantly
evaluated to produce a sense of continuity without “killing the flow”, which the
SBS Discovery Radio producer pointed out as criteria for compiling the playlist
(Uimonen 2011: 199).
Adorno’s contemporary, philosopher Walter Benjamin, although not a music
scholar himself, would perhaps be willing to take more emancipatory view on
the matter: mechanical reproduction also enabled new functions and meanings
for cultural products (see Middleton 1990: 64–65). His interpretation would stress
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Heikki uimonen
the “liberating tendencies” of mass production, so radio listeners could perhaps
make their work more interesting or entertain themselves while working (Leppert 2002: 245).
The electroacoustic construction of the urban sonic environment by a radio
broadcast is the result not only of radio’s production culture but also its standardised music selection process. The transformation of the soundscape is influenced
also by changes in a radio channel’s ownership, when it merges to larger units or
when it is chained due to a corporate acquisition. This in turn gradually changes
the radio channel’s music policies, as well. As a result, an individual music selection process carried out in a specific place for a limited number of listeners
is extended to several towns and cities, as presented in a following chapter. An
individual radio station, Radio 957, is given as an example.
A radio station’s expanding acoustic space
Radio 957 started broadcasting on 15 August 1985. With a licence granted to the
Student Union of the University of Tampere, it was targeting its programmes
to all Tampere region residents, not solely to students or music lovers. Diverse
music genres and artists were broadcast in individual programmes selected by
individual show hosts, also during the daytime. In the early 1990s, Radio 957
faced serious financial problems when two competitive licences were granted in
their broadcasting range. As a result, another company, Radio Sata acquired 75
per cent of Radio 957’s shares in 1992. This is also when the two radio stations
began to plan their music contents in close collaboration (Uimonen 2011: 149;
see diagram 2).
Radio Sata was also the company that introduced American-style format radio to Finland. Its personnel consulted several local and semi-nationals stations,
such as Kiss FM/Voice, thus having a profound effect on the contents of radio
broadcasts throughout the country (Uimonen 2010). Among other radio stations,
both Radio 957 and Radio Sata were later acquired by multinational Scandinavian
Broadcasting Systems, which in due time was acquired by the Prosiebensat 1 media conglomerate. In December 2012, the SBS Nordic ProSiebenSat 1 Group was
acquired by Discovery Communications for the total sum of 1.3 billion euros and
38
Transphonic sounds:
the deal included several television and radio stations (HS 2012). Finally, while
writing this article, yet another corporate acquisition took place, when Bauer
Media sealed a deal for the takeover of SBS Discovery Radio (D 2015). Currently,
Radio 957 and Radio Sata are broadcasting in several Finnish towns with identical
musical content and they were renamed together as Radio City (see diagram 2).
Diagram 2: Radio 957 (1985–2015) ownership changes.
According to a 2005 study on the relationship between locality and radio news,
Radio 957 was targeting its news to males between 30 and 45 years old. The target
group was personified as an imaginary person, “Masa kolkytkuus vee” (36-yearold Masa), whose family, personal history, hobbies, line of work and musical
taste were constructed with the help of marketing research (Siljamäki 2006: 39;
Uimonen 2011). This model of virtual listeners was used also in public service
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Heikki uimonen
radio, such as BBC (“Dave & Sue”). The practice was criticised because in this
way, the same songs ended up being aired by stations targeting the same demographic group (see Uimonen 2010: 11).
What was 36-year old Masa listening to, then? The news content targeted to
him was evaluated in January 2005, so it was reasonable to select music broadcast from the same period (Uimonen 2009). The monitoring day selected is Tuesday 18 January 2005, providing data to reconstruct the music content aired on an
ordinary work day. Radio 957 was broadcasting rock, adult contemporary/pop
and suomirock (Finnish rock-schlager) the most, followed by blues, soul, rhythm
& blues, country, iskelmä (Finnish schlager) and dance (hip hop, electronic dance
music). The overall channel sound of Radio 957 was characterised by rock, adult
contemporary/pop and suomirock, which comprised 80 per cent of their musical
content. Classical music, religious music, folk and jazz were not aired.
Music targeted to 36-year-old Masa has not really changed during the years
when evaluated by random samples. On Tuesday 13 September 2005, the same
artists dominated the broadcasts; in addition, five years earlier on 10 January
2000, the playlist looked familiar. Again, five years before that, on 13 January
1995, Radio 957 broadcast mainly well-known artists and their hits (Uimonen
2009: 77–80).
Over 15 years, rock music of the 1960s and 1970s was represented by the hits
of the Beatles, Dire Straits, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Rolling Stones,
Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke; that of the 1980s and 1990s was represented by
Bon Jovi, Guns ’n’ Roses, Queen, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Bruce Springsteen and
Toto; adult contemporary and pop were represented by Abba, Madonna, The Rubettes and Bonnie Tyler, with a third of the music content performed in the Finnish language or produced in Finland. It is no surprise then that the contemporary
playlist of Radio 957, now renamed Radio City, reveals that on 13 January 2015,
its music content again consisted of familiar songs from familiar artists, such as
The Beatles, Dire Straits, Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Rolling Stones
(Uimonen 2009: 77–80; B 2015).
40
Transphonic sounds:
A middle-aged man’s alleged musical taste and public commuting
A commercial radio station’s content is crystallised during the morning and afternoon commuting hours. This is when radio stations are reaching most of their
audience, which can then be delivered to the advertisers as rating numbers. Analysed data provided by IFPI shows that Radio 957/Radio City’s playlist transformed relatively little over the years. To some extent, the music content has remained the same for over a decade when evaluated diachronically and especially
when evaluated by musical contents during the commuting hours.
A radio station must distinguish itself from its competitors in the way it
sounds. Preferably, the audience should identify it by only listening to broadcast
music. However, it is not only the music but also the advertisements, parlance
and jingles that construct the overall channel sound of a radio station (Uimonen
2011: 31). The outcome of this selection process is the sonic construction of the
commuting city dwellers’ daily life.
How then may the data regarding music broadcasts by Radio 957/Radio City
be contextualised to the public acoustic environment in Tampere and, more specifically, on public transportation? At the time of this research, the transphonic
environment created by the aforementioned radio station was dominated by
Anglo-American popular music and suomirock. This is partly explained by the
selected target group of the station, but also by economic factors: instead of domestic releases, broadcasting American music is more cost effective, as the United States has not signed The Rome Convention for the Protection of Performers,
Producers of Phonograms and Broadcasting Organisations (Uimonen 2011: 64).
Music on public transportation raised public debate in 2001 in the local newspaper, Aamulehti.
The letters to the editor against radio music on buses are as follows: pseudonym Decibel Meters to Buses did not want to hear “any suomipop because it makes
my ears hurt”. The Silent Wanderer of the Earth criticised “music pollution” on
buses and in stores and received moral if not moralising backup from the pseudonym The One who Appreciates Silence. The writer suggested that some individuals were incapable of enduring silence, which is the reason why their lives are
filled with “ice hockey, beer, F1 car races and other circus”. Mami felt that riding
the bus was like attending to a rock festival, where all were “forced to listen to
41
Heikki uimonen
the bestial music”. Mami received support from Passenger on Bus Nr. 2, who had
suffered from the bus driver’s preferences and “believed” that other passenger
were suffering from it, too (Uimonen 2009: 80).
The counter arguments included that music on a bus is a privilege to all passengers, and an individual complainant will ruin the journey for everyone. In
addition, it was claimed that music has a soothing effect for passengers (Pseudonym Play the pop machine and Mr. Mikko Vuorinen). The press officer of the
City of Tampere was commenting on the letters to the editor by referring to the
job satisfaction of the driver. She also pointed out that if there is a single passenger who wants to have the radio switched off, his or her wish is to be respected
(Uimonen 2009: 81).
It can be assumed that the acoustic space is well defined in advance, leaving
hardly any room for negotiations. A case study on Radio 957/Radio City’s music
content over a period of 20 years provides data to sketch out the sonic environment not only in Tampere, but also in other towns belonging to the same radio
chain. The data enables a detailed reconstruction of the acoustic environment
of public transportation. In case a bus driver had tuned the radio receiver to
Radio City’s frequency, the commuters travelling on a local bus in Tampere on
13 January 2015 during the morning and afternoon rush hours (8.00–9.00 and
16.00–17.00) were exposed to 37 songs, including the artists described above. Furthermore, they were exposed to 36-year-old Masa’s alleged music preferences, although it remains unclear to what extent Masa himself uses public transportation.
Conclusion
The worldview found in Finnish schlager and folk traditions is founded on immutability and ritualistic repetition that connotes the safe continuity of life (Jalkanen 1992: 15). The same stability can be found in suomirock and Anglo-American rock music, especially in the ways they are used in commercial radio music
culture. The unchanging routines are maintained in repetitious tunes, excluding
the music of other cultural genres, that radio stations’ target groups might find
unpleasant or dull: morning rush hour commuting does not go together well
with subversive or unfamiliar music content. However, it remains to be answered
42
Transphonic sounds:
how this music selection and its ritualistic nature would be evaluated if the everyday experiences of the urban dwellers and commuters were considered.
The physical environment created by urban planners, architects and construction companies sets the stage for the acoustic urban environment. Ideologically,
public space is appropriated by the values of the radio station, which manifest
sonically in broadcast music. Negotiations considering radio music and urban
space are also related to issues of gender and class, which are underlined by the
case study showing that radio music contents are selected in accordance with
demographic and other factors related to the radio stations’ target groups.
This space is partly constructed and transformed by the radio stations’ music
culture policies, relying on tested music contents as proven by IFPI Finland statistics and interviews. The study was contextualised with notions of commercial
radio, as described by Theodor Adorno. Whilst his notions on the culture industry and popular music have been criticised, in the context of contemporary radio music content, his understandings of standardisation retain their relevance.
Commercial and public service radio stations are offering ubiquitous music or
any other contents for anyone who wishes to use them. These standardised products are designed to function properly in various acoustic environments, whether
at home, in the workplace or in a vehicle used for commuting. However, listening to the radio becomes a negotiable issue when several people are exposed to
the music. As previously mentioned, not all transphonic or ubiquitous music
fits into all acoustic environments. Further evidence was offered by the letters to
the editor, where pros and cons of playing music on public transportation were
pondered. According to this, commuters and other city dwellers are seemingly
constructing their acoustic environments not only concretely by their activities
but also symbolically by talking and writing about them, including transphonic
phenomena, such as ubiquitous music.
Radio music in urban public spaces is largely a side effect of the radio stations’
music contents, as their music is not compiled with these places in mind. Regardless, it is evident that the stations are relatively powerful in constructing the sonic
environments of shared spaces. This construction is in the hands of a few radio
professionals, although it should be noted that their position is far from being
monolithic but negotiable under the constantly changing economic, legislative
and cultural circumstances.
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Heikki uimonen
A case study of Radio 957 shows evidence of consolidating radio industry’s
effects on canonised ubiquitous music and its dissemination. Originally limited
to the immediate locality of its transmitter, music content in question gradually
changed the sonic environments semi-nationally in several urban areas in different parts of the country. This means that when a systematic study in urban public
spaces is addressed in the future, a few basic factors should be considered. These
should include the historical and contemporary changes in the economy, music
culture and, hopefully, urban planning. When transphonic sounds in general
and radio music in particular are constructing shared urban environments, it is
reasonable to call for urban planning in which the electroacoustic design would
perhaps be as equally attended to as any other acoustic design, especially now,
when contemporary media and the technological environment enable diverse
and multifaceted opportunities.
44
Transphonic sounds:
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D (2015) The Drum. Bauer Media seals deal for Nordic broadcaster SBS Discovery radio.
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Middleton, Richard (1990) Studying Popular Music. Milton Keynes: Open University Press.
Schafer, R. Murray (1977) The Tuning of the World. Toronto: McCelland and Stewart Limited.
Siljamäki, Anna-Maria (2006) Tiivistetty paikallisuus: Radio 957:n paikallisuuden tarkastelua uutisten
avulla. [Condensed Localism. Radio 957’s Localism Analysed in Context of the News].
Tiedotusopin pro gradu -tutkielma, Tampereen yliopisto. [Ma Thesis, University of Tampere].
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Teosto (2012) Teosto. Annual Report. Helsinki: Teosto.
Teosto (2013) Teosto. Background music. Price list. http://www.teosto.fi/en/teosto/articles/
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Vesa Kurkela
Jalostavaa huvittelua
Robert Kajanuksen helppotajuiset konsertit
sivistämisprojektina
Mielenosoitus populäärissä
Helsingin Seurahuoneella sattui torstaina 18.10.1906 outo yhteenotto, josta riitti
aihetta useisiin kirjoituksiin pääkaupungin lehdissä. Robert Kajanuksen johtama
Helsingin Filharmoonisen Seuran orkesteri piti tuona iltana melko normaalin
kaavan mukaan helppotajuisen konsertin eli toiselta nimeltään populäärin. Hufvudstadsbladetissa (18.10.1906) julkaistun uutisen mukaan illan solistivieraana oli
Ina von Pfaler, Berliinissä opiskeleva nuori suomalainen laulajatar (Anon. 1934:
513). Hän esitti pari Schubertin liediä Oskar Merikannon kanssa sekä orkesterin
säestyksellä resitatiivin ja aarian Mozartin Figaron häistä.
1900-luvun alussa helppotajuisten konserttien suosio oli vähenemässä.
Kilpailevaa kulttuuritarjontaa oli yhä enemmän, ja ajan todellinen uutuus, elävät kuvat, veti yleisöä puoleensa. Kajanus olikin alkanut kiinnittää populääreihin aiempaa enemmän kotimaisia ja ulkomaisia solisteja, koska he houkuttelivat yleisöä. Liediä ja kaikkien tuntemia oopperanumeroita esittävä nuori
laulaja oli tässä mielessä luonteva valinta – olihan kyseessä vielä kotimainen
artisti, Saksassa opiskellut uusi lupaus. Nyt kävi kuitenkin niin, että von Pfalerin esitys ja muukin musiikkiohjelma jäivät täysin illan muiden tapahtumien
varjoon.
© SES & Vesa Kurkela, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 48 – 83.
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Jalostavaa huvittelua:
Jo ennen illan konsertin alkua Seurahuoneen vakioyleisö kiinnitti huomiota
tuntemattomiin kuulijoihin. Suomalaisen puolueen nuoret aktivistit olivat varanneet parhaat paikat. Kuten pian ilmeni, paikalle tulon syynä ei ollut musiikista
nauttiminen, vaan kielipoliittinen mielenosoitus. Nuorsuomalainen Helsingin
Sanomat (19.10.1906) uutisoi tapahtuman otsikolla ”Paha omatunto kummittelemassa”:
Eilen illalla oli suometarlaisten jättiläisponnistus – helppotajuisessa konsertissa. Mistä vihat? Filharmooninen Seura oli taloudellisista syistä päättänyt lakata
ilmottamasta helppotajuisista konserteistaan. Suomettarelaiset, jotka kaikessa ja
kaikkialla epäilevät salajuonia, olivat sydämestään suuttuneet ja päättäneet julmasti kostaa. Heitä oli kokoontunut salin täydeltä aina koululapsia myöten, ja
kun toinen osasto alkoi, nousivat he miehissä lähtemään viheltäen ja huutaen
alas. Mutta koko tuo mielenosoitus tuntui syrjäisestä naurettavalta. Sali oli näet
hyvin täysi vielä demonstranttien poistuttuakin, ja arvattavasti on yleisö tästä
lähtien entistä lukuisammin oleva konserteissa läsnä. Suomettarelaisille itselleen
on oleva ainoa vahinko siitä, jos he tekevät sivistyslakon.
Vanhasuomalaisia lähellä oleva Raataja-lehti näki illan tapahtumat toisin. Nimimerkki ”Mukana ollut” näki mielenosoituksen ”suomenmielisen kansanosan” oikeutettuna mielenilmauksena. Sen mielestä myös Kajanuksen konsertteja uhkasi
jatkossa yleisökato – toisin kuin Helsingin Sanomat arveli. Raatajan (19.10.1906)
dramaattinen kuvaus esitti suomenmieliset sankareina, samalla kun liberaalit
nuorsuomalaiset tuotiin esiin ruotsinkielisten liehittelijöinä, suomenkielisen rintaman hajottajina:
Kulkiessani siinä rääkkyvien ja räpyttävien, suunniltaan joutuneiden ihmisten
ohi pois salista, en voinut pidättää surumielisyyden tunnetta, joka väkisin täytti
mielen kuullessani, miten ahkerasti juuri nuorsuomalaiset syytivät solvaussanoja. He tahtoivat taaskin niin sydämestään osoittaa ruotsalaisille ystävilleen, miten uskollisia he ovat miten nöyriä seuraamaan johtavien veljiensä esimerkkiä.
Eniten tapahtuneesta riemastuivat – ja närkästyivät – ruotsinkieliset lehdet.
Heille kahden suomalaisen puolueen kinastelu oli epäilemättä mieluisaa luet-
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Vesa kurkela
tavaa, ja vanhasuomalaisen puolueen sivistymättömyydestä saatiin taas vahva
todistus – puolueen konservatiivinen kansanomaisuus näyttää olleen pysyvä
pilkan kohde ruotsinkielisten poliittisessa retoriikassa. Pilalehti Fyren julkaisi
aiheesta ainakin kolme erilaista pilakuvaa. Niistä yhdessä Kajanus on sijoitettu Gallén-Kallelan tunnetun Sammon puolustus -taulun (1896) Väinämöiseksi
puolustamaan säveltaidetta Pohjolan akan roolissa olevan Uuden Suomettaren
hyökkäykseltä (Kuva 1).
Kuva 1. ”Sammon puolustus” (Fyren 27.10.1906).
50
Suomalaisen puolueen nuorison tempaus herätti ärtymystä nimenomaan sen
vuoksi, että kielipolitiikka ja puoluelehtien ilmoitushankinta sekoitettiin taiteeseen. ”Taide on taidetta ja liiketoiminta liiketoimintaa”, painotti Hufvudstadsbladetin (20.10.1906) nimimerkki Tom, joka kertoi, miten nuorison mielenosoituksen
jälkeen varsinainen musiikkiyleisö [korostus alkuperäisessä tekstissä] pääsi palaamaan vakiopaikoilleen, jotka ”suomettarelaiset keltanokat” olivat heiltä anastaneet. Kirjoitus painotti lisäksi, että ”taiteilijat ja muu musiikkia rakastava yleisö
oli tullut paikalle musiikkia kuuntelemaan. Musikaalinen yleisö tapaa yleensä
mennä konsertteihin musiikillisista syistä. Tälle yleisölle on täysin yhdentekevää,
ilmoitteleeko orkesteri ja missä sen tekee”.
Säveltaiteen erillinen maailma
Kieliriita oli siinä määrin esillä suomalaisessa yhteiskunnassa ja politiikassa autonomian ajan lopulla, että se helposti peitti ja yksinkertaisti aikakauden muut
kulttuuriset tavoitteet ja ohjelmat kaksinapaiseen asetelmaan ruotsinkieliset vs.
suomenmieliset. Näin taisi käydä tässäkin tapauksessa. Tapahtuma nosti pääkaupungin herrasväen normaaliin iltaelämään kuuluvan musiikkitilaisuuden
hetkeksi lehtien valokeilaan ja vitsien kohteeksi. Siitä jäi historian jälki, joka johdattaa meidät suomalaisen konserttielämän unohtuneeseen vaiheeseen.
Tämän artikkelin tarkoitus on täydentää menneisyyskuvamme Kajanuksen
populäärikonserttien muodostaman aukon osalta. Syksyn 1906 lehtikirjoittelu
tuo esiin sen kulttuurisen ympäristön, jossa Seurahuoneen konsertit pidettiin.
Tarkastelen tämän konserttimuodon kehitystä taiteensosiologiasta tutulla taidemaailman käsitteellä (Becker 1982: 34–39). Otsikon mukaisesti olen kiinnostunut
nimenomaan helppotajuisiin konsertteihin liittyvistä sivistyspyrkimyksistä ja
siinä yhteydessä olen täsmentänyt tarkastelukulmaani Norbert Eliasin (1990,
1997) sivilisaatioteorian ja Pierre Bourdieun kulttuurituotannon kenttäteorian
ajatuksilla (esim. Bourdieu 1993: 30–58). Nämä 1900-luvun sosiologian klassikot
tarjoavat välineitä analysoida suhteellisen suljetun ja luokkaperustaisen musiikkiyleisön ja sen sisällä toimivien auktoriteettien toimintaa ja tarkoitusperiä.
Eliasin (1997: 48–49) analyysi saksalaisen yliopistokaupungin porvariston sosiaalisista suhteista, yhdistystoiminnasta ja seurapiireistä voisi hyvinkin kuvata
51
Vesa kurkela
myös Suomen pääkaupungin ”sivistyneen” luokan elämää. Tämä ei ole yllätys, kun ottaa huomioon, miten paljon suomalainen hengenviljely ja taide otti
vaikutteita nimenomaan Saksasta. Olen toisessa yhteydessä kuvannut, miten
juuri musiikin alueella saksalaiset esikuvat vaikuttivat erityisen voimakkaina
(Kurkela 2014).
Helsingin musiikillisen taidemaailman sisällä oli epäilemättä monenlaisia mielipiteitä ja suuntauksia, eivätkä julkiset konsertitkaan voineet tapahtua
1900-luvun vaihteen oloissa täysin poliittisesta elämästä irrallaan – sen verran
suuria mullistuksia koko suomalainen yhteiskunta noina autonomiataistelun,
suurlakon ja eduskuntauudistuksen vuosina koki. Lehtikirjoituksiin perehtymällä olen kuitenkin päätynyt käsitykseen, että keskustelu musiikista, sen arvoista
ja yleisön kasvattamisesta tapahtui suhteellisen irrallaan päivänpolitiikasta. Sitä
sääteli erityinen 1800-luvun sivistyspuhe, jonka voi jakaa kahteen osaan: liberaalin sivistysporvariston itsekasvatukseen ja kansallismieliseen kansanvalistukseen.
Jako oli ilmennyt aiemmin 1800-luvulla muun muassa keskustelussa taideteollisuuden kehittämisen tarpeellisuudesta (vrt. Klinge 1982: 172–180). Jukka Sarjalan
(1994: 246) mukaan 1800-luvun lopun musiikkikritiikissä oli kyse makunormituksesta, jonka pääkaupungin säätyläisväestö suuntasi itse itselleen – pääosin
ruotsin kielellä. 1890-luku toi vahvasti mukaan suomenkielisen kritiikin, mutta
musiikin sivistyspuhe ei siitä juurikaan muuttunut. Suomenkieliset kriitikot olivat tyypillisesti kaksikielisiä, ja he jatkoivat sivistysporvariston perinnettä: valistuksen kohteena oli koulutettu musiikkiyleisö eikä ”kansa”, joka puolestaan
oli yleisen kansanvalistuksen kohteena.
Sivistysporvariston itsekasvatus ja kansallismielinen kansanvalistus saattavat näin jälkikäteen sekoittua keskenään. Molemmat rakentuivat aikakaudelle
tyypillisen edistysuskon varaan. Ne olivat silti jossain määrin erilliset kulttuurikeskustelun alueet. Oikeastaan vain jälkimmäinen oli voimakkaasti sidoksissa
suomalaisuustaisteluun ja kielikysymykseen, kun taas liberaalinen taidepuhe
mieluummin kartteli sitä. Erillisyys näkyi jo edellä kuvatussa lehtikirjoittelussa
siten, että nimenomaan ruotsinkieliset kommentaattorit kielsivät konserttitoiminnan yhteiskunnallisen tai poliittisen luonteen.
Kansanvalistuspuhe ja -pyrkimykset jäävät tämän tarkastelun ulkopuolelle yksinkertaisesti siksi, että Kajanuksen populäärikonsertit oli suunnattu Helsingin säätyläisille ja sääty-yhteiskunnan purkauduttua heidän asemansa perineelle ruotsinkieliselle ja kaksikieliselle koulutetulle luokalle. Tämä ryhmä ei
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kuulunut kansanvalistuksen vastaanottajiin, mutta oli sitäkin voimakkaammin
taiteellisten sivistämispyrkimysten kohteena. Olen päätynyt tähän rajaukseen
selventääkseni Kajanuksen populäärikonsertteihin liittyvää kirjoittelua ja mielipiteiden tarkastelua. Populäärikonsertin vakioyleisö, muusikot ja kriitikot –
eli Hufvudstadbladetin esiin nostama ”musiikkiyleisö” – näyttäytyy seuraavassa
tarkastelussa melko suljetun taidemaailman ydinjoukkona. Sen asema perustui kulttuuriseen pääomaan, jonka ylläpidossa symbolinen ja asiantuntijavalta
oli ratkaisevassa asemassa. Musiikin taidemaailma – jota tässä yhteydessä voi
myös konserttielämäksi kutsua – näyttäytyy suhteellisen autonomisena toiminta-alueena (Bourdieu 1993: 37–39). Tämä joukko koostui 1900-luvun alussa yhteiskunnan ylä- ja keskiluokasta, joten myös taloudellinen ja poliittinen valta oli
kasautunut heidän lähelleen. Silti taidemaailman sisäinen valta perustui aivan
muille ansioille. Niistä keskeisiä olivat säveltaiteen asiantuntijuus ja kyky sanella hyvän maun rajat.
Makukysymykset olivat myös Jukka Sarjalan (1994: 214–223) tutkimuksen
kohteena, kun hän analysoi konserttikulttuurin alkuaikoja ja musiikkikritiikkiä
Helsingin sanomalehdissä vuosina 1860–1888. Hänen mukaansa toisena vahvana tavoitteena aikakauden musiikkivaikuttajilla oli konserttikuri. Päivälehtien
musiikkikirjoittajat pyrkivät sievistämään konserttiyleisön kuuntelutapoja, jotta
ne vastaisivat paremmin romantiikan ajan uutta kuunteluihannetta, keskittynyttä kuuntelijaa. Kysymys arvokkaasta ohjelmistosta ja kuuntelurauhasta olivat
ne konserttiporvariston itsekasvatuksen päämäärät, joihin alituiseen palattiin
vielä 1900-luvun alussakin, ja ne ovat myös tämän artikkelin keskeiset tutkimuskohteet. Tässä kuten monessa muussakin eurooppalaisen säätyläistön tapojen
jalostamisessa oli keskeistä periaate, jonka Norbert Elias (1997: 33) on tiivistänyt
keskiaikaisen käytösoppaan lauseeksi: ”Asiat, jotka kerran olivat sallittuja, ovat
nyt kiellettyjä”.
Suomalainen kriitikkokunta oli jo 1800-luvun lopulla vakuuttunut siitä, että
hyvän maun kehittämisessä juuri orkesterimusiikilla oli suuri merkitys (Sarjala 1994: 166–167). Maassa ei ollut 1870-luvun poikkeuskautta lukuun ottamatta
säännöllistä oopperatoimintaa, ja näyttämömusiikin ja hyvän maun kohtaamista
häiritsi musiikkinäyttämön huvipainotteisuus, mikä heijastui monessa yhteydessä operettiin ja erityisesti varieteenäytöksiin kohdistuneena ylenkatseena. Tätä
taustaa vasten Kajanuksen orkesteri tarjosi säveltaidemaailman rakentamiselle
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ja yleisön maun kasvatukselle tärkeän, ellei tärkeimmän areenan 1900-luvun
vaihteen molemmin puolin.
Miksi yleisökasvatuksen näyttämöksi valikoitui nimenomaan populäärikonsertti, helppotajuinen musiikki-ilta? Sinne jos minne Helsingin sivistysporvaristo
kokoontui viihtymään ja unohtamaan arkihuoliaan tai keskustelemaan ystävien
kanssa ajankohtaisista aiheista. Edustiko helppotajuinen konsertti jo nimensä
mukaisesti jotakin taidemaailman erikoistapausta, jossa taiteen asiantuntijavalta
oli suojattomampi ja horjahti helpommin kuin vakavammassa konserttitoiminnassa? Huvittelunhalu ja riehakkuus tuntuvat ainakin nykyajan perspektiivistä
sopivan huonosti yhteen vakavamielisen taidenautinnon kanssa. Jos populäärien
yleisöä haluttiin kasvattaa keskittyneeseen kuunteluun, siinä vaadittiin ainakin
pitkämielisyyttä.
Musiikinhistorian sinfoniaharha
1900-luvun vaihteen orkesterimusiikin tutkija kohtaa usein ilmeisen vinoutuman,
jota hieman kärjistäen voi kutsua sinfoniaharhaksi. Sen myötä orkesterimusiikin tutkimus on keskittynyt sellaisten arvokkaiden suurteosten esittämishistoriaan, joita sinfoniaorkesterit vielä nykyisinkin pääasiassa soittavat. Kohtuuden
nimessä on myönnettävä, että nykyisin arvossa pidetty oli usein myös omana
aikanaan arvostetuinta musiikkia, ja esimerkiksi musiikkikritiikki käytti jo
1800-luvulla paljon palstatilaa sinfoniakonserttien monipuoliseen selostamiseen.
Mutta lehdissä kirjoitettiin yllättävän paljon muistakin konserteista ja musiikkitilaisuuksista, jotka orkesterihistoriat kuittaavat lyhyesti – elleivät vaikene niistä
tyystin. Orkesterien rooli hyvinkin erilaisten musiikillisten tarpeiden tyydyttäjänä on vaarassa unohtua kokonaan. Sinfonisen historiakuvan synnyn taustalla
on 1800-luvun lopulla alkanut vähittäinen ohjelmiston muutos. Sen yhteydessä
suurempien orkesterien ohjelmistot vakavoituivat ja keskittyivät suurimuotoisiin teoksiin, kuten juuri sinfoniseen musiikkiin. Samalla kevyempi ohjelmisto
– orkesterisoiton aiempi ydinalue – jäi pikkuhiljaa vähemmälle. Nykyisin sitä
esitetään enää erityistilaisuuksissa, kuten uuden vuoden konserteissa ja vappumatineoissa.
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Muutos ohjelmistossa – ja musiikkielämän yleisen arvoilmapiirin kiristyminen – näyttää tapahtuneen 1920-luvun Suomessa verraten nopeasti. Niinpä jo
1930-luvulla alkoi olla tapana unohtaa, mitä orkesterisoiton todellisuus oli ollut
parikymmentä vuotta aiemmin. Kun 25-vuotias orkesterimuusikko Nils-Eric
Ringbom1 julkaisi vuonna 1932 Helsingin kaupunginorkesterin historiikin (suom.
Helsingin orkesteri), tarinan pääpaino on orkesterin julkisissa sinfoniakonserteissa.
Ringbomin (1932: 93–128) kirja sisältää muun muassa tutkimuksen kannalta
arvokkaan luettelon ”niistä sinfonia-, sävellys-, johtaja-, oratoorio-, juhla- ja
muista huomattavista konserteista, joissa orkesteri on avustanut (1882–1932)”.
Tiedot ravintolakonserteista luonnollisesti puuttuvat – niitä kirjoittaja ei laskenut ”huomattavien konserttien” ryhmään. Populäärikonsertteja ei silti kokonaan
unohdettu; Ringbom selostaa niitä neljän sivun verran yhteensä 22 sivun mittaisen ”Orkesterin toiminta” -jakson yhteydessä.
1930-luvulla populäärikonsertit olivat vielä musiikkiyleisön aktiivimuistissa,
vaikka julkinen kirjoittelu pyrki ne jo ehkä sivuuttamaan. Vuosisadan lopulla
tilanne oli kokonaan toinen. Kun Helsingin kaupunginorkesterin satavuotishistoriikki ilmestyi (Marvia & Vainio 1993), hyvin harvalla lukijalla oli enää selkeää käsitystä helppotajuisten eli populäärikonserttien olemuksesta – tai edes olemassaolosta. Orkesterin vaiheet vuoteen 1889 kuvannut Einari Marvia kuittaa
koko vanhan konserttikäytännön muutamalla lauseella. Lisäksi kommentointi
on lievästi sanottuna vähättelevää, kun ottaa huomioon sen keskeisen aseman,
joka populäärikonserteilla oli Kajanuksen orkesterin toiminnassa. Kirjan loppuosan kirjoittaja Matti Vainio varaa ilmiölle kokonaisen pienen jakson 1890-luvun
kehitystä analysoidessaan. Neljän sivun selostus ei tietenkään ole kovin paljon
yhteensä lähes 800 sivun kokonaisuudessa. Silti luultavasti juuri Vainion ansiosta
nykyinen tutkijapolvi tuli edes tietoiseksi helppotajuisten konserttien olemassaolosta. Siitä syntyi ihmettelevä kysymys ”mitä ne olivat?” Siihen vastaaminen
otettiin myös yhdeksi tutkimustehtäväksi Suomen Akatemian rahoittamaan Rethinking ’Finnish’ Music History -tutkimushankkeeseen. Tämä kirjoitus on pieni
osa tuota vastausta.
1 Ringbom tuli myöhemmin tunnetuksi säveltäjänä ja musiikintutkijana sekä toimi pitkään Helsingin kaupunginorkesterin intendenttinä (Tolvas 1979: 49).
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Sekakonsertin perintö
Kajanuksen orkesterin toiminnan 30 ensimmäistä vuotta (1882–1912) tarjoavat
monipuolisen esimerkin siitä, miten orkesterikulttuuri vakiintui Suomessa ja miten siitä tuli arvostettua taidetta. Alkuvuosien tapahtumista muodostuu samalla
tarina orkesterin kehityksestä pääkaupungin musiikkiyleisön sivistämisprojektin
keskeiseksi toimijaksi. Tarinan yksi päätepiste nähtiin syksyllä 1914, kun Filharmoonisen Seuran orkesterista tuli yhteiskunnan ylläpitämä taidelaitos, Helsingin
kaupunginorkesteri (Ringbom 1932: 41–47). Populäärikonsertit olivat tärkeässä
asemassa tuon kehityksen eri vaiheissa. Juuri niiden kohdalla käytiin myös rajankäyntiä musiikillisen taiteen ja ei-taiteen välillä.
Nykyajan konserttikäytäntöihin tottuneelle Kajanuksen helppotajuinen konsertti näyttää aika erikoiselta: sinfoniaorkesteri esittää helposti sulavaa klassista
musiikkia ravintolayleisölle, jonka käyttäytyminen tuo mieleen enemmän jazzklubin kuin konserttitilanteen. Viipurilaislehden kirjeenvaihtaja kuvaili Helsingin Seurahuoneen menoa vuonna 1887 ihastuneena:
Kaikki on järjestetty tosi viihtyisästi. Hienostuneesti koristellussa salongissa
on pöytä pöydän vieressä ja niissä istuu herroja ja daameja – jälkimmäisillä tavallisesti jokin käsityö mukanaan – keskustellen vilkkaasti päivänpolttavista
kysymyksistä. Samalla kun wienervalssi hurmaa korvan ja leppeä tuutinki tai
kupillinen teetä vie kitalaen, päivän puheenaiheet kiertävät suusta suuhun eri
täydennyksillä. (Östra Finland 16.2.1887, ”Helsingforsbref”. Käännös VK.)
Illan ohjelma muistutti musiikillista tilkkutäkkiä, jossa kuitenkin oli tiivis muoto: kolme soittojaksoa, joiden välissä ehkä varttitunnin tauot. Jokaisessa konsertissa toistuivat tietyt ohjelmanumerot, kuten jokaisen ohjelman osan alussa soitettu alkusoitto, ensimmäisen osan toisena numerona esitetty wienervalssi sekä
illan ohjelman päättävä marssikappale. Keskimmäinen osa saattoi kestää jopa
tunnin, ensimmäinen ja viimeinen harvoin yli puolta tuntia. Keskimmäiseen sisältyi yleensä myös illan arvostetuin osuus, tunnetun solistin virtuoosikappale
tai muu keskittymistä vaativa orkesteriteos – sinfoninen runo tai orkesterisarja.
Ohjelman rakenne perustui silmiinpistävän suurelle vaihtelevuudelle: iloista
Strauss-valssia saattoi seurata Händelin Largo ja sitä taas Massenet’n eksoot-
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tinen orkesterisarja. Konsertin kolmiosainen rakenne, ohjelmiston vaihtelevuus ja taiteellisesti
vaativimman ohjelman keskittyminen pisimpään
toiseen soittojaksoon käyvät ilmi torstai-illan
konsertin ohjelmasta, joka pidettiin 4.10.1894
(Kuva 2).
Populäärien suosion huippuaikana, 1890-luvulla ja 1900-luvun alussa, niitä järjestettiin
yleensä kolmesti viikossa, tiistaisin, torstaisin ja
lauantaisin. Konsertit alkoivat illalla klo 19.30 ja
kestivät harvoin yli iltakymmeneen. Tässä vaiheessa hilpeään tunnelmaan päässyt yleisö tavallisesti havahtui orkesterin esittämään Porilaisten
marssiin tai johonkin muuhun juhlalliseen ja ylevään marssiin tai poloneesiin. Viipurilainen tarkkailija koki illan lopun seuraavasti:
Taitavasti luovimalla pienten iloisten kuppikuntien
välissä frakkipukuiset tarjoilijat hännystelevät edestakaisin 25 pennin touhukkuudellaan, kunnes lopultakin uljas marssisävel – ohjelman viimeinen numero –
Kuva 2. Kajanuksen orkesterin
muistuttaa, että ”voisi olla aika miettiä kertosäettä”, ja
populäärikonsertti 4.10.1894. kukin poistuu kotiinsa tyytyväisenä iltaansa. (Östra
(Program-bladet: tidning för Helsing-
Finland 16.2.1887, ”Helsingforsbref”. Käännös VK.)
fors teatrar och konserter. No 14.)
Populäärikonsertti oli ilmeisen suosittua ajanvietettä kouluja käyneiden helsinkiläisten keskuudessa. Se oli sopivaa ajankulua sivistysporvarille, joka halusi
kuunnella musiikkia hyvässä seurassa, mutta ilman varieteenäytäntöjen paheellista leimaa. Edellä kuvatun sinfoniapainotuksensa vuoksi musiikinhistorian
tutkimus on varsin yksimielisesti nähnyt Kajanuksen populäärikonsertit viihdetilaisuuksina, joiden vastakohtana oli vakava konserttitarjonta. Niinpä esimerkiksi Marvia (1993: 127) toteaa yksikantaan: ”sisältyihän jokaisen populäärikonsertin ohjelmaan 7–10 teosta, joiden pääosa kuului viihdemusiikin piiriin”.
Marvian päättelyn pohjana lienevät orkesterin nuotistoluettelot, jotka sisältävät
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satamäärin erilaista käyttömusiikkia ja hyvin kevyttäkin materiaalia. Marvia
ei selvästikään tutkinut tarkemmin, mitä populääreissä oikeasti soitettiin, eikä
helppotajuisten konserttien ohjelma-analyysi ole jaksanut innostaa sen paremmin Marvian kirjoittajakumppania Matti Vainiota (1993: 227–229) kuin muitakaan musiikinhistorian tutkijoita. Useimmat heistä ovat laskeneet populäärikonsertit yksiselitteisesti kevyen ”salonkimusiikin” kategoriaan (Jalkanen 2003:
210), puhuneet niiden kohdalla ”makujen eriytymisestä” (Sarjala 1994: 218–220)
tai sivuuttaneet ne kokonaan (Salmenhaara 1995: 493–505).
Lähempi ohjelmistoanalyysi2 osoittaa, että Kajanuksen orkesteri esitti helppotajuisissa konserteissa pitkälle hyvinkin samanlaista ohjelmistoa kuin Yliopiston
juhlasalin sinfoniakonserteissaan. Samat alkusoitot, sinfoniset runot ja orkesterisarjat toistuivat molemmissa. Ilmeisin ero oli siinä, että populääreissä soitettiin
erittäin harvoin kokonaisia sinfonioita eikä ainakaan Beethovenin sinfonioita,
joiden korkea taidearvo ilmeisesti esti niiden esittämisen ravintolaympäristössä. Toisaalta wienervalssit, orkesterigalopit ja muut iloiset tanssirytmiset teokset
kuuluivat pakollisina kohtina populäärikonsertin ohjelmaan, kun taas helsinkiläisten sinfoniakonserttien repertuaarista ne näyttävät hävinneen jo 1870-luvulla. Lisäksi sinfoniakonserttien pääpaino oli klassikoissa, kuolleitten säveltäjien
teoksissa. Sen sijaan helppotajuisissa esitettiin silmiinpistävän paljon nykymusiikkia, ranskalaista, venäläistä, skandinaavista ja vuosisadan vaihteesta alkaen
yhä enemmän myös uutta suomalaista orkesterimusiikkia.
Myös Richard Wagnerin musiikki oli populääreissä näkyvästi esillä. Kajanus oli intohimoinen wagneriaani, joka ilmiselvästi halusi jakaa Wagnerin musiikin ilosanomaa helsinkiläisyleisölle. Vuodesta 1891 alkaen Kajanus järjesti
populäärikonsertteina lähes vuosittain useita Wagner-iltoja. Niissä soitettiin
pelkkää Wagneria – yleisölle tutun kolmiosaisen ohjelmarakenteen puitteissa.
Kuulijoiden valtaosa ei ollut koskaan nähnyt ainuttakaan Wagnerin oopperaa –
niistä kolme (Lentävä hollantilainen, Tannhäuser ja Lohengrin) esitettiin Suomessa
vasta toukokuussa 1900. Esitykset toteutettiin venäläisessä Aleksanterin teatterissa A. Falckin saksalaisen oopperaseurueen ja paikallisten laulunharrastajien
yhteistyönä (Byckling 2009, 384; vrt. Salmi 2005, 94–97, 103). Bayreuthin mestarin taide tuli täällä tutuksi nimenomaan alkusoittojen ja orkesterille sovitettujen
oopperakatkelmien välityksellä. (Kurkela 2015b.)
2 Populäärikonserttien ohjelman kuvaus perustuu ohjelmatietojen systemaattiseen läpikäyntiin,
jonka tuloksia olen esitellyt aiemmin kahdessa tutkimusartikkelissa (Kurkela 2015a; 2015b).
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Huvittamistehtävänsä ohella Kajanuksen populäärit olivat arvostettuja konserttitapahtumia, joista Helsingin johtavat musiikkiarvostelijat kirjoittelivat säännöllisesti sanomalehdissä. Se että esitys tapahtui vähemmän arvokkaassa ympäristössä, ei näytä haitanneen edes ankarimpia musiikkiarvostelijoita. Kriitikko
yleensä vain hyppäsi arviossaan kevyemmät esitykset yli tai tyytyi Ilmari Krohnin tavoin toteamaan, että ”jos heitämme syrjään Straussin tanssisaliin kuuluvan
valssin, tarjottiin neljä sävellystä, joita voisi klassillisiksi kutsua” (Uusi Suometar
8.10.1890). Syy sallivuuteen on ilmeinen: 1700-luvulta peräisin oleva sekakonsertin periaate eli vahvana suomalaisessa konserttikulttuurissa, eikä Suomi ollut
tässä edes mikään takapajula. Ainakin 1880-luvulle saakka kirjavat konserttiohjelmat olivat enemmän sääntö kuin poikkeus myös läntisten metropolien arvostetuimmissa orkestereissa, kuten William Weber (2008: 171–172, 235–272) on tutkimuksessaan osoittanut. Ohjelmisto tosin klassistui voimakkaasti jo vuosisadan
puolivälissä, mutta itse konsertin rakenne pysyi sekalaisena.
Helsingin yleisö oli tottunut nauttimaan sekalaisella ohjelmistorakenteella toteutetusta orkesterimusiikista ainakin 1860-luvun alusta lähtien. Tuolloin
pääkaupunkiin saatiin uusi teatteri, ja sen orkesteri alkoi ylläpitää säännöllistä
konserttitarjontaa. Aluksi konserttien sijasta puhuttiin musiikillisista iltamista ja
erikseen vielä sinfonisista iltamista (symphonisk soirée), jolloin tilkkutäkkiohjelmaan sisältyi jokin – yleensä klassinen – sinfonia. Soirée-ohjelmiston kolmiosainen rakenne alkusoittoineen ja orkesterivalsseineen muistutti hämmästyttävän
paljon Kajanuksen populäärejä. Sinfonia määritteli alusta lähtien konserttipaikaksi Yliopiston juhlasalin. Muut soiréet eli musiikilliset iltamat pidettiin kaupungin kahdessa teatterirakennuksessa sekä Kaivohuoneella ja Seurahuoneella,
kahdessa hienoimmassa ja suurimmassa ravintolassa. Ravintolaympäristö tarjosi
mahdollisuuden musiikkiyleisön monipuolisempaan palveluun, johon kuului
myös juomatarjoilu konsertin aikana.
Yleensä iltamakonsertin kohokohtana – niin Yliopistolla kuin muissakin tiloissa – oli joku solisti, jonka esityksen aikana syvennyttiin tuokioksi musiikin
seuraamiseen. Pelkkä orkesterisoitto – ja varsinkin pienempimuotoiset kappaleet
– koettiin lähinnä ohjelmantäytteinä. Niiden aikana oli hyvä poiketa vestibyylin
puolella tupruttamassa sikaria ja pitämässä palaveria. Aikakauden kriitikoiden
vakaumus orkesterimusiikin ensisijaisuudesta musiikillisen maun ja sivistymisen lähtökohtana ei siten vielä ainakaan 1870-luvulla vastannut kuuntelutapojen
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todellisuutta. Kriitikot itsekin noudattivat valikoivaa kuuntelemistapaa, mikä
saattoi joskus johtaa kiusallisiin seurauksiin. Niinpä nuorelle Martin Wegeliukselle sattui 1870-luvulla sellainenkin erehdys, että hän tuli arvostelleeksi teosta,
jota ei edes soitettu konsertissa. Itse asiassa hän oli kappaleen aikana eteisen
puolella asioita hoitamassa ja tuli vasta viimeisten tahtien aikana konserttihuoneeseen. Ohjelma oli sillä kohtaa vaihtunut, ja Wegelius arvioi jutussaan väärää
teosta. (Sarjala 1994: 221–222.)
Syksyllä 1873 Nathan Emanuelin johtama teatteriorkesteri esitteli uutuutena
promenad-konsertit. Ne pidettiin juuri valmistuneella Ylioppilastalolla, ja yleisö
sai tottua konserttimusiikkiin vapaan seurustelun merkeissä. Kävelykonsertit
Ylioppilastalon pienissä tiloissa eivät ilmeisesti vetäneet tarpeeksi yleisöä, ja seuraava vaihe orkesteritoiminnan suosion nostattamiseksi olivat monstre-konsertit,
joissa teatteriorkesteri teki yhteistyötä kahden suuren sotilassoittokunnan kanssa.
Konsertit pidettiin ulkoilmassa Hesperian puistossa tai Kaivohuoneella, jolloin
yleisön vapaampi liikkuvuus oli helpompi toteuttaa. (Finlands allmänna tidning
7.10.1873; Hufvudstadsbladet 9.10.1873, 13.9.1874; Morgonbladet 20.6.1878.)
Lienee syytä korostaa, että kaikilla edellä ja jäljempänä mainituilla kevyemmillä konserttimuodoilla on vankka yleiseurooppalainen tausta. Viimeistään
1830-luvulta alkaen Pariisissa, Lontoossa, Wienissä ja muissa musiikkikeskuksissa konserttilaitos alkoi kaupallistua tunnettujen orkesterijohtajien – Musard,
Jullien, Strauss ja Lanner – suosion myötä. Konserttien suosiota ja yleisöpohjaa
pyrittiin laajentamaan monin tavoin: siirtämällä konsertit ulkoilmaan, rakentamalla isoja paviljonkeja ja konserttihalleja, alentamalla lippujen hintoja, suurentamalla orkesterien kokoa sekä kasvattamalla konserttien vetovoimaa orkesteriteoksilla, jotka pohjautuivat tanssimusiikin ja oopperan varaan (wienervalssit,
katrillit, polkat, oopperapotpurit). (Weber 2008: 208–231; Rink 2002: 63–64.) Myös
Helsingissä seurattiin yleistä kehitystä, tosin monesti vuosikymmeniäkin myöhässä ja ulkomaisia trendejä omiin pienempiin oloihin istuttamalla.
Sekalainen ohjelmisto ja vapaat oltavat, siinä resepti, jota helsinkiläisten
orkesterien oli noudatettava jatkossakin, jos mielivät saada yleisöä soittotilaisuuksiin. Kajanuksen orkesterin välitön edeltäjä, Bohuslav Hrimalyn luotsaama Helsingfors konsertorkester (1879–1882) ei onnistunut saamaan tarpeeksi
ennakkotilauksia Yliopistossa suunniteltuihin sinfoniakonsertteihin ja keskittyi
esittämään pelkästään populäärikonsertteja useana päivänä viikossa. Niiden pi-
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topaikaksi oli jo tuossa vaiheessa vakiintunut ravintola Seurahuoneen juhlasali.
(Salmenhaara 1995: 492; huvi-ilmoitukset Helsingin lehdissä, esim. Helsingfors
13.12.1879, 30.10.1880, 17.1.1881; Hufvudstadsbladet 26.11.1881.)
Suosiontavoittelun ja taiteellisuuden välissä
Tähän konserttikäytäntöjen maailmaan Robert Kajanus loi oman orkesterinsa
syksyllä 1882. Se erosi aiemmista ainakin seuraavissa suhteissa. 36 muusikon
soittajistolla se oli lähes kaksi kertaa suurempi kuin aiemmat teatteriorkesterit
ja välitön edeltäjänsä Helsingfors konsertorkester. Orkesterin taloudellinen perusta oli ainakin hieman vakaammalla pohjalla kuin edeltäjillä. Senaatin pienen
avustuksen lisäksi toiminta perustui yksityiseen rahoitukseen, jonka järjestämisessä paikalliset liikemiehet Waldemar Klärich ja Nikolai Sinebrychoff olivat
keskeisessä roolissa. Kuitenkin Kajanus itse kantoi suurimman taloudellisen riskin, mikä tarkoitti, että orkesterin oli tultava pääosin toimeen pääsylipputuloilla.
Tilannetta helpotti hieman se, että orkesteri – tai oikeasti siitä koottu pienempi
kokoonpano – huolehti myös Ruotsalaisen teatterin näytäntöjen musiikkitarpeesta. Lisäksi tuloja saatiin erilaisista säestystehtävistä, olivat ne sitten isänmaallisia juhlia, solistikonsertteja tai venäläisessä Aleksanterin teatterissa toteutettuja ulkomaisten oopperakiertueiden näytäntöjä.3 Orkesterin soittajisto vakiintui
pariksi vuosikymmeneksi runsaaseen 40 soittajaan. Se koostui aina 1900-luvun
alkuvuosiin saakka pääosin ulkomaisista muusikoista, ja koska toimintakausi oli
vain seitsemän kuukautta, soittajien vaihtuvuus oli suurta: Kajanus joutui joka
syksy rekrytoimaan orkesteriin uusia jäseniä, pääasiassa Pietarista ja Itämeren
alueen kylpyläorkestereista, jotka työllistivät orkesterisoittajat kesäkaudella.
Kajanuksen orkesteri oli nykykielellä ilmaistuna kaupallinen yritys, ja menestyäkseen sen täytyi ensisijaisesti vastata paikallisen musiikkiyleisön kysyntään.
Toisaalta Kajanuksella oli ilmeisesti alusta lähtien korkeat taiteelliset tavoitteet.
Hän halusi kehittää orkesteristaan Suomessa ennen näkemättömän taideinstituution, mannermaiset mitat täyttävän sinfoniaorkesterin. Säännölliset sinfonia-
3 Orkesteriyhdistyksen alkukauden toiminnan taloudellisia ratkaisuja ja vaikeuksia on selostettu
yksityiskohtaisesti Marvian tutkimuksessa (Marvia & Vainio 1993: 40–41, 59–96; ks. myös Vainio
2002: 129–165 ja Salmenhaara 1995: 498–503).
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konsertit Yliopiston juhlasalissa olivat tärkeä osa musiikillisen taidemaailman
vakiinnuttamispyrkimystä.
Viikoittaiset populäärikonsertit Seurahuoneella kehittyivät juuri tämän kaksoistavoitteen – kannattavuuden ja korkean taiteellisen tason – saavuttamiseksi.
Ne varmistivat orkesteritoiminnan jatkuvuuden myös silloin, kun Orkesteriyhdistys keikkui vararikon partaalla. Lehtikirjoittelun perusteella populääreihin riitti yleisöä silloinkin, kun Kajanuksen keskimäärin kerran kuussa järjestetyt sinfoniakonsertit kärsivät yleisökadosta. Tilanne muuttui oikeastaan vasta
1900-luvun alussa, jolloin populäärikonsertti koki ensimmäisen kriisinsä, kuten
myöhemmin selostan.
Kajanuksen orkesterin läpimurto oli sidoksissa ravintolatoimen ohella sanomalehdistön ja siihen liittyvän julkisuuden voimakkaaseen laajenemiseen.
1880-luku oli suomenkielisen lehdistön voimakkaan kasvun aikaa, jolloin aiemmin lähes kokonaan ruotsinkielinen musiikkikritiikki sai rinnalleen suomenkielisen. Taidearvostelu oli myös irtautunut omaksi kokonaisuudekseen muun
uutisoinnin joukosta; kriitikoiden asiantuntijuus sai ”julkisen suojapaikan sanomalehtien sivuilta” (Sarjala 1994: 142). 1890-luvulle tultaessa kaupungissa oli
neljä merkittävää sanomalehteä, jotka julkaisivat säännöllisesti musiikkiarvosteluja ja muita musiikkielämää koskevia kirjoituksia: Hufvudstadsbladet, Nya Pressen,
Uusi Suometar ja Päivälehti (syksystä 1904 alkaen Helsingin Sanomat). Keskeisiä
kriitikoita tässä tarkasteltavana aikana (noin 1890–1910) olivat Karl Wasenius,
Karl Flodin, Ilmari Krohn, Evert Katila ja Oskari Merikanto. Heidän tukensa Kajanuksen orkesterin toiminnan jatkuvassa esilläpidossa on lähes silmiinpistävää
– eikä vähäisemmässä määrässä helppotajuisten konserttien kohdalla.
Edellä tuli jo esiin, että 1880-luvulla kultivoitunut kuuntelu ja konserttikuri
olivat varsin uusi asia kriitikoillekin. Keskittynyttä kuuntelemista korostava konserttikäyttäytyminen rajoittui vielä pitkään sinfonia- ja solistikonsertteihin sekä
Yliopiston juhlasaliin. Seurahuoneen konserteissa vallitsi toisenlainen ilmapiiri,
mutta yhtä kaikki myös niihin näyttää liittyneen tietoinen pyrkimys konserttitapojen kohentamiseen ja hyvän maun kasvattamiseen.
Helppotajuinen konsertti oli monessa suhteessa ongelmallinen ympäristö konserttikurin ja maun varjelemiseen. Kajanus itse muisteli vähän ennen
kuolemaansa taiteellisten pyrkimystensä vastaanottoa huvittelunhaluisen yleisön taholta:
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Mutta monesti minun oli nieltävä katkera kalkki. Kun esimerkiksi soitin ensimmäisen kerran Svendsenin Norjalaisen rapsodian, eräs vanha ystäväni tuli ja sanoi:
’Kuule Kajanus, et kai sinä luule, että olemme tulleet tänne jotain sävelluomuksia
[tonskapelser] kuuntelemaan?’ Niinpä, yleisö oli hyvinkin sitä mieltä, että oli vaan
parempi jutella musiikin säestyksellä. (ben Hang 1932: 192. Käännös VK.)
Kajanus tunsi Svendsenin Leipzigin opintovuosien ajoilta (Vainio 2002: 75–76)
ja esitti arvostamansa säveltäjäkollegan musiikkia mielellään; neljä Norjalaista rapsodiaa kuuluivat populäärien ohjelmistoon jo 1880-luvulta lähtien (ensimmäinen ohjelmatieto on helmikuulta 1885, Rapsodia n:o 3). Kansanmusiikkiaiheista ammentavat teokset olivat epäilemättä helposti sulavaa musiikkia
myös aikakauden yleisölle. Potpurimuotoinen rakenne, kansalliset sävelaiheet
ja vaihtelevat tunnelmat edustivat sitä estetiikkaa, joka oli kaikille tuttua ja
jopa kriitikkojen hyväksymää. Pitkähkö kesto (yli 10 minuuttia) ja hiljaiset ja
surumieliset jaksot saattoivat silti kyllästyttää juhlivaa kuulijakuntaa, joka ei
jaksanut keskittyä mihinkään monimutkaisempaan. Voi myös olla, että 1880-luvun yleisö pysytteli vielä ehdottomammin musiikin huvikäytön kannalla kuin
1890-luvun ja 1900-luvun kuuntelijat. Sivistystyö alkoi vasta vähitellen tuottaa
tulosta.
Populääreissä oli ilman muuta monenlaisia kuulijoita, ja maksava asiakas ainakin jossain määrin myös määräsi tahdin. Mitä tahansa ”sävelluomuksia” Kajanus ei voinut esitellä, vaikka taiteellinen kunnianhimo olisi siihen yllyttänytkin.
Musiikkikritiikki oli kuitenkin Kajanuksen uskollinen liittolainen, kun hän pyrki edistämään orkesterin yleisökasvatusta. Varsinkin 1890-luvulla lehtikirjoittelusta välittyy kuva pääkaupungin johtavien musiikkikriitikoiden positiivisesta
suhtautumisesta ja hyväntahtoisuudesta vanhaa konsertti-instituutiota kohtaan.
Tämä asenne tulee hyvin esille Ilmari Krohnin kirjoituksessa toukokuussa 1891.
Samalla Krohn veti näkyviin monet erilaiset vaikeudet, jotka rajoittivat hänen
mielestään Kajanuksen orkesterin kehittymistä.
Talven kuluessa ovat n.k. helppotajuiset konsertit kohonneet verrattomasti taidearvossa ja siten saavuttaneet sanomalehdistönkin puolelta suurempaa huomiota, kuin siihen asti oli suvaittu niiden osaksi suoda. Tosin esitys ei aina ole
tasaista, mutta toisinaan on edellisen kerran puutteet korvattu aivan monenker-
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taisesti. Ei voi vaatiakaan, että soittokunta olisi kahdesti viikossa oikealla konserttivireellä, varsinkin kun yleisö on rauhaton ja virvokkeita kannetaan läpi
salin ihanimmankin soiton kestäessä; sitä paitsi tiedämme, että orkesterin valitettavasti täytyy neljänä iltana viikossa soittaa ruotsalaisessa teaterissa, säestäen yleisön keskustelua väli-ajoilla tai osaltaan auttaen ilmoille jotain viheliäistä
operettia. – Eikö kuitenkin vast’edes vielä on aika koittava, jolloin hyvää orkesteria ei muuhun käytetä, kuin kunnon konsertteihin ja ooperaan. - - Erittäin onnistunut ajatus oli panna toimeen helppotajuisia konserttia yhtenäisillä ohjelmilla [Wagner-illat, teemakonsertit säveltäjien kansallisuuden mukaan]. Hauskaa
oli huomata, millä hartaalla osanotolla yleisö tämänkaltaista konserttien taiteellisentumista kannatti; liekö syytä ollut todellinen hyvä aisti vai olisiko se muodinasiaksi tullut? – Joka tapauksessa luulen juuri semmoisilla ohjelmilla voitavan
yleisön aisti kohottaa. (Uusi Suometar 2.5.1891.)
Temaattiset illat näyttävät olleen 1890-luvun uutuus, ja epäilemättä niihin sisältyi yleisöä valistava elementti: jos helsinkiläiset saivat kuullakseen useana iltana
pelkästään Wagneria tai venäläistä uutta musiikkia, niin yleinen musiikin tuntemus ja kiinnostus säveltaidetta kohtaan nousi huomaamatta. Krohn maalasi
orkesterille loistavan tulevaisuudenkuvan, jossa ”viheliäisen operetin” sijaan
esitettiin oopperaa eikä epämääräinen käyttömusiikki häirinnyt ”kunnon konsertteihin” keskittymistä. Tämä ennustus on kieltämättä myös toteutunut Kajanuksen orkesterin perillisten osalta. Se on myös ollut johtolanka, joka seuraten
aiempi kansallismielinen tutkimus rakensi teleologista historiakuvaa Suomen
musiikista. Siinähän toteutunut kehitys määrittelee tulkinnan lähtökohdat ja
suuren kansallisen kertomuksen sisällön. Vuonna 1891 orkesterimusiikin tulevaisuutta ei kukaan tiennyt, ja Krohnin kommentti onkin nähtävä aikakauden
edistysuskon ja kehitysihanteen tuotteena.
Krohnin tunnustus populäärikonserteille näyttää pitävän paikkansa myös
lehtikirjoittelun kokonaisuuden valossa. 1890-luvulla helppotajuisia järjestettiin
kolmesti viikossa, ja niitä käsiteltiin sanomalehtien konserttiarvosteluissa aivan
saman arvoisina kuin muitakin, tavallisesti Yliopiston juhlasalissa pidettyjä konsertteja. Neljä pääkaupungin lehteä seurasivat hyvinkin tarkkaan helppotajuisten
konserttien tapahtumia erityisesti silloin, kun joku mannermainen virtuoosi oli
saatu esiintymään. Myös kaikki ulkomailla opiskelleet kotimaiset nuoret taiteili-
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jat esiteltiin ja heidän esityksensä analysoitiin usein yksityiskohtia myöten.4 Yksi
1890-luvun solistisankareista oli viulisti Charles Grigorovitsch, josta tuli säännöllisten esiintymistensä vuoksi populäärien kestosuosikki. Päivälehden (13.10.1897)
nimimerkki E:n arvio Grigorovitschin konsertista olkoon esimerkki – tosin normaalia lyhyempi – koko vuosikymmenen kritiikeistä:
Helppotajuisessa konsertissa esitti hra Charles Grigorovitsch yhden enimmin pidetyistä kappaleistansa, Wieniawskin ”Souvenir de Moscou”. Sävellys
on parista venäläisestä kansanlaulusta kokoonpantu virtuoosinumero täynnä
vaikeita polyfoonisia ja kokonaisia flageolettijaksoja. Mutta hra G. osaa, samalla
kun hän suorittaa kappaleen teknilliset vaikeudet kerrassaan loistavasti, panna
siihen myös niin paljon henkeä ja luonteenomaista väritystä, että esitys saa
puhtaasti taiteellisen leiman. Yleisön innokkaiden suosionosoitusten johdosta,
soitti hra G. tavallisella anteliaisuudellansa moniaita ylimääräisiä numeroita.
Orkesterin numeroista mainittakoon Weberin ihana ”Oberonuvertyyri” ja eräs
uusi jouhiorkesterikappale, syvämietteinen, vaikka hieman yksitoikkoinen ”Andante funebre” Tschaikovskilta.
Koko vuosikymmenen ajan populääreissä esiintyivät monet samat solistit kuin
Yliopiston juhlasalissa. Tämä selittyy jo pelkästään taloudellisilla seikoilla: Helsingissä vierailevan taiteilijan oli järkevä antaa niin monta konserttia kuin kysyntää oli, ja populääreistä löytyi takuuvarma yleisö ylimääräisille esiintymisille.
Yli 80 vuosittaisen helppotajuisen konsertin tarjoama mahdollisuus lisäesiintymisiin ei ollut vähäinen, kun niiden määrää vertaa kaikkiin Yliopiston juhlasalissa
pidettyihin konsertteihin: niiden määrä vuodessa vaihteli 1890-luvulla 30 ja 40
välillä – mukana oli myös Kajanuksen orkesterin sinfoniakonsertit, joita järjestettiin 8–10 yhden sesongin aikana. (Lappalainen 1994: 263–270.)
Aikakauden keskeisen musiikkiarvostelijan Karl Flodinin mukaan Helsingistä oli kehittynyt kansainväliset mitat täyttävä musiikkikaupunki, jota myös
vierailevat säveltaiteilijat kilvan kehuivat:
4 Käsitykseni perustuu Helsingin lehtien (HBL, Nya Pressen, Uusi Suometar, Päivälehti)
populäärikonsertteja koskeviin kritiikkeihin ja uutisointiin vuosina 1890–1899. Lehtijuttujen
määrä on lähes tuhat, ja ne on kerätty Kansalliskirjaston DIGI-tietokannasta.
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Vesa kurkela
Helsingissä vierailevat ulkomaiset muusikot ihmettelevät pääkaupungin musiikkielämän voimaperäisyyttä. Musiikillisessa mielessä, he sanovat, Helsingissä
vallitsevat täysin eurooppalaiset olosuhteet. - - Itse asiassahan musiikillinen yleisö ”par excellence” ei ole suuri, mutta juuri siksi täytyy sen elävälle taideinnolle
antaa suurempi tunnustus. - - Juuri populäärikonserteista mainio orkesterimme
saa pääasiallisen elantonsa; sinfoniakonsertit järjestetään ainoastaan suurimman taiteellisen arvostuksen ylläpitämiseksi.” (Nya Pressen 31.12. 95; Musikilivet i
H.fors 1895 K. Kursiivi alkutekstissä. Käännös VK.)
Flodinin mukaan varsinainen musiikkiyleisö oli kovin pieni, ja Flodin jopa pelkäsi, että se hemmoteltiin liiallisella tarjonnalla liiankin vaativaiseksi. Samoin kuin
Krohn edellä, Flodin korosti populäärikonserttien merkitystä. Pelkkien sinfoniakonserttien varassa musiikkielämä ei voinut kehittyä.
Suurista saavutuksista huolimatta helppotajuisen konsertin formaatissa oli
ongelmansa, jotka askarruttivat musiikillisen maun ja sivistyneen kuuntelijakäytöksen kehittäjien mieltä. Koska osa yleisöstä ei selvästikään kuulunut Flodinin
mainitsemaan musiikilliseen yleisöön, konsertissa saattoi sattua taidenautintoa
kovasti haittaavia tapahtumia. Oskar Merikannon mitta tuli täyteen jouluna 1895.
Soittolavaa lähimmässä pöydässä istujat saivat kuulla kunniansa.
Helppotajuisessa konsertissa eilen, niin kuin monta kertaa jo ennenkin sai kuunnella enemmin muutaman kuulijajoukon rähinätä ja hyvin äänekästä rupattamista, kuin orkesterin arvokkaita esityksiä. Soisi toki hienommalta yleisöltämme,
kuten eilen soittolavaa lähimmässä pöydässä, odottaa niin paljon hienoutta, etteivät he, kun kerran konserttiin tulevat, häiritsisi sekä esiintyjiä että muuta yleisöä. (Päivälehti 29.12.1895, O.)
Sivistämisen ja konserttikurin esteenä ei ollut pelkästään yleisö, myös ravintolaelinkeinon yhdistäminen konserttiin oli haastavaa. Karl Wasenius peräsi suurempaa hienotunteisuutta tarjoiluhenkilökunnalta varsinkin herkkien solistiesitysten aikana:
66
Onhan äärimmäisen kiusallista joutua katselemaan, kun tarjotin tarjottimen perään tuodaan esiin herkän soolonumeron aikana ja tämä kaikki vielä marssimalla ylimpänä juhlasalissa, soittajien ja yleisön välissä. Muutaman minuutin kärsivällisyyden ja odottelun ei pitäisi haitata kumpaakaan osapuolta (tarjoilevaa ja
kuluttavaa), eikä tuottaa taloudellista eikä gastronomistakaan vahinkoa. (Hufvudstadsbladet 14.3.1895; Bis. Käännös VK.)
Kriitikoiden tiedossa näyttää olleen myös tavallisen yleisön perimmäinen motiivi käydä helppotajuisessa konsertissa: seurustelu ja huvittelunhalu. Siitä oli
musiikillinen sivistyminen ehkä kaukana. Yleisön käyttäytyminen oli silti hyväksyttävää tai ainakin siedettävää, kunhan seurustelu tapahtui muita pahemmin
häiritsemättä. Populäärien proosallisempi puoli kelpasi myös vitsien aiheeksi,
kuten seuraava Päivälehden (19.12.1897) kuvitteellinen kertomus ”Helppotajuisessa konsertissa” osoittaa:
Rouva Andersson: – ”Minulla olisi vielä paljon kerrottavaa teille – juuri parahiksi
lopetti herra Gregorovitsch soittonsa!”
Rouva Pettersson: ”Te teitte minut hirveän uteliaaksi. Taputtakaamme käsiämme
kovasti, kenties hän soittaa uudestaan”.
Populäärikonsertin kriisi
Helppotajuisen konsertin rooli iloisena ja viattomana taidenautintona joutui
hetkeksi syrjään vuosisadan vaihteessa. Helmikuun manifestin laukaisema vastarinta veti puoleensa myös säveltaiteen, mistä parhaana osoituksena oli Jean
Sibeliuksen ”protestimusiikin” nousu tsaarin hallinnon vastaisen kulttuuritaistelun kärkeen (Murtomäki 2007). Venäläistämiskauden synkeissä oloissa myös
Kajanuksen populäärit nousivat näkyviksi isänmaallisuuden manifestaatioksi.
Niihin oli helppo sisällyttää kansallismielistä ohjelmaa, pienimuotoisia teoksia
yleisön taisteluhenkeä nostattamaan. Helmikuussa 1900, Helmikuun manifestin
yksivuotispäivänä Kajanuksen populäärin ohjelmaan ladattiin suuri joukko isänmaallisen musiikin ydinteoksia.
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Vesa kurkela
Helppotajuinen konsertti eilisiltana muodostui isänmaalliseksi, mieliä lämmittäväksi juhlahetkeksi, tai toisin sanoen surullisten tapausten vuosijuhlaksi. - - Jo
ohjelman ensi numero ”Vaasan marssi” sai isänmaallisen tunnelman herätetyksi ja se kohosi kohoamistaan kunnes ”Suomen laulun” toistamiseen soitettua, yli
ohjelman soitettiin ”Maamme laulu” jota seisoaltaan kuunneltiin ja johon laulaen
koko suurilukuinen yleisö yhtyi. Toistettava oli myöskin tuo mahtava Porilaisten
marssi, joka oli ohjelman viimeisenä numerona. Ohjelman - - arvokkain kappale
oli Sibeliuksen sviitti ”Kuningas Kristianista”, jossa tekijän suuri kyky niin loistavasti esiintyy ja jonka useat osat olivat toistettavat. (Päivälehti 16.2.1900, nim. J. K.)
Populäärikonserteista tuli muutamaksi vuodeksi hyvinkin isänmaallisia tilaisuuksia. Se ei kuitenkaan suojellut Filharmoonisen seuran konserttitoimintaa taloudellisilta vaikeuksilta, jotka nousivat esiin vuosisadan vaihteen jälkeen. Konserttikausilla 1901–1902 ja 1902–1903 populäärien suosio näytti laskevan nopeasti.
Syyt olivat luultavasti pääkaupungin huvielämän sisällön yleisessä kevenemisessä ja yleisön maun muutoksessa. Ajalle uusi mutta sittemmin melko tyypillinen
keskustelu käytiin vuonna 1901, kun nimimerkki ”Sam” pakinoi Hufvudstadsbladetissa (27.1.1901) Kajanuksen populäärien taiteellisuutta vastaan:
Eikö herra Kajanus voisi olla niin vilpittömän ystävällinen että kiinnittäisi joitakin vähäpukeisia naisia esittämään populääreissä hienoja varietee-numeroita?
Miksei herra K. halua suoda Helsingin herroille, rouville ja neideille hiukkasen
jalompaa, arvokkaampaa taidetta kuin mitä edustavat Jacobs, Beethoven, Mozart, Tschaikovski jne. Minä vaan kysyn. Kiltti herra Kajanus, kiinnittäkää sitä
ennen edes joku kukkopillivirtuoosi noiden viulistien ja sellistien sijaan! (Käännös VK.)
Kirjoitus oli selvästikin kieli poskessa tehty, mutta hyvä maku ei ollut kaikille
leikin asia. Samin pakinaan tarttui Uuden Suomettaren (30.1.1901) nimimerkki H.
K. Salanimen taakse kätkeytyi mitä ilmeisimmin Heikki Klemetti, joka tuli myöhemmän uransa aikana tunnetuksi omaperäisestä ja äkäisestä kirjoitustyylistään.
Tällainen lehdistöpolemiikki oli samalla osoitus musiikkikirjoittelun täydellisestä
kaksikielisyydestä vielä 1900-luvun alussa: ruotsalaisen lehden juttuun reagoitiin
heti suomenkielisellä puolella ja päinvastoin. Klemetti lyttäsi Samin varieteehaikailut kerrassaan:
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Mitä tämä ”Samin” kukka sitten tarjoaisi nähtävää, kuultavaa? Laulajia, laulajattaria, jotka eivät kykene paremmissa paikoissa esiintymään, väärään suuntaan
kehitettyjä voimistelijoita, atleetteja ja muita temppujen tekijöitä, ajatusten lukijoita ja sen semmoisia, sekä kaikkea tätä höystämässä musiikki, jonka etevimmät
edustajat olivat Strauss ja Offenbach.
Varmemmaksi vakuudeksi H. K:n kirjoitus päättyi ylevään tavoitteeseen. Siinä
toistuivat samat makua normittavat teemat, joita Helsingin musiikkikriitikot olivat toistelleet 1860-luvulta lähtien:
Nykyinen taiteellinen maku ja aisti ovat siksi alhaisella kannalla, että meidän ei
suinkaan sovi ruveta vielä kylläisinä mässäilemään, vaan meidän on päinvastoin koetettava voimiemme mukaan yhä eteenpäin kehittyä, saavuttaaksemme
edes jonkunlaista yleissivistystä tällä alalla.
Filharmooninen Seura näytti olevan todella vaikeuksissa. Yleisöä ei tullut enää
entiseen malliin, ja kaiken kukkuraksi Kajanus sai kuulla, että kaupungin avustus
olisi olennaisesti vähenemässä, minkä lisäksi orkesteria uhkasi häätö Seurahuoneelta. Päivälehden (7.9.1902) Tuomas tiesi syksyllä 1902 kertoa:
Kajanuksen aikovat ajaa pois Seurahuoneelta. - - Helppotajuiset tulisivat sitten
jälleen kai Palokunnan talolle muutettavaksi. Seurahuoneelle lienee aikomus
kutsua joku naisorkesteri. Hyvä jumala siunatkoon! Niin kuin meillä ei ennaltaan naisorkestereita olisi! Ja niin kuin soitannollinen yleisömme koskaan tottuisi pitämään Palokunnan taloa omanaan!
Uutinen oli totta, ja populäärit pidettiin kaudella 1902–1903 Palokunnan talon
salissa. Tilanne ei ollut uusi; orkesteri oli soittanut helppotajuisia Palokunnan
talolla jo 1890-luvun alussa ja toisen kerran vuosikymmenen puolivälissä (1895–
1897). Tuolloin talo oli vetänyt yleisöä hyvin puoleensa uutuudellaan. Tosin jo
konserttikaudella 1895–1896 oli havaittavissa yleisömäärien vähenemistä, jonka kriitikot halusivat laittaa uuden vähemmän kodikkaan konserttitilan syyksi
(esim. Päivälehti 16.10.1895; Nya Pressen 31.12.1895). Myöskään tässä yhteydessä
esiin nostetut naisorkesterit eivät olleet mitenkään uusi ilmiö. Keskieurooppalaiset Damenkapellet olivat olleet osa pääkaupungin musiikkitarjontaa yli 10 vuoden
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ajan. Nyt vaan syystä tai toisesta niitä ja muuta varietee-tarjontaa oli entistä runsaammin, samalla kun populäärikonserttien yleisömäärät vähenivät.
Palokunnan talon kausi kesti vain vuoden, ja orkesteri pääsi jälleen palaamaan Seurahuoneelle syksyllä 1903. Helppotajuisen konsertin ja kulinarismin
välillä edelleen vallitsevaa yhteyttä kuvasti hyvin Hufvudstadsbladetin (19.8.1903)
nimimerkki ”Reportörin” paljon puhuva kommentti: ”Enää ei tarvitse kiirehtiä
konsertin jälkeen jonnekin muualle syömään”. Uudessa toivon ilmapiirissä Uuden Suomettaren (2.10.1903) kriitikko Evert Katila vetosi yleisöön helppotajuisen
puolesta: ”Näistä riippuu nimittäin Filharmoonisen Seuran taloudellinen tila, eikä sinfoniakonserteista, joiden tulot menevät enimmäkseen ulkomaisten solistien
palkkioihin.” Katila pohti myös yleisön maun muutosta. Sitä vaivasi jonkinlainen
”solistihulluus”, ilman kuuluisuuksia ei konsertteihin menty.
Kajanus oli tietysti huomannut saman, ja seuraavina vuosina isänmaallisten
konserttien ohessa populäärien yleisömenestys perustui kuuluisiin virtuooseihin. Vuonna 1904 Seurahuoneella esiintyi kaksi ihmelasta Pietarista, Efrem Zimbalist (15 vuotta) ja Michael (Mischa) Elman (11 vuotta). Tosiasiassa Elman oli
tuolloin jo 13-vuotias, mutta ihmelapsikonserttien markkinoinnissa oli hyväksi
ilmoittaa solistin ikä alakanttiin (Lappalainen 1994: 118). Pojat olivat Pietarin
konservatorion viuluguru Auerin oppilaita, joiden taitoja helsinkiläiset kriitikot kilvan kehuivat (Esim. Uusi Suometar 17.4., 27.4., 29.4., 7.12.1904). Toinen
yllättävä keino yleisöpulan lopettamiseksi oli unkarilainen mustalaisorkesteri,
jonka Kajanuksen kerrottiin testanneen Budapestin matkallaan. Se kiinnitettiin
soittamaan populäärikonserttien jälkeen sekä konserttien välipäivinä (Hufvudstadsbladet 19.8.1903).
Suosion tavoittelu ihmelapsilla ja yhteistyö eksoottisten muusikoiden kanssa sisälsi omat vaaransa. Helsinkiläinen musiikkikritiikki ei enää ostanut kaikkea helppotajuisten tarjontaa, suhtautuminen oli 1900-luvun alussa selvästi
kriittisempää kuin 10 vuotta aiemmin. Äänenpainot saattoivat olla hyvinkin
närkästyneitä, jos Kajanus oli erehtynyt valitsemaan vakiintuneen säveltaidemaailman ulkopuolisia solisteja. Hufvudstadsbladetin (21.2.1904) arvostelija Alarik
Uggla oli hyvin tuohtunut Ernesto Roccon konsertista, jossa mandoliinitaiteilija
esitti virtuoosimusiikkia. Myös yleisö sai kuulla kunniansa:
Lukuisa yleisö osoitti huonoa makua palkitessaan hra Roccon musiikillisen
klovnerian runsailla aplodeilla, mikä johti Sarasaten Zigeunerweisen esittämi-
70
seen, jos mahdollista vieläkin parodisemmin kuin edellinen [Paganinin] konsertto. Olisiko johtunut jostakin erehdyksestä, että hra Rocco tuli mukaan vakavaan
konserttiin, sillä koketin signoren ns. ”taide” kuuluu ilman kaikkea epäilystä siihen ympäristöön, jota tarjotaan yleisölle populäärien jälkeen. (Käännös VK.)
Helsinkiläisyleisö sai myös huomata, etteivät kaikki Pietarin viuluguru Auerin
ihmelapset olleet tasokkaita. Uuden Suomettaren (21.1.1910) Evert Katila ei antanut armoa luokattomalle pietarilaisvieraalle, jonka ohjelmaan kuului Tshaikovskin viulukonsertto:
G. Laserson ei ole ihme eikä lapsi, vaan tavallinen, ehkä lahjakaskin, konservatorion oppilas, nuorukainen, jonka huuliparta on jo pitemmälle kehittynyt kuin
hänen soittonsa. - - Esitys oli teknillisesti aivan epäkypsä; vääriä nuotteja, puhtauskompastuksia ja muistin hairahduksia vilisi varsinkin viimeinen, mutta
myöskin ensimmäinen osa, ja esityksestä puuttui sen lisäksi kaikki rytmillinen
tasasuhtaisuus ja plastillisuus. Sellaisia ”ihmelapsia” olisi meillä itsellämmekin –
niitä ei kannata Pietarista tuoda.
Säveltaiteen konsulit valvoivat aiempaa tarkemmin helppotajuisia konsertteja,
ja Kajanus joutui luultavasti arvioimaan entistä tarkemmin vierailijakiinnitysten tasoa. Toisaalta tuossa vaiheessa jo 50-vuotias kapellimestari oli onnistunut
siirtämään suuren osan helppotajuisten johtamisvastuusta orkesterinsa luottomuusikoille ja ulkopuolisille johtajille (Ringbom 1932: 61–66). Kaikkea arvoaan
populäärikonsertti ei ollut vielä menettänyt. Siitä kertoi omalla tavalla Hufvudstadsbladetin musiikkipaavin, Karl Waseniuksen laatima uutinen marraskuussa
1906. Sen mukaan nuori säveltäjä- ja pianistilupaus Selim Palmgren oli nimitetty
Filharmoonisen orkesterin varajohtajaksi vastaamaan populäärikonserteista, jotta Kajanus voi keskittyä sinfoniakonsertteihin. Waseniuksen mukaan populäärit
olivat Palmgrenille hyvä harjoituspaikka ”suurempiin muotoihin” (Hufvudstadsbladet 2.11.1906).
Vuorossa oli muutenkin musiikillisen taidemaailman ydinjoukon uusi aktio
populäärikonsertin uudistamisen puolesta. Vuosia 1905 ja 1906 voi pitää käännekohtana suomalaisen taidemusiikkielämän julkisuuden kannalta, sillä maan
ensimmäiset pitkäkestoisemmat musiikkilehdet näkivät tuolloin päivänvalon.
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Otto Andersson luotsaama Finsk musikrevy (1905–1908) ja Heikki Klemetin Säveletär (1906–1918) tarjosivat ammattimaiselle musiikkikirjoittamiselle uudenlaisen foorumin. Säveltaidemaailma esittäytyi näissä lehdissä vakavasti otettavana
kulttuurin kenttänä, jonka toimijoilla oli asiantuntemukseen pohjautuva valta
määritellä maailmansa rajat ja kehityksen suunta.
Tärkeä osa tuota kehitystä oli luonnollisesti pääkaupungin konserttielämä ja
siinä sivussa populäärikonserttien tuleva suunta. Jo ensimmäisessä numerossaan
Finsk musikrevy (1905/1) julkaisi kiertokyselyn lukijoilleen. Otsikko meni suoraan
asiaan: ”Miksi käyt niin harvoin orkesterin populäärikonserteissa? Toivotko jotain toimenpiteitä, jotka saisivat sinut tulemaan useammin niihin?”
Musikrevyn filharmoniset lukijat vastasivat innolla kyselyyn. Monia uusia
ideoita nousi esiin, jotka liittyivät konserttien ohjelmistoon ja yleisön kuunteluolosuhteisiin. Helsingin Sanomien (3.10.1905) uutinen teki varsin kattavan yhteenvedon lukijoiden vastauksista:
– Haluaisin että ravintola kokonaan erotetaan konsertista, väliaikoja olisi lyhennettävä, ohjelman keskittäminen, pikku pöydät pois, tarjoilu johonkin viereiseen
huoneeseen, ohjelmat ilmoitettava hyvissä ajoin.
– Tarjoilijat häiritsevät liiaksi, tietyt kappaleet rauhoitettava tarjoilumeteliltä.
– Kiusallinen paksu tupakansavu on estänyt minua käymästä konserteissa.
Tällä keskustelulla oli seurauksensa. Vuoden 1905 suurlakkoa seuranneen poliittisen vapauden ja ihanteellisuuden ilmapiirissä koettiin sellainenkin ihme, että
populäärikonsertteihin tuli tarjoilukielto. Uusi Suometar (10.11.1905) uutisoi tyytyväisenä: ”Nykyään ei ole helppotajuisissa konserteissa tarjoilua. Tämän pitäisi
vaikuttaa sen, että yleisö entistä ahkerammin kävisi näissä konserteissa, koska
nyt eivät edeskäyvät liiallisessa virkainnossaan häiritse tarkkaavaista kuulijaa,
eikä lasien helinä eikä korkkien pauke epäonnistuneesti säestä orkesterin esiintymistä.”
Ilmeisesti muutoksesta ei tullut lopullinen eikä edes pitkäaikainen. Myös
seuraavina vuosina kriitikko Wasenius joutui muutamaan otteeseen kiinnittämään huomiota yleisön häiriökäyttäytymiseen herkkien konserttinumeroiden
esityksen aikana (Nya Pressen 3.10.1906; Hufvudstadsbladet 4.12.1907). Konsertti tapahtui ravintolatilassa, ja koko liiketoiminnalta olisi mennyt pohja pois,
jos tarjoilu olisi kielletty pysyvästi. Seuraavina vuosina ilmeisesti tyydyttiin
72
vain tarjoilun rajoittamiseen taiteellisesti keskeisten ohjelmasuoritusten aikana. Muutoksen suunta oli kuitenkin selvä ja pidemmän päälle hyvin keskeinen
populäärien olemuksen kannalta. Se muutti vääjäämättömästi musiikki-illan
luonnetta – epäilemättä keskittyvän konserttikuuntelun kannattajien toivomalla tavalla. Millä tavalla se vaikutti yleisön koostumukseen, sitä voi vain arvailla. Joka tapauksessa populäärikonsertin sisällössä alkoi painopiste olla sanan
loppuosalla.
Huvitteleva porvaristo ja musiikin taidemaailma
1900-luvun alussa Seurahuoneen populäärikonsertit pysyttelivät kiinteänä osana
musiikin taidemaailmaa. Se oli kiistattomasti taidemusiikin piirin sisäpuolella,
ja Kajanuksen isolla orkesterilla tuntui myös olevan Helsingissä jonkinlainen
monopoli arvokkaan ravintolakonsertin järjestämiseen. Tämä tuli selvästi esiin
tammikuussa 1910, kun Oopperakellarin orkesterin johtaja Victor Carnier päätti
järjestää erityisen ”taiteellisen konsertin” (Concerte Artistique) keskiviikon ravintolavieraiden iloksi. Illan ohjelma oli kolmesta jaksosta koostuva perinteinen
sekakonsertti, jossa oli alkusoitto (Hebridit) pari oopperafantasiaa (oopperoista
Nürnbergin mestarilaulajat ja Jevgeni Onegin), kotimaisia orkesterihittejä (Sibeliuksen Valse triste ja Järnefeltin Kehtolaulu), näyttämömusiikkia sekä Lisztin Unkarilainen rapsodia. Erityistä taiteellisuutta ja samalla populäärikonsertin kaavaa rikkoi Schubertin ”keskeneräinen” h-mollisinfonia. Konserttiin oli vapaa pääsy, ja
ravintola oli lehtitiedon perusteella tupaten täynnä. (Huvi-ilmoitukset 19.1.1910
kaikissa neljässä Helsingin päälehdessä.)
Varsinaisen konserttikritiikin kannalta tapahtuma näyttää olleen jotenkin arveluttava, eikä konserttia arvioinut kuin Nya Pressen (20.1.1910). Myös tämän
lehden ”Urbanin” kirjoitustyylistä voi päätellä, ettei hänkään ollut musiikkiarvostelija. Juttu ei kertonut juuri mitään itse esityksestä, vaan kuvaili yleisön tunnelmia ja ravintolan palveluja. Konserttiin liittyi kuitenkin pieni yksityiskohta,
joka toi sille lisää julkisuutta, nyt pilalehti Fyrenin (22.1.1910) kulttuuripalstalla.
Lehden nimimerkki ”Spex” väitti kirjoituksessaan, että kapellimestari Kajanus oli
sallinut 14 soittajansa vahvistaa Carnierin artistikonserttia. Kirjoituksen mukaan
Kajanus oli aiemmin kieltänyt jyrkästi muusikoitaan toimimaan vapaapäivinään
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”iloisemman musiikin palveluksessa”. Kirjoittaja ihmetteli, miksi Kajanuksen
”ankara periaate” oli äkkiä muuttunut juuri samana päivänä, kun kaupungin
toinen suuri orkesteri, Alexei Apostolin ”konserttiorkesteri” [Helsingin torvisoittokunta] ilmoitti pitävänsä suuren wienervalssi-illan Kajanuksen orkesterin
kotipesällä, Seurahuoneella.
Vihjailu Apostolin ja Kajanuksen huonoista väleistä ja heidän orkesteriensa
kovasta kilpailusta sai Kajanuksen antamaan haastattelun Fyrenille. Hän myönsi
antaneensa luvan kolmelle – ei 14:lle – soittajalleen vahvistaa Carnierin orkesteria, koska tahtoi edistää hyvää kevyttä musiikkia. Samalla hän kertoi tulleensa
johdetuksi harhaan:
Jos olisin aavistanut, että herra Carnier pyytäisi apua päästäkseen loukkaamaan
vakavaa taidetta (Schubertin h-mollisinfonia Opriksessa!), niin olisin muitta
mutkitta sanonut ei. Spexin pitäisi tästä ymmärtää, että toimiani sanelevat toiset
näkökohdat kuin mitä hänen arvottomat vihjailunsa kilpailusta herra Apostolin
kanssa antavat ymmärtää. Lopuksi haluan vielä kerran vakuuttaa, ettei minulla
ole mitään iloista ja pirteää musiikkia [glad och pigg musik] vastaan, mutta en
tunne mitään myötätuntoa musiikillisia huijauksia [pig-musik] kohtaan. (Fyren
29.1.1910; Intervju med Kajus [Kajanus] på Espis. Käännös VK.)
Ravintolaorkesterin esittämä sinfoninen musiikki oli Kajanuksen mielestä säveltaiteen tärvelemistä. Kommentin takana saattoi olla myös ajatus, että yksinoikeus musiikin taidemaailman edustamiseen ravintolaympäristössä kuului
hänen omalle orkesterilleen. Kajanus oli myös alkanut kehittää omaa populäärikonsertin konseptiaan entistä taiteellisempaan – tai ainakin ajankohtaisempaan – suuntaan. Tämä näkyi muun muassa siinä, että illan ohjelmaa tiivistettiin kahteen jaksoon ja sen aikana esiteltiin pelkästään uutta ranskalaista
tai uutta kotimaista musiikkia. Jälkimmäisissä oli usein tapana, että kotimaiset
säveltäjät johtivat teoksensa itse; yhtenä ääriesimerkkinä oli huhtikuussa 1907
pidetty populääri, jossa ensimmäisen jakson johti unkarilainen kapellimestari
Nándor Rékai kotimaansa ohjelmalla, ja toisella jaksolla puikkoa heilutti peräti viisi kotimaista säveltäjää, Järnefelt, Kajanus, Melartin, Palmgren ja Sibelius – kukin omissa teoksissaan.5 Konsertin päätti Erkki Melartinin 3. sinfoni5 62:dra Populära-Konserten i Societetshuset. Program tisdagen den 23 April 1907 kl. ½ 8 e. m.
(Kansalliskirjaston pienpainatteet).
74
an viimeinen osa. Melartin oli osallistunut helppotajuisten taiteellistamiseen
jo aiemmin; mm. hänen kaksi ensimmäistä sinfoniaansa oli esitetty populäärissä välittömästi Yliopiston juhlasalin kantaesityksen jälkeen. (Uusi Suometar
11.3.1903, 10.2.1905.)
1910-luvulle saakka populäärikonsertti säilytti asemansa Helsingin musiikillisen taidemaailman ydintapahtumana – sinfoniakonserttien ja ulkomaisten kuuluisuuksien solistikonserttien rinnalla. Se pystyi vuosikymmeniä vastustamaan
painetta kahdelta taholta.
Ensimmäinen paineen nostaja oli moderni taidemaailma, joka ilmeisesti kaikkialla länsimaissa kehitti orkesterilaitosta taiteellisempaan ja yleisöä kurinalaisempaan suuntaan. Kajanuksen populäärikonsertti kykeni viivästyttämään tätä
muutosta ja ylläpitämään yli 30 vuoden ajan vanhaa sekalaisen konsertin perintöä. Siihen kuului erittäin vaihteleva ohjelmisto, mutta myös yleisön valtaosan
satunnainen tai puoliksi keskittyvä tapa kuunnella esitystä. Epäilemättä viimeinen pisara tuon vapauden menetykseen oli tarjoilun lopettaminen esityksissä.
Samalla myös istuminen pienissä pöytäryhmissä koettiin tarpeettomaksi, ja koko
konsertin ilmapiiri vakavoitui aivan riippumatta siitä, mitä ohjelmassa soitettiin.
Muutos ei tapahtunut hetkessä, koska konserttisalin ylläpitäjänä oli ykkösluokan
ravintolayrittäjä. Tarjoilukielto alkoi koskea kaikkia yhteiskuntapiirejä viimeistään kesäkuun 1. päivänä 1919, kun Suomen uudessa tasavallassa astui voimaan
ehdoton kieltolaki. Tarjoilu loppui nyt myös ”valioväen” ravintoloissa, joita sotaajan vuoksi vuonna 1914 säädetty ”juovutusjuomakielto” ei ollut vielä koskenut.
(Peltonen 1997: 96–97.)
Toinen kilpaileva taho olivat teatteriympäristössä kehittyneet populaarikulttuurin muodot, kuten varietee, operetti, sirkus ja muut sekalaiset viihdenäytökset. Helppotajuinen konsertti veti vuosikymmeniä yleisöä puoleensa, vaikka
kevytkenkäisempää näyttämöllistä huvia oli tarjolla koko ajan. Luultavasti tämä
oli mahdollista vain sen vuoksi, että pääkaupungin viihdetarjonta oli suhteellisen kehittymätöntä ja epäsäännöllistä. Esimerkiksi ensimmäinen oikea varieteeteatteri Apollo aloitti toimintansa vasta vuonna 1911 (Hirn 2001). Paikallinen sivistysporvaristo pysyttäytyi mieluiten vanhassa. Sen mieli ja maku muuttuivat
kevyempään suuntaan samalla tavalla verkkaisesti kuin taidemaailman sisällä
haluttiin liikkua vakavampaan suuntaan. Populäärikonserttien pitkän menestyksen takaajana olikin viime kädessä helsinkiläisen koulutetun luokan konserva-
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tiivisuus ja taidemaun muutoksen rauhallinen tahti. Sekalainen konsertti onkin
ilmiselvä osoitus musiikkiyleisön tapojen ja mentaliteetin pitkästä kestosta, longue duréesta (Hyrkkänen 2002: 74–90). 1700-luvulta peräisin oleva tapa kuunnella musiikkia vaihtelevien affektien kokonaisuutena säilyi Helsingissä läpi koko
1800-luvun ja vähän ylikin. Oliko niin, että moderni aika – sen iloton taidemaailma ja karkea viihdetarjonta – ahdisti liikaa? Populäärikonsertin kodikkuudesta
löytyi turva ja helpotus monenlaiseen vaivaan.
***
Kohottavaksi lopuksi Kajanuksen populäärikonsertin vaiheisiin pääkaupungin
taidemaailman osana nouskoon Fyrenin pilapiirros vuodelta 1910. Se kertoo vastaansanomattomasti helsinkiläisen koulutetun luokan uusista haasteista vanhan
ja uuden elämäntyylin, ihanteen ja todellisuuden välillä. (Kuva 3.)
Piirroksen vasen sarake kuvaa sivistysporvarin – mahdollisesti Fyrenin itseironisen journalistin – työpäivän ihanteellista kulkua. Oikea puoli näyttää sitten todellisuuden. Työpäivän pitäisi alkaa aamukymmeneltä postin selailulla
ja jatkua sitten iltapäivällä uutteran kirjoittelun parissa. Todellisuudessa kello
10 toimittaja kuorsaa vielä suu auki omassa sängyssään, ja iltapäiväkin menee
omakohtaiseen ”longue duréen”, olon paranteluun kahvin ja konjakin avulla. Tämän artikkelin kannalta keskeisin on iltaohjelman kuvaus. Toimittajan
pitäisi kohottaa mieltään populäärikonsertin herättämien tunnelmien varassa,
mutta reaalimaailmassa askel suuntautuu elokuvateatteriin jännittävää takaaajokohtausta seuraamaan. Puolilta öin toimittaja ei tietenkään ole nukkumassa,
kuten pitäisi, vaan ilta jatkuu sikaria tuprutellen ja punssia nautiskellen hyvässä
seurassa.
76
Kuva 3. Helsinkiläisen päivä (Fyren 1.12.1910).
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Viimeistään amerikkalaisen massakulttuurin tulo Suomeen elokuvaesitysten
muodossa ratkaisi pelin lopullisesti populäärikonsertin tappioksi. Säännölliset
elokuvaesitykset alkoivat Helsingissä vuonna 1904, ja jo vuotta myöhemmin
tämän artikkelin suosikkilähde, kulttuurilehti Fyren (25.11.1905) kutsui Helsinkiä
”elävien kuvien kaupungiksi”, jossa oli kolme suurta ja prameata elokuvateatteria vaihtelevalla ohjelmalla. Seuraavalla vuosikymmenellä ”leffasta” oli tullut
jo erittäin suosittu kansanhuvi. Myös Kajanus vaihtoi huomionsa 1910-luvulla
populäärikonserteista ”kansankonsertteihin” ja ”kansansinfoniakonsertteihin”,
toisin sanoen alempien luokkien yleisökasvatukseen Helsingin työväentalolla.
Tällainen toiminta sopi epäilemättä paremmin verovaroilla toimivan Helsingin
kaupunginorkesterin profiiliin. Kaupungin haltuun joutui myös populäärien
tapahtumapaikka, ravintola Seurahuone, josta tehtiin vuonna 1913 Helsingin
kaupungintalo (Salminen 1998: 84).
Helppotajuinen konsertti instituutiona, joka sekoitti länsimaisen
konserttikulttuurin erilaisia affekteja toisiinsa ja rinnakkain, lakkasi pian
olemasta – tiettävästi viimeiset konserttisarjat vanhalla nimellä järjestettiin konserttikaudella 1918–1919. Konserttipaikkana oli edelleen ravintola, nyt Helsingin uuden pörssitalon Grand Restaurant Börs.6 Populäärikonsertti tosin jatkui
musiikkiohjelman mallina suomalaisessa ravintolamusiikissa aina 1930-luvulle
saakka ja joutui vain vähitellen amerikkalaisen tanssimusiikin eli jazzin syrjäyttämäksi. Populäärimusiikista tuli populaarimusiikkia. Viimeisimpiä vanhakantaisen populääriaffektin ja -mentaliteetin venyttäjiä oli vuonna 1927 perustettu
Radio-orkesteri, joka noudatti syntyessään nimenomaan helppotajuisen salonkisoiton perintöä (Salmenhaara 1995: 506–507; Lyytinen 1996: 28, 33). Ohjelma
vakavoitui radiossakin sitä mukaa, kun Radio-orkesterin koko kasvoi ja siitä tuli
Radion sinfoniaorkesteri.
6 Helsingin musiikkilautakunta Ua4, Ua5, Helsingin kaupunginarkisto; http://porssitalo.fi/porssitalon-arkkitehtuuri.
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Lähteet
Arkistolähteet
Helsingin kaupunginarkisto, Helsingin musiikkilautakunta 1915–1920.
Kansalliskirjasto, Pienpainatteet.
Lehtiaineisto (Kansalliskirjaston DIGI-tietokanta)
Finlands allmänna tidning
Finsk Musikrevy
Fyren
Helsinfors
Helsingin Sanomat
Hufvudstadsbladet
Morgonbladet
Nya Pressen
Programbladet
Päivälehti
Raivaaja
Uusi Suometar
Östra Finland
Kirjallisuus
Anonyymi (1934) ”von Pfaler Ina. Aikalaiskirja 1934, s. 513. http://runeberg.org/aikalais/1934/
0511.html (luettu 15.8.2015).
Becker, Howard S. (2008) Art Worlds. Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California
Press.
ben Hang, Maj (1932) ”Aktuellt i toner. Robert Kajanus drar några av sina minnen”. Helsingfors
Journalen, N:o 13, s. 192.
Bourdieu, Pierre (1993) The Field of Cultural Production. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Byckling, Liisa (2009) Keisarinajan kulisseissa. Helsingin Venäläisen teatterin historia 1868–1918.
Helsinki: SKS.
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Vesa kurkela
Elias, Norbert (1990) Über den Prozess der Zivilisation I–II. Frankfurt am Main: Suhkamp.
Elias, Norbert (1997) Saksalaiset. Valtataistelut ja habituskehitys 1800- ja 1900-luvuilla. Suom. Paula
Nieminen. Tampere: Gaudeamus.
Hirn, Sven (2001) Apolloteatteri. Katsaus 1900-luvun alun Helsingin näyttämötaiteeseen ja
huvielämään. Helsinki: Yliopistopaino.
Hyrkkänen, Markku (2002) Aatehistorian mieli. Tampere: Vastapaino.
Jalkanen, Pekka (2003) ”Autonomian ajan Suomi: Biedermeier ja tingeltangel”. Kirjassa Pekka
Jalkanen & Vesa Kurkela, Suomen musiikin historia. Populaarimusiikki. Helsinki: WSOY. Ss. 112–
251.
Klinge, Matti (1982) Kaksi Suomea. Helsinki: Otava.
Kurkela, Vesa (2014) ”Universal, National or Germanised?” Finnish Music Quarterly 2/2014, ss.
26–29.
Kurkela, Vesa (2015a) “Seriously Popular. Deconstructing Popular Ochestral Repertoire in
late-19th-Century Helsinki”. In Critical Music Historiography: Probing Canons, Ideologies and
Institutions, edited by Vesa Kurkela & Markus Mantere. Surrey and Burlington: Ashgate
Publishing, ss. 123–138.
Kurkela, Vesa (2015b) “Popular Wagner. Wagner evenings in Helsinki 1890–1911”. In Wagner
and the North, edited by Martin Knust & Anne Sivuoja-Kauppala. Forthcoming, Sibelius
Academy 2016.
Lappalainen, Seija (1994) Tänä iltana Yliopiston juhlasalissa. Musiikin tähtihetkiä Helsingissä 1832–
1971. Helsinki: Yliopistopaino.
Lyytinen, Erkki (1996) ”The Foundation of Yleisradio”. Rauno Endén, ed. Yleisradio 1926–1996.
A History of Broadcasting in Finland. Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society. Ss. 11–70.
Marvia, Einari – Matti Vainio (1993) Helsingin kaupunginorkesteri 1882–1982, Porvoo–Helsinki–
Juva: WSOY.
Murtomäki, Veijo (2007) Jean Sibelius ja isänmaa. Helsinki: Tammi.
Peltonen, Matti (1997) Kerta kiellon päälle. Suomalainen kieltolakimentaliteetti. Hämeenlinna: Tammi.
Ringbom, Nils-Eric (1932) Helsingin orkesteri 1882–1932. Suomentanut Taneli Kuusisto. Helsinki:
Frenckellin kirjapaino.
Rink, John (2014) ”The profession of music”. The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Music, ed.
Jim Samson. Cambridge University Press. Ss. 55–86.
Salmi, Hannu (2005) Wagner and Wagnerism in Nineteenth-Century Sweden, Finland, and the Baltic
Provinces. Reception, Enthusiasm, Cult. New York: University of Rochester Press.
Salmenhaara, Erkki (1995) Suomen musiikin historia 2. Helsinki: WSOY.
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Salminen, Anu (1998) ”Engelin Seurahuoneesta Kaupungintaloksi”. Kirjassa Kaupungin Leijonasydän. Helsingin kaupunginmuseo. Ss. 83–84.
Sarjala, Jukka (1994) Musiikkimaun normitus ja yleinen mielipide. Musiikkikritiikki Helsingin
sanomalehdistössä 1860–1888, Turku: Turun yliopisto.
Tolvas, Ilpo (1979) ”Ringbom, Nils-Eric”. Otavan iso musiikkitietosanakirja 5. Helsinki: Otava. S. 49.
Vainio, Matti (2002) ”Nouskaa aatteet” Robert Kajanus – elämä ja taide. Helsinki: WSOY.
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Salli Anttonen
”The lie becomes the truth”
Constructions of authenticity in Rolling Stone’s cover
stories of Lady Gaga
It seems that one of the job requirements for a popular musician these days is
convincing your audience that you’re not the phony celebrity you appear to be
(Barker & Taylor 2007: xi).
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (Courtney Love, ”Doll Parts”).
Lady Gaga, one of the biggest pop stars of our time, has risen to fame not least
because of the provoking play around her public persona. With her transforming
and at times very artificial image, Gaga offers an intriguing case when it comes to
the genuineness of a star personality – especially since previous research locates
the source of the celebrity’s power in authenticity. According to media researcher
P. David Marshall (2014 [1997]: 186), celebrities are produced in different kinds
of systems of cultural production, emphasizing different characteristics in the
process; in the case of popular music celebrities, it is the concept of authenticity
that is highlighted (2014 [1997]: 150, 193, 198). Similarly, according to film scholar
Richard Dyer, the power of authenticating authenticity is behind the celebrities’
star charisma: ”Authenticity is both a quality necessary to the star phenomenon
to make it work, and also the quality that guarantees the authenticity of the other
© SES & Salli Anttonen, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 82– 111.
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” The lie becomes the truth”: Constructions of authenticit y
in Rolling Stone’s cover stories of Lady Gaga
particular values a star embodies (such as girl-next-door-ness, etc.)” (1991: 137).
Moreover, authenticity can be seen as integral to modern stardom, which ”entails
a belief in the ideology of authenticity” (Hinerman 2006: 457). Although Gaga is
often discussed from the viewpoint of performativity or artificiality (e.g. Torrusio
2012), I propose that the traditional values of authenticity cannot be discarded in
her case (see also Varriale 2012). Furthermore, Gaga’s performativity raises interesting questions in relation to her perceived genuineness. In this article, I argue
that Lady Gaga’s interviews in Rolling Stone benefit from several contradictory
authenticity discourses, which increase the appeal of her public persona.
My aim in this article is to investigate the media image of Lady Gaga through
qualitative discourse analysis of three cover-story interviews with her in the magazine Rolling Stone, focusing on examining what sorts of authenticity discourses
are constructed when discussing Lady Gaga in rock media interviews. Authenticity is and has been a value in our culture for centuries, even though we may
not necessarily be conscious of it. I am interested in how these deep-rooted discourses of artistic genuineness are present in the selected cover stories of Gaga.
Firstly, I introduce the theoretical and methodological background of the
study, including previous authenticity research, the method of the study, and
the selected research material. Secondly, Lady Gaga is contextualized in regards
to her musical genre. Then, I move on to analyze three themes: the discourse of
a true self, representing traditional authenticity discourses; the artificiality of
Gaga’s persona, representing modern authenticity discourses; and, finally, the
fluidity of Gaga’s image.
Theoretical and methodological framework
In the authenticity discourses that previous research has introduced, I see two
strands. The first I call a traditional strand, where an authentic artist is expected
to express the values and experiences of a community (Weisethaunet & Lindberg
2010; Frith 1981). In this strand, artists are seen as creative geniuses; they should
express their deepest emotions; ideas of truthfulness and integrity are attached
to the image of an authentic artist; and lastly, the artist is expected to have close
contact with the audience (Keightley 2001). As the other strand, I see discourses
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such as authenticity of Modernism by Keightley (2001), or authentic inauthenticity identified by Weisethaunet & Lindberg (2010). In these discourses, artificiality
is highlighted. The artistic identity is seen as a construction, and an element of
self-production is crucial. Madonna and David Bowie are mentioned as examples
of this type of authenticity. It could also be argued that the first, more traditional
strand of authenticity discourses can be linked to the genre of rock, and the more
modern strand to pop, as in rock, truthfulness was demanded in artistic identities. In this article, I propose that the analyzed interview texts benefit both of the
above-mentioned strands: that they oscillate wildly between different discourses
regarding authenticity. As a result, Gaga is portrayed both through the more traditional authenticity discourses and through the modern ones.
Entailed in the theoretical framework of this article, discourse analysis, is the
necessity in my work for me to see authenticity in the light of social constructionism, as a cultural construction constructed in social interaction, through text,
arguments, logics, and word choices, which is constantly used to legitimate and
justify certain forms of music (Mäkelä 2002: 156−157). Methodologically, I have
approached the material discursively, searching for repetitive patterns regarding different images of artistry, gathering them into bundles of statements that
each constructs a discourse. From the many directions of DA, my research draws
mostly from Foucauldian DA or discourse theory (Mills 1997: 16), focusing on
hegemonic discourses and power relations, and seeing discourses as ”systematically form[ing] the objects of which they speak” (Foucault 1972: 49). In this
research, language is a tool of power, constantly constructing the world and its
phenomena, as opposed to telling us what the world per se is like. Following
the discourse analysts Arja Jokinen and Kirsi Juhila, who in turn draw mostly
on poststructuralist thinkers such as Laclau and Mouffe, and Foucault, I regard
discourses as social reality in itself, not thought formations that well or badly
represent reality (Jokinen & Juhila 1991: 27). The discourses analyzed construct
and naturalize what is seen as authentic artistry. In other words, the texts have
the power to give or deprive someone of such resources as authenticity and subsequent value.
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Context of the research material
The research material used in this article consists of three cover stories about
Lady Gaga in Rolling Stone, in Issue 1080 (11 June 2009) by Brian Hiatt, Issue
1108/1109 (8–22 July 2010) by Neil Strauss, and Issue 1132 (9 June 2011) by Brian
Hiatt). I view the material as mediated cultural constructions – hence, I am cautious with regard to interpreting Gaga’s quotes or the discourses constructed in
the interviews as denoting the ”real” intention of either the journalists or Gaga
herself. Like Lise Dilling-Hansen (2015) in her research on Lady Gaga, I regard
it as beyond the scope of my present knowledge to decide whether Gaga intentionally aims at being perceived as authentic. Rather, I see the interviews as mediated texts offering their readers a certain selected image of Gaga. This image
and the associated discourses illustrate the value system of Rolling Stone, and
also the valued star image in today’s popular music culture, especially as the indepth interview can be seen as a form of music criticism (Lindberg et al. 2005: 11).
One contextual element of the research material is the genre of the interview.
In previous research, it has been acknowledged that Gaga has a tendency to
mimic the interviewer, even in her clothing choices, and thus bring forward the
performative nature of the interaction, even to the point of parody of the celebrity
interview format (e.g. Torrusio 2012: 166−167; Davisson 2013: 116−118).
The context of Rolling Stone is that of a cornerstone of rock canon formation.
According to Steve Jones and Kevin Featherly (2002: 20), Rolling Stone is the periodical striving most visibly to legitimate certain genres of music and artists – ”Of
all periodicals, Rolling Stone has had the power to ’consecrate’ popular music in
Bourdieu’s terms”. This legitimation process can be seen to work in the opposite
direction as well: excluding certain types of music and artists from the popular
music canon. What is discussed in a magazine with such canonical value in the
rock culture also constructs what is worth discussing, and what is seen as authentic, as Rolling Stone is part of the canon formation process in rock. The popular music scholar and former rock critic Simon Frith argues that rock journalism
aims at ”creating a knowing community” superior to the average pop consumer
(Frith 1996: 67), which entails the exclusion of particular types of music and audiences. Thus, in its contents selection Rolling Stone maintains its position as part
of a select community; furthermore, the magazine must also pay attention to its
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sales figures, so it must aim at pleasing its target group, serving their prejudices
of taste (Weinstein 2004: 305).
Lady Gaga and musical genres
Lady Gaga, born Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta in 1986, has published
three studio albums so far: The Fame (2008), Born This Way (2011), and Artpop
(2013), which have sold over 27 million copies worldwide (Waddell 2014). Lady
Gaga can be considered to belong to the genre of dance-pop; at the beginning
of Hiatt’s first article, he terms Gaga ”the biggest new pop star of 2009” (Hiatt
2009: 57).
When talking about authenticity, a central element in the history of popular
music research is the division between pop and rock. The separation between
rock and pop was a separation between art and commerce: the latter should not
be mixed with artistic integrity. This pure form of rock with no connection to the
commercialist world has to do with the mythology of rock that was built in the
1960s by American rock critics such as Landau, Marsh and Christgau, correlating
rock with authenticity, creativity and the political movements of the time, Rolling
Stone being an important contributor to this ideology. (Shuker 1994: 7−8.) However, Shuker continues to say that the division of pop and rock using authenticity
as a divider is no longer, and has never been, valid. Rock is a marketing tool like
any other – if one places oneself above the manufacturing process, it can work
as a good PR trick. (Frith 1994: 7−8.) In my viewpoint, I follow Shuker – authenticity is more of a myth, an ideal, and the situation, in which rock bands should
avoid commercial success in order not to lose their authenticity, is unsustainable.
However, what is also crucial in Shuker’s text is the gravity and power that
authenticity – although not ”valid” – has had in rock culture and rock music,
responding to an ideological purpose by identifying different forms of musical
cultural capital (Frith 1994: 8). It might even be argued that precisely because
the division is not valid, authenticity is even more crucial in drawing the line in
the ”sand” of popular music. It serves as a justification for this non-valid division, gaining authority from its deep roots in Western cultural history, stemming
from Romanticism. Frith argues further that authenticity may also be used as an
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evaluative tool in openly commercial genres, assessing perceived sincerity and
commitment rather than the music’s actual means of production (Frith 2004: 28).
That Gaga, sonically speaking, is easier to categorize within the genre of (dance)
pop, does not mean that traditional (rock) authenticity discourses cannot be utilized in her image. Hence, the discourses of authenticity are a loaded issue, intertwining with long-standing value debates in popular music.
In her research on Joni Mitchell, Anne Karppinen also discusses the separation between rock and pop, and its connections to gender: rock can be seen
culturally as music for the mind, versus pop that is music for the body – dance
pop arguably even more so. This mind/body dichotomy can also be seen culturally as a division between male and female, where women and the female are
connected with the body, men with reason. (Karppinen 2012: 73.) According to
Helen Davies, ”[t]he association of masculinity with the cerebral and femininity
with the physical perhaps explains women’s exclusion from credibility on these
grounds”, the grounds being that a performer’s music should be intelligent and
serious, in order to be viewed as credible (Davies 2001: 306). Moreover, rock
criticism’s refusal of ”feminine, ’prefabricated’ pop music” (McLeod 2001: 47),
and of dance music, which is associated with the feminine body, in contrast to
masculine intellect (McClary 2002 [1991]: 153), adds to the contextualization of
Gaga, a female pop star. Thus, for both Gaga and Rolling Stone, it may be crucial
to succeed in articulating instead to rock’s discourses of authenticity, in order to
justify the value of Gaga.
Although Gaga can be categorized within the genre of pop, certain elements
in her work imply an attempt to articulate specifically within the authenticity
discourses of rock in order to successfully construct her work as art. Firstly, the
idea of Gesamtkunstwerk, an integrated work of art combining music and visual
elements, can be used to depict Gaga’s work, where it is hard to separate her
clothing choices, performance props, and visual style from her music. Her image is strongly associated with the avant-garde fashion that she wears in her music videos and performances, as well as at normal public appearances (Corona
2011: 1). The concept of Kunstwerk also resonates with Gaga’s idea of her work
as Artpop, visible also in her latest solo album title. Repeated in quotes such as
”Art is a lie”, the analyzed texts imply that Gaga strives to be an artist, and to
create art, not ”just” pop. Involving oneself deeply with art requires some level
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of authenticity, due to the previously discussed division between art and commerce, where in order to be art/rock, one needed to be authentic. Consequently,
the analyzed interviews can be read as drawing from the authenticity and the
aesthetics of rock, rather than of pop, for example by highlighting the personal
stories behind the songs, thus substantiating the authenticity of her expressed
emotions (see Frith 2001: 94, on Elton John as a pop star).
Gaga is Gaga – Discourses of a true self
- What’s the difference between Joanne Stefani Germanotta and Lady Gaga?
- The largest misconception is that Lady Gaga is a persona or a character. I’m
not – even my mother calls me Gaga. I am 150,000 percent Lady Gaga every day.
(Scaggs 2009.)1
The interviews construct a discourse in which Gaga has always been Gaga. She
is not Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, and has not answered to that name
for years (Hiatt 2009), nor does anyone call her that anymore. For instance, Hiatt’s first article (2009) systematically calls Gaga by the name of Gaga, even with
respect to her childhood photos. Gaga is not a role or a disguise, but who she
truly is. The idea of a true self is repeated in quotes such as ”Gaga, a misfit in
the Gossip Girl world of her high school, had found her true self. ’I’ve always
been Gaga’, she says. - - ’Once I was free, I was able to be myself’” (Hiatt 2009:
60). Rock-icon pictures in her backstage sanctuary remind her ”’to be myself’”,
and not give in to the expectations or ideas the public has of her music, artistry
or personality (Hiatt 2011:44). The performativity of her image can be rebutted by highlighting the assertion that Gaga’s ”art is not a mask. It is her life”
(Strauss 2010: 68).
The texts articulate the fact that Gaga dropped out of university to pursue her
dreams, and ”worked for it” (Hiatt 2009). All this can be seen to resonate with
discourses of authenticity as negation and authenticity as self-expression (Weisethaunet & Lindberg 2010) – she did not pursue music to gain financial profit,
but because she wanted to, it was her personal choice and her ”passion”. The
1 Scagg’s article is not a cover story, but a shorter interview. Because of its briefer format, it was
not included in the final research material.
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theme of working continues, as the texts emphasize the hard work Gaga puts
into her art: how she writes music every day (Strauss 2010: 70), how she works
out harmonies in her head ”even as she speaks” (Hiatt 2011: 42), and how she is
”proud of being harder to work with than a typical pop singer” (Hiatt 2011: 44).
The set-up of Hiatt’s article is in the recording studio, stressing Gaga’s work, her
ability to hear when the EQ is changed, and her being in charge. According to
Keightley, rock culture is suspicious of mediation, while valuing ”independence
from external interference and control, [which signifies] a greater authenticity”
(Keightley 2001: 134). Extensively describing Gaga’s effort in the studio articulates that she is in control and that she is working genuinely and autonomously,
free of mediation, which coincides with the values of rock (Keightley 2001: 134).
”’I am a real artist, and I’m so involved’, says Gaga. ’Usually the artist comes in,
cuts a vocal and leaves, and these guys do their business and send it back’” (Hiatt 2011: 44). Gaga’s work ethic is described as ”relentless”, demonstrated in her
”seemingly endless” world tour and her writing songs on the road. ”’We’re supposed to be tired. - - I don’t know who told everyone otherwise, but you make a
record and you tour. That’s how you build a career’”, Gaga states. (Strauss 2010:
68.) Strauss’ interview also mentions workaholism. All of the interviews begin
in work-related surroundings: in a tour van (Hiatt 2009), in her dressing room
backstage (Strauss 2010), or in the studio (Hiatt 2011). When asked if she does
any ”human things” such as sleeping and eating, Gaga replies ”sounding proud.
’Only music and coffee’” (Hiatt 2011: 45). The texts construct an image of an artist
sacrificing herself on the altar of art.
The previous image of a pop star may be the reason for this extensive argumentation about Gaga’s working habits: the texts situate her in the category of
a hard-working artist, not as a ”typical pop artist”, a pretty face singing songs
composed by other people. This categorization is closer to the aesthetics of rock
that are essential to a magazine like Rolling Stone. Moreover, according to Varriale, working hard is a ”long-standing narrative - - in star mythology” (Varriale
2012: 257). The discourse’s emphasis on the amount of work done can be compared with rock culture’s tendency to guard popularity against inauthentic and
thus undeserved success (Keightley 2001: 132), begging the question of whether
success is undeserved and less authentic if one has not ”worked for it”, if it has
come easily or through the marketing forces of record companies.
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Gaga is quoted as dedicating herself to her art: ”When you work as hard as I
do, or you resign your life to something like music or art or writing, you have to
commit yourself to this struggle and commit yourself to the pain” (Strauss 2010:
70). The discourse creates an image of a dedicated artist, not of a celebrity writing and performing music as a stepping-stone to fame. Articulation within the
discourses of art helps to avoid the common accusation against pop music – its
commercialism – exemplified by Gaga wanting to make ”’museum-worthy’ art
out of pop” and stating that ”’The whole world sees the number-one records and
the rise in sales and recognition, but my true legacy will be the test of time, and
whether I can sustain a space in pop culture and really make stuff that will have
a genuine impact’” (Hiatt 2009: 61). Gaga’s true legacy has to do with artistic vision rather than commercial success, which is constructed as inessential.
Switaj argues that there are two aspects that separate Gaga from most pop artists: ”the absence of any aspect of Gaga’s star image labeled private or authentic
and the way the excesses of her performance make apparent that she’s always
performing - -” (Switaj 2012: 34). From this material, I would argue that there are
elements that are constructed as appearing private and authentic, which makes
Gaga’s performativity a complex matter. For instance, in Hiatt’s article from 2009,
in the middle of a soundstage performance, Gaga withdraws to the dressing
room; later, we are informed, ”she nearly broke down and cried in the dressing
room” (Hiatt 2009: 60). These statements construct certain moments as private
and authentic, accumulating in the discourse of a ”true” self. Similar tones of being permitted to witness an ”authentic” Gaga behind the performance are visible
in the quote by Hiatt (2011: 46): ”Her eyes are open wide, the lids smeared with
makeup, and the pupils don’t have that charismatic, crazy glow – they just look
sad and tired and very human”, a reaction to Hiatt having previously described
her as self-confident. The text describes her as clearly human, that through this
interview we gain access to Gaga’s real person and that there is a human being,
it is not all performance, which could be interpreted as being crucial for Rolling
Stone – to maintain the idea of the personal authenticity of stars.
The interviews contain many references to accompanying her places, meeting her family, and generally witnessing her offstage. For example, the third article from 2011 follows Gaga from studio to backstage to stage, discussing work
ethics, fans, and personal history along the way. The article purports to offer a
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view of Gaga’s private life: of her studio work, personal life, and family. (Hiatt
2011.) According to media scholar Erin Meyers, ”the blurring of the private/
public distinction that occurs in celebrity media is essential for the maintenance
of their star power”. The fans may recognize the constructed and performed nature of the celebrities in their professional performances. (Meyers 2009: 892–893.)
However, in the media, stars are in turn brought close to the reader and shown
as normal persons through reports concerning their private lives, which in addition remind the audience of their own experiences (Meyers 2009: 892–893) – as
if through the media, the fan gains access to the ”real” person of the star behind
the image. Meyers describes this closeness by using Schickel’s term ”illusion
of intimacy” (Schickel 1985: 4), which she argues can be applied more widely
to celebrity media than to television alone, which is Schickel’s main focus. The
tension between the ”real” person and the ”larger-than-life” quality of the star,
further fortified by the ”tension between the possibility and impossibility of
knowing the truth about her life”, fascinates people. (Meyers 2009: 893–894.)
We as fans want to solve that mystery; we want to discover the ”truth” behind
the constructed image of the star, leading to a ”never-ending quest for the ’real’
celebrity” (Meyers 2009: 896) – simultaneously to a never-ending quest for authenticity? This ”pursuit of the authentic celebrity persona” is what lies behind
the stars’ social power (Meyers 2009: 904).
The interviews construct the illusion that we are now being permitted to see
behind the image: ”up close, she’s always softer, prettier and younger-looking
than her ultrastylized photos might suggest” (Hiatt 2009: 58). As the interviews
allegedly allow us access to see the ”everyday” life of Gaga, offstage, with her
family, they construct an illusion of gaining access to the ”real” person, the authentic self of Gaga. In addition, Varriale maintains that in her analysis of Gaga’s
interview, romantic and folk concepts of authenticity are used to construct ”a
’real’ Gaga, - - behind the stylish and media-exposed star” (Varriale 2012: 257).
However, this feeling of intimacy is a mere illusion, as the interview format is
nonetheless a knowingly constructed and mediated image of a performer. What
is crucial is that the celebrity succeeds in creating an illusion of intimacy and authenticity, regardless of whether they are actually revealing anything true about
their private lives (Myrskog 2014: 30). Correspondingly, the magazines perform
intimacy through the construction of their interviews.
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For instance, the photo collages in each of the articles construct intimacy by featuring ”private” photos. In the article from 2009, there is a photo collage titled ”The
Evolution of Lady Gaga”, which entails childhood photos, Gaga performing at the
Lollapalooza rock festival before her debut album, and finally, her appearance on
Ellen DeGeneres’ talk show, wearing a weird planetary hat (Hiatt 2009: 59). Meanwhile, the cover of the magazine from 2010 already creates a sense of intimacy: ”Lady Gaga tells all”, the biggest headline of the issue, implies that now everything will
be revealed, the mystery finally solved, which also serves as a gimmick designed to
increase sales. As in the 2009 article, there is a photo collage of Gaga’s past, ranging
from childhood and high-school photos to pictures with her father, ex-boyfriend
Rob Fusari, and friends, all from pre-Gaga days (Strauss 2010: 69). According to
Turner, when it comes to celebrities, their private lives are often seen as more interesting than their professional lives (Turner 2004: 3); thus, the illusion of gaining access to the private life of Lady Gaga increases the sales appeal of the article.
In Strauss’ article, the text makes clear that Gaga does not fall into the same
category as performance-focused spectacles: ”It is not just a stage spectacle like
a Madonna or Kiss show. It is a highly personal piece of performance art dressed
up as a pop spectacle” (Strauss 2010: 68). Madonna is one of the performers who
are often mentioned in discussions of authentic inauthenticity and constant selfinvention (e.g. Barker & Taylor 2007; Weisethaunet & Lindberg 2010), the same
elements that Gaga is connected to. However, the text clearly separates Gaga
from Madonna, particularly by means of the ”personal”, which suggests ideas
of traditional authenticity, tied to the person of the performer. Gaga’s career is
portrayed as a result of heartbreak; her ”success is the ultimate misfit’s revenge”
(Strauss 2010: 68). Her albums are stated to be inspired by Lüc Carl, Gaga’s exboyfriend, the ”love of her life” (Hiatt 2009: 59) and her ”muse” (Hiatt 2011: 47);
her work is thus constructed as originating from her authentic personal feelings
of heartbreak and of rejection (Strauss 2010).
The interviews also produce intimacy by highlighting that she writes her own
material: ”When we know singers are performing their own songs, we are invited to feel that they may be speaking directly to us, and telling us about their own
lives” (Barker & Taylor 2007: 170). The discourse of authentic self-expression is
constructed in the following quote: ”’The song is about my sadness in the most
real and honest kind of way’”, highlighting the integrity of Gaga expressing her
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deepest emotions, as in the next quotes: ”Sometimes I break down and cry onstage” (Strauss 2010: 71) and ”[the song Yoü & I] is so emotional that she wept
uncontrollably while she recorded the vocal” (Hiatt 2011: 47). Authoring her own
songs enhances Gaga’s perceived authenticity, since following the example of
John Lennon, who strove towards a more extreme version of personal authenticity, it was considered ”increasingly important that artists bare their souls” (Barker
& Taylor 2007: 191). Romantic authenticity in turn values ”sincere, unmediated
expression of inner experience” (Keightley 2001: 136). Authenticity can further be
associated with perceived truth. This can mean that artists are expected to ”look
deep inside themselves for their art”. (Jones 2008: 15, 35.) However, the category
of autobiographical songs is a fairly new and artificial invention in the history of
popular music, even though the audience today considers it self-evident (Barker
& Taylor 2007: 131). Singer-songwriters, offering access to their private feelings,
are apparently a contrast to stars such as David Bowie who ”flaunt the artificiality of their personas”; however, as David R. Shumway argues, this openness
is produced and performed like other stars’ stage roles (Shumway 2014: 151).
Nonetheless, the interviews emphasize the personal anguish Gaga has put into
her songs, highlighting her construction of openness.
The idea that music is born out of the performer’s own feelings is tied to the
idea of a tormented artist expressing his/her troubles. The idea of a suffering artist emerged in Lennon’s work, developing the idea of authentic artistry further
and leading even to people pursuing problematic lifestyles for authenticity’s
sake. ”Songs that delved into the tortured recesses of the artist’s mental processes
and problems became an indicator of the ultimate kind of authenticity”. (Barker
& Taylor 2007: 191−192.) The theme of a suffering artist, which incorporates romantic connotations, drawing on modern art movements (Marshall 2014 [1997]:
162–163), is echoed in all of the interviews, highlighting Gaga’s troubled past,
such as painful school memories of bullying, and her consequent abusive relationships and issues with drugs and alcohol (Hiatt 2011: 45). Strauss’ interview
addresses different kinds of trauma Gaga has faced: ”There are some things that
are so traumatic in my past, I don’t even fully remember them” (Strauss 2010:
72). This quote is also highlighted by its position as a pull quote. Borrowing the
ideal from rock aesthetics, the text grants Gaga personal authenticity by way of
her described traumatic history. Gaga is quoted as being somewhat conscious of
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this idea: ”’All of the things I went through were on my own quest for an artistic
journey to fuck myself up like Warhol and Bowie and Mick, and just go for it’”.
Simultaneously, the quote parallels her with artists with established authenticity,
and furthermore, of being on close terms with them, as Jagger is intimately called
by his first name, constructing an analogous identity for Gaga, who is positioned
as equal to these musicians.
Similarly, the second article begins with a spread photo of Lady Gaga sitting
in a trashcan on a street corner in New York, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses. The caption is: ”’I think about laying in my New York apartment with
bug bites from bedbugs, and roaches on the floor’, says Gaga. ’I’ve come a long
way’”. (Strauss 2010: 67.) This is a classic ”from rags to riches” tale, echoing Hiatt’s article (2009), where Gaga is described as having lived a cocaine-filled life
in a ”shitty little apartment” before she became famous. Roughly put, Hiatt’s
article overall is a story of a transformation and also a rags-to-riches story: how
a Catholic schoolgirl found her true self and her passion, helped by established
scene figures who support and praise her. The story constructs a traditional authenticity discourse, where the artist has come a long way and paid her dues,
hence deserving the subsequent success.
One point of view on authenticity construction in the selected pieces is that
mentioning other, already established artists, or alleging an association with
them, is a way to construct authenticity for Lady Gaga as well (cf. Peterson 2005:
1087). In Hiatt’s first article (2009) in particular, many famous artists are mentioned in connection with Lady Gaga. She makes a photo shoot with Cyndi Lauper and hangs out backstage with Marilyn Manson, who tries to hit on her with
”horrific pickup lines”. Madonna and Justin Timberlake are also mentioned, the
former having seen a Gaga show in Los Angeles. Manson also ”makes the case
for Gaga as an artist”:
I was most impressed by her paparazzi photos. I thought that it looked the way
that rock stars should look, as exciting as something that Warhol or Dalí would
do. And I don’t consider her to be similar to her contemporaries – the other girls
that do pop music – simply because she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s
very smart, she’s not selling out, she’s a great musician, she’s a great singer, and
she’s laughing when she’s doing it, the same way that I am. (Hiatt 2009: 59−60.)
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In my view, Manson – or Hiatt – uses Manson’s already acquired authenticity to vouch for Gaga, while Manson connects her work with rock’s authenticity
discourses by drawing a distinction between her and ”the other girls”, by means
of comparisons with other artists such as Warhol and Dalí, by distancing Gaga
from commercialism and accusations of selling out, and by highlighting her actual musicianship. However, it could also be argued that Manson’s credibility is
questioned just before the previous statement by quotes from Manson’s pickup
lines, such as ”’I’ll give you a cervical exam’”. Mentioning this, before Manson’s
comments on Gaga’s artistry, may construct an image that Manson has a hidden agenda, that Manson’s motives for praising Gaga are biased because of his
sexual interest in her.
Another viewpoint on the central role of Manson in the article is that, according to Davies, women can gain credibility by association with a man. This can
also cause problems: women may be suspected of being manipulated or using
their sexuality to further their career (Davies 2001: 308). The latter in particular
resonates with the Manson quote, thus partly dismantling the constructed authenticity.
Name-dropping is also visible when Gaga’s backstage photos of classic rock
icons are listed along with her vinyl collection, ”all classic rock and metal”. Furthermore, Born This Way has ”cameos from members of Queen and the E Street
Band”, resulting in the statement that the album is ”the closest thing Lady Gaga
has made to a rock album” (Hiatt 2011: 45). Clarence Clemons from the E Street
Band plays on two tracks, The Edge of Glory and Hair; Brian May has a guitar
solo on Yoü & I, a track produced by Mutt Lange, who has in turn produced established rock acts such as AC/DC. Correspondingly, as Lennon tapped into the
cultural authenticity of blues and folk by using elements of them in some songs,
”he reinforced the idea that these past musical styles could function as badges of
integrity” (Barker & Taylor 2007: 186). When this is combined with Gaga’s list of
her favorite ”pop” songs, which ”define[s] the term loosely”, including AC/DC’s
T.N.T, and Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love, it can be argued that the texts tap
into the authenticity of the rock genre and of established rock stars, constructing
a discourse where Gaga is added to this list of established rock musicians, especially when Gaga states that the rock-icon photos remind her ”’of what I think
is going to be, ultimately, part of my greater legacy’” (Hiatt 2011: 44) – that one
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day Gaga will be part of this rock-icon continuum. Regarding visual elements,
when compared to the earlier cover stories, the style of the cover from 2011 is also
more traditional – there are no artificial attachments to her, compared to previous covers, where Gaga is pictured in see-through plastic bubbles (2009), and in
her underwear with machine guns attached to her bra (2010).
When it comes to fans, in Romantic authenticity, direct and sincere communication between the artist and the audience is at the core (Keightley 2001: 136).
Gaga is stated to have
a symbiotic, almost unnervingly intense connection with her fans. ”We have this
umbilical cord that I don’t want to cut, ever”. - - ”There’s something about my
relationship with my fans that’s so pure and genuine. During the show, I say, ’I
don’t lip-sync, and I never will, because it is in my authenticity that you can
know the sincerity of my love for you”. (Hiatt 2011: 44.)
The quotes construct a discourse where the ”pure” and ”sincere” connection
between Gaga and her fans, who are also known as Little Monsters, is a sign of
her genuineness. In folk authenticity, music that was seen as ”pure, genuine, and
organically connected to the community that produced [it]” was valued; roots,
tradition, and the rural in turn underlined (Keightley 2001: 121). Even though
Gaga’s music is far from roots music or rural surroundings, it can be argued that
in its own way, Gaga’s music is portrayed as stemming from the subcultural urban community, thus utilizing the values of folk authenticity. Additionally, the
subculture of performance artists can be seen to have produced not only the music but possibly also Gaga herself.
Lady Gaga is also stated to be ”a pop star for misfits and outcasts”, and to
have been a misfit herself at her school. Gaga can be interpreted as expressing the
experience of a community of misfits, thus echoing the above-mentioned folk authenticity, and Weisethaunet and Lindberg’s ”folkloric authenticity”, where one
of the general ideas is that music is seen as a way to express the cultural values
and experiences of a community – such as blues and R&B (Weisethaunet & Lindberg 2010: 470). Corona approaches Gaga’s ”celebrat[ion] of the freakish”, stating
that Gaga attempts to ”explicitly link herself to categories of individual Otherness. By celebrating the ’monster’, the ’freak’, the ’misfit’, she is able to build a
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sense of subcultural membership”. (Corona 2011: 2.) According to Davies, there
is a credibility that comes from an association with a subculture, since women
are associated with the mainstream and their access to acceptance in a subculture
is limited (Davies 2001: 307). It is to be noted that rock culture values otherness
and marginality, based on ”the mass marginality of youth”, as opposed to the
category of ”adults” associated with mass society and the mainstream (Keightley
2001: 124–125). Taken further, the texts can also be read as creating a discourse of
misfits as exceptional individuals. Exceptionality and uniqueness resonate with
the ideas of artistic genius. Allusions to this idea can be seen in the quote ”’I don’t
have the same priorities as other people’” (Hiatt 2009: 58).
Overall, the construction of traditional authenticity in the interviews successfully combines the traits of both folk and art discourses, emphasizing Gaga’s
close relationship with her community, and her creative and original inner self
(cf. Frith 1983: 39–57; Frith 1987: 136). Since the context of Rolling Stone is a form
of rock canon formation and of popular music criticism, and since rock value
judgments are dependent on the myth of authenticity (Frith 1987: 136), how the
journal discusses Gaga is not insignificant, but rather it is crucial that Gaga and
her music be constructed as authentic. By articulating in terms of traditional authenticity discourses, the texts construct authentic artistry and value for Gaga,
and maintain Rolling Stone’s position as pure and uncommercial, representing
genuine and sincere music.
Artifice and self-invention
Ultimately, being gaga means being phony (Halberstam 2012: xii).
The analyzed texts involve a tension between authenticity and artifice, which
according to Marshall is what popular music displays in its construction of celebrities (2014 [1997]: 194). For instance, Hiatt’s article from 2009 can be read as
constructing the discourse of a true self for the most part. Right at the end, the
constructed system of meanings is complicated: a dichotomy between authenticity and lies or delusion is created. First, Gaga is said to want to inspire her fans
to find their true selves.
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But more important, she wants to inspire her fast-growing fan base – which now
ranges from downtown drag queens to suburban eight-year-olds – to find their
true selves, to shoot their fear in the face. ”I operate from a place of delusion –
that’s what The Fame’s all about. I used to walk down the street like I was a fucking star”, she says, her voice rising. ”I want people to walk around delusional
about how great they can be – and then to fight so hard for it every day that the
lie becomes the truth”. (2009: 61, emphasis added.)
The fans’ ”true selves” is in the latter part constructed to be more of a delusion,
a lie, that becomes reality, becomes truth, if one believes in it enough. One’s
”real self” is a construction, not authentic or true. This construct is also a way of
making one’s voice heard: ”If I had come out as who I was, no one would be listening. Now people are listening” (Strauss 2010: 71). The interviews construct a
discourse that is opposite to the idea of a true self: there is instead, a discourse
of artifice or outright lies, stressing the constructional nature of identities. The
constructedness of Lady Gaga as an identity is highlighted in statements such
as her describing a scenario in which she was in a hospital, with fans waiting for
her outside: ”I’d come out as Gaga. I wouldn’t come out in sweatpants” (Strauss
2010: 70). In this discourse, Gaga is something to be put on and to be worn, a performed role. Similarly, ”It’s just me, and people will see that what’s underneath is
still me”, is the way Gaga describes her image in the video for Alejandro (Strauss
2010: 68), while continuing, ”OK, so there’s still a little Lady Gaga there”, when
later in the video, she is dancing with rifles coming out of her breasts. Especially the latter statement feeds the discourse of Gaga as a construction, leaving it
vague who the ”just me” in the video actually is in that case, which exemplifies
the tension of authenticity and artifice inherent in the texts.
Weisethaunet and Lindberg’s concept of ”Authentic inauthenticity” may be
of help in understanding Gaga’s self-production. The concept links to pop music:
artificiality and artistic identities as constructions are in the key role, as opposed
to rock, where truthfulness is demanded in artistic identities. Glam rock and
punk in particular brought forward these artificial elements in self-production.
Madonna and David Bowie are good cases in point in their constant self-creation
and construction and in producing different artist selves, such as Ziggy Stardust
in Bowie’s case. (Weisethaunet & Lindberg 2010: 473−475.) Gaga, according to
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Hiatt’s first article, lists both Bowie and Madonna as her influences. Similarly,
in rock’n’roll, Elvis offered an optimistic example of personal reinvention, and
this inauthenticity gave the genre appeal. Likewise, in disco, authenticity was
avoided; instead, the focus was on creating radical new styles of clothing and a
world of celebration and escape. Both genres reflected the tastes of marginalized
groups such as gays and blacks in the case of disco. (Barker & Taylor 2007: 149,
236.) Disco’s aesthetic of artistic identities resembles Gaga’s image, although the
guest stars involved in her albums imply an attempt to distance herself from this
aesthetic in order to move closer to rock, just as the texts simultaneously discuss
truthfulness: Gaga is not a role.
I understand Keightley’s term ”authenticity of Modernism” to have close ties
to the previous concept. According to this idea, true artists must always keep
moving and reinventing themselves. Innovations, development, change and experiments are key words. It is more important to stay true to your own artistic
ambitions than to think of the audience, as opposed to the close relationship between artist and audience in the authenticity of Romanticism. Shock effects and
the use of technology are celebrated. (Keightley 2001: 135−136.) In particular, the
last sentence strongly resonates with Gaga’s image and performances, seen in
quotes such as ”her future-shock style” or ”She reigns over a self-created, plasticized aesthetic universe with Madonna-esque assurance” (Hiatt 2009: 58). According to Corona, ”when the image of someone like Gaga becomes so closely associated with spectacle, the question of authenticity inevitably emerges. - - Gaga
has avoided the authenticity dilemma by affirming that she is the persona she
inhabits on stage” (Corona 2011: 9−10). The shock style and self-invention raise
questions about the performer’s authenticity, as can be seen in a quote from Gaga: ”’I was being bullied by music lovers, because they couldn’t possibly believe
that I was genuine. I was too different or too eccentric to be considered sincere’”
(Hiatt 2011: 44).
As a contrast to the above-mentioned leather jacket photo, in the streets of
New York with all its street credibility, the photo spread from the first article can
be interpreted as constructing a discourse resonating with the other strand, with
artificiality and self-production. Gaga is wearing a plastic bubble outfit against a
pink foamy background; the pose can be read as highly phantasmic, artificial and
doll-like. Similarly, the photo collage from 2010 constructs conflicting discourses:
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on the one hand, a childhood photo is captioned ”The young Gaga”, creating a
sense that she was indeed born that way; on the other hand, according to its caption, a photo from 2007 features ”The proto-Gaga Stefani Germanotta”, implying
that at that stage she was still Germanotta, building and testing the prototype
that would only later materialize as the construct of Lady Gaga.
The constructedness of Gaga parallels Toynbee’s (2000: 32) argument that
when musicians transform themselves into stars, they commodify themselves,
converting themselves into ”shiny object[s]”. From this angle, Gaga seems like
a successful product of image commodification. Furthermore, through analyzing the interview quote of ”[t]he former Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta
[being] on a mission: to prove that Lady Gaga is art” (Strauss 2010: 68), it can be
argued that instead of her music, Gaga herself is the work of art and end product of her creative process. Her persona is the shiny object offered for consumption. Moreover, the self-commodification offers Gaga’s fans a hopeful example of
self-invention and the ”utopian potentiality” to lead a life that has been changed
(Toynbee 2000: 32).
The previously discussed theme of authentic self-expression, which manifested in quotes describing Gaga crying, breaking down onstage, or expressing
her deepest feelings through her music, is roughly contrasted with other quotes
that form an opposing pole, at times even with comical tones: ”I wrote that song
[Speechless] to soothe my spirit, but nobody gives a shit if the chorus isn’t good. I
don’t mean to sound crass, but just that’s how I view music. Not everybody gives
a shit about your fucking personal life” (Strauss 2010: 71). The statement neglects
the importance of honest self-expression altogether, simultaneously sniping at
so-called therapy music, which was one result of the idea of a tormented artist,
linked to personal authenticity (Barker & Taylor 2007: 192). The quote continues:
”Music is a lie. It is a lie. Art is a lie”, stressing the artificial nature of art and music, thus following the discourse of authentic inauthenticity, and the authenticity
of Modernism.
With Gaga, there are constant doubts of inauthenticity, manifested for instance in copyright and trademark issues. Gaga has been involved in several lawsuits both as defendant and as plaintiff. For instance, the lawsuit between her and
her former producer Rob Fusari ”fuel[ed] the public’s need to see Gaga as performed”, as Fusari claimed that Gaga was originally his creation, thus implying
that there was a time when Lady Gaga did not yet exist, and when Germanotta
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was not yet Gaga. (Davisson 2013: 148–155, 137−140.) In her songs Alejandro and
Born This Way, to name two, she has been accused of exploiting and plagiarizing other songs, mainly by Ace of Base and Madonna, respectively (Ventzislavov
2012). Ventzislavov also describes her image as one of ”purported originality”,
into which the public buys and regards as art, because of their ignorance of the
predecessors Gaga successfully ”repackages”, such as Bowie, Madonna, Björk,
Manson, Peaches, and Alice Cooper (Ventzislavov 2012: 63).
I read these texts as protecting Gaga from accusations of inauthenticity, distancing her from mindless pop: ”In the face of tween pop’s relentless cuteness
assault, Gaga – who worships Andy Warhol and Grace Jones, and thanks David
Bowie and Madonna for inspiration in her liner notes – is a pop star for misfits
and outcasts” (Hiatt 2009: 58). The statement combines both traditional and modern authenticity discourses in this argumentation, by highlighting the sense of
community and by mentioning artists known for their self-invention and pop art.
According to Keightley, this combining of both authenticity of Romanticism and
Modernism is not unprecedented – on the contrary, ”many will move back and
forth across the table”, and utilize ”hybrid versions of authenticity”. The performers who successfully combine Romantic and Modernist authenticity, ”in a productive tension”, are hailed as the ”most innovative” by rock culture. (Keightley 2001:
138–139.) This combination of discourses accounts for the confusing moments in
the interviews when the tension between authenticity and artifice is most apparent.
Fluid identity
Little baby girl, you can be whatever you want (Hiatt 2009: 60, a quote by Gaga’s
mother to Gaga).
If the previous authenticity discourses evaluate the authenticity of a performer’s
self, the texts at times take it one step further, shattering the whole idea of a stable
person or persona whose genuineness is subject to scrutiny. Comparably, in relation to Gaga, Craig N. Owens suggests, ”the female pop-musician is increasingly
becoming monstrous in her ability to shift shape, inhabit temporary identities,
and to go with the flow” (Owens 2014: 112).
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This fluidity or oscillation can be seen as reaching Gaga’s external image, in
quotes such as: ”In truth, Gaga’s attractive, slightly off-kilter features – ethnic
nose, prominent front teeth – seem almost infinitely mutable: One day she looks
like Debbie Harry, the next, Donatella Versace” (Hiatt 2009, emphasis added)
or ”Gaga turned 25 in March, but often seems much older or younger” (Hiatt
2011). Apart from her features, in the next two quotes, her sexuality and gender
are also constructed as fluid: ”When she uses words like ’fierce’, or describes
her sexual conquests of beautiful men, one sees why the hermaphrodite rumors
about her have been so persistent: she seems, at times, like a gay man trapped
in a woman’s body” (Strauss 2010: 68). The fluidity of Lady Gaga’s image even
goes beyond the category of ”human”, intimating the possibility that she is either an alien (”For a young woman who’s dressed like an alien empress, Lady
Gaga is acting strangely human” [Hiatt 2009]) or a robot (”As we reach Burbank,
Gaga closes her eyes for a minute. ’I’m rebooting’, she says. ’Activate Lady Gaga program’” [Hiatt 2009]). Gaga goes beyond human parallels with the cyborg
manifesto (Haraway 1991), where boundaries and dichotomies are blurred, and
identities and categories destroyed. She moves beyond the dichotomy of malefemale through the claims of her being a hermaphrodite, and beyond the status
of human with her allusions to aliens and robots. Gaga is quoted as wanting to
create transcendent performances, which in turn resonate with the discourse of
authenticity as transcendence of the everyday (Weisethaunet & Lindberg 2010:
476) and which demand being more than human: ”I don’t want people to see I’m
a human being. I don’t even drink water onstage in front of anybody, because I
want them to focus on the fantasy of the music and be transported from where
they are to somewhere else” (Strauss 2010). According to Gray, her performances are ”transformative and metamorphic in nature” (Gray 2012a: 8), which also
stresses the fluidity of her image. Finally, referring to the hermaphrodite rumors,
Gaga is quoted as saying: ”When they start saying that you have extra appendages, you have to assume that they’re unable to destroy you” (Strauss 2010: 74).
The fluidity or lack of definition offers protection, for example from the media,
as the quote implies. The fluidity or oscillation between different subject positions may serve as protection from the doubts regarding her authenticity as well.
The theme of being more than human continues when Gaga admires Kiss’
Paul Stanley flying across the arena, although on this occasion she stresses the
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performativity of the moment: ”I want to do that. But I don’t want it to be in a
stage moment, I need to re-create it in an everyday situation. I need to be in the
supermarket and fly across” (Hiatt 2011: 44). Gaga is quoted as wanting to spread
performativity to everyday life; the limits of performance and everyday life need
to be blurred, thus blurring her own performative nature – when does the performance end, or start? Education scholar Michael A. Peters states that Gaga offers
us in her performance ”a proliferation of a series of life-stage, art-life encounters
that blur the dualisms of art and the everyday” (Peters 2012: 218). The texts blur
the boundaries of normal life and art [performance], of person and persona, and
of private and public. ”The precise demarcations between persona and authenticity are, to say the least, slippery, and this slipperiness is part of Gaga’s act”.
(Switaj 2012: 36.) Similarly, Gaga may ”exist in an ’offstage’ manner” when actually performing, or contrastingly, be in costume in paparazzi photos, blurring
the distinction between private and public selves and challenging the dichotomy
between a ”real” and an ”artificial” identity (Switaj 2012: 35–36). A quote from
Hiatt describing a moment immediately after a concert exemplifies this when
Gaga exists in a ”private” moment, acting in an ”onstage” manner:
She’d taken her bows, the crowd was streaming up the arena stairs. But as the
recorded version of ’Judas’ blared over the sound system, Lady Gaga began
to move again. On the far-right side of the stage, in view of only a dozen or so
straggling fans, she kicked up her stripper boots, dancing harder than she had
all night. The show was over, but the performance hadn’t ended. It didn’t look
like it would ever stop. (Hiatt 2011: 47.)
Her performance stretches beyond the stage and into everyday life. Similarly,
it is mentioned that Gaga dresses in her ”future-shock style”, both on- and offstage – exemplified by a story of Gaga going shopping for tortellini ”in a transparent bodysuit” (Hiatt 2009: 58). Switaj (2012) sees Gaga as a never-ending performance, where there is nothing behind the star image, and the performance is
what is real, in a Butlerian sense, as we are all constantly performing. This argument is persuasive, considering Gaga’s statement in the material: ”What I will
say to you is that when I am not onstage, I feel dead, and when I’m onstage, I
feel alive,’ she says. - - ’I don’t feel alive unless I’m performing, and that’s just
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the way I was born”. (Hiatt 2011: 47.) The last sentence constructs an intriguing
conflict: her true nature is that of performance, which keeps her alive.
Even if Gaga is a constant performance, I would ask what is being performed,
arguing that especially in Rolling Stone the performance of rock authenticity,
which entails constructions of a sincere, true self, is needed, especially as the
audience will expect an impression of sincerity and commitment from the artists in order to perceive them as good, that is, authentic (Frith 2004: 28). This is
exemplified by the repeated reminders that Gaga is always Gaga, and how it is
not ”a mask”. Similarly, while Leibetseder (2012: 77–78) finds Gaga’s fluidity of
identities to be her forte, even in her fluidity Gaga still manages to confuse, since
her fluctuating and queer performance style is at odds with her essentialist and
non-queer lyrics portraying a fixed identity in the song Born This Way. To quote
Torrusio (2012: 169), ”Like the Roman Janus face of transition, the monsters of our
culture are consistently planting themselves at a crossroads, resisting our categorization, denying us the security of pinpointing their subject position”. Gaga’s
image oscillates so that it is difficult to capture it for inspection.
The analyzed texts propose several, even contradicting flashes of different
discourses and thus subject positions, from which the reader has the freedom
to choose. The wide array of discourses serves a wider audience. Similarly, according to Torrusio (2012: 166), Gaga offers her public several images of herself,
from which they can choose the ones they find pleasing. According to Gray, Gaga
strives for creating a new, authentic identity where we can all ”just be”, for instance through the different characters Gaga plays in her videos (Gray 2012b: 129,
140). Authenticity, a holy Grail that is never truly and fully attainable for anyone,
but constantly pursued, is in Gaga’s case pursued through a different tactic: not
through a single person, but instead several, contradicting ones, which is closer
to our human nature in real life. Moreover, taking into account Gaga’s manipulative and playful approaches to interviews, such as mimicking the interviewer,
the interactions with the media can be read as a play, constantly toying with real
and fake, with intimacy and enacting intimacy. The whole act can be seen as criticizing the concept of authenticity altogether, and questioning whether reaching
the goal is ever possible.
With all the fluidity, do the texts create freedom for her to be seen as authentic,
because her ever-changing image never stops long enough for us to be able to as-
104
sess her authenticity? One secret of Lady Gaga’s success may be the fluctuation
of discourses around her image and persona, as it produces intriguing friction,
seducing her audience into trying to solve the mystery. Similarly, Marshall argues
that the secret to Bowie’s and Madonna’s ”continuing appeal is the continual deferral of the resolution of the enigma; the authentic self is never revealed completely”. Because of the importance of authenticity for popular music discourse,
their enigmatic images will be further strengthened. (Marshall 2014 [1997]: 194.)
It can be argued that the power of even the most artificial star is based on popular music culture’s fixation with authenticity.
Conclusions
”Let’s talk about the real you”, and I’m like… who? What are you looking for?
(Hiatt 2011: 46.)
The purpose of this article was to ask what sorts of authenticity discourses are constructed in Rolling Stone’s three cover stories of Lady Gaga. According to the analysis, the texts construct discourses that utilize the values of both traditional and modern strands of authenticity. According to Lawrence Grossberg, in the context of the
logic of authentic inauthenticity ”the only authenticity is to know and even admit
that you are not being authentic, to fake it without faking the fact that you are faking
it” (Grossberg 1993: 206). However, I would argue that in the research material the
traditional craving for authenticity is not completely displaced by the logic of authentic inauthenticity, but rather the material constructs discourses benefiting both
of these logics. The texts are fluctuating between opposite authenticity discourses:
that of Romanticism, of truth, of a traditional self-expressing creative genius, and of
Modernity, of artifice, self-creation, and transparency. Lady Gaga is portrayed both
faking it without faking that she is faking it, and faking that she is not faking it. The
presence of traditional authenticity discourses in Gaga’s star persona are supported
by Varriale’s parallel findings in her analysis of Gaga’s interview in Noisevox (2012),
focusing on the ”romantic” and ”folk discourse” in the material.
By combining both folk and art discourses, highlighting the close connection
between Gaga and her audience, incorporating elements of artistry, such as suf-
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fering and dedication to the art, and by alleging an association between Gaga and
already established and authenticated artists in the rock genre, the texts construct
a traditional authenticity for Gaga while simultaneously concealing the commercialist aspects of her work as well as the problem of her musical genre, which
rock culture treats with suspicion. Modern authenticity discourses treat Gaga as
part of the continuum of canonized, self-inventing artists such as Bowie and Madonna. Fusing both traditional and modern authenticity discourses creates the
tension and fluctuation around Gaga’s persona, which is further strengthened
by the dissolving of categories surrounding her persona such as sexuality, gender and the category of human being. Moreover, the fluidity of performativity
that dissolves concepts such as onstage and offstage, or person and persona, further complicates her image. The twisting identities, while increasing the appeal
around her persona, divert attention away from the classic accusations aimed at
performers like Gaga: the dismissal of dance music as non-intellectual and feminine, and her substantial commercial success.
Although a long time has passed since the original countercultural rock phenomenon of the 1960s, with its concomitant values of authentic communities and
original self-expression, where Rolling Stone has its roots, the interviews under
analysis would appear to imply that it is still impossible to wholly abandon traditional authenticity discourses. Similarly, Dilling-Hansen (2015) argues in her
analysis of Gaga’s fans that they experience Gaga as ”real”, in the process of this
evaluation making use of rock authenticity discourses. Gaga cannot construct
herself as mere performance or construction, since the musical value judgments
are still interwoven with the argument over authenticity. Similarly, Rolling Stone
also has its image at stake as the representative of a select community of rock
culture. Furthermore, commercially, the journal benefits from the constructed illusion of intimacy since this serves as a buying incentive. Would Gaga have been
able to latch onto her success if her image had not spoken to a wide range of music fans, including those who appreciate rock’s aesthetics of authenticity? Gaga
is now a superstar whom Rolling Stone can interview and whom rock critics can
appreciate without losing their authority or credibility – thanks to the ability of
her image to utilize authenticity wherever and in whatever way needed. The dichotomy of authentic and artificial artist identities is indeed false: no performer
is ever totally ”real” – to quote Barker & Taylor (2007: x), ”Authenticity is an ab-
106
solute, a goal that can never be fully attained, a quest”. Gaga’s constructed artistic identity, which alternately benefits both traditional and modern authenticity
discourses and dilutes the categories of ”real” and ”fake”, serves as a reminder
of the impossibility of total authenticity. Nonetheless, it appears rock culture
still needs its Holy Grail: we need the pursuit for authentic performer identities.
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Tuomas Järvenpää
Rastafarian Reggae Music’s Claim to Autochthonous
African Belonging
The political role of popular music has been nowhere as evident as in South Africa, where urban music genres were essential for the Mass Democratic Movement (MDM) in building a popular opposition against the apartheid government.
Later, urban music styles were also a way to envision the “African Renaissance”,
which Deputy President and future President Thabo Mbeki proclaimed as the
guiding political slogan of the independent nation four years after the dismantling of the apartheid system in 1996. Musicians imagined in their sound and
lyrics what this new African nationalism might mean in the genres of hip-hop
and kwaito (Becker & Nceba 2008; Coplain 2001; Allen 2004). However, by the
time that the icon of the South African independence struggle, President Nelson
Mandela, passed away on the 5th of December in 2013, the South African state
had arrived to a chronic legitimacy crisis. The general optimistic mood of the
post-independence years had faded, as the ruling party and a former anti-apartheid resistance organization with roots in African socialism, African National
Congress (ANC), remained in power with yet another landslide victory, despite
the fact that the party had experienced one corruption scandal after another. The
ANC has been widely criticized across the national media and it has lost much
of its former credibility as the self-proclaimed torchbearer of the independence
struggle, but no formidable political alternatives are in sight after the elections.
© SES & Tuomas Järvenpää, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 112 – 141.
112
The Voices of Azania from Cape Town: Rastafarian Reggae Music’s
Claim to Autochthonous African Belonging
It seems clear that in the current stagnated political moment, musicians reinterpret the legacy of the independence struggle again in a different manner than in
the optimistic years of the African Renaissance.
In this ethnographically grounded article, the main research question is to
analyse how South African national history is reimagined in reggae music in
the city of Cape Town.1 As a musical genre, reggae provides an especially interesting prism for analysis of postcolonial nationalism for several reasons. First,
reggae emerged in the 1970s as one of the first music genres from a third-world
postcolonial nation – Jamaica. By the end of that decade, reggae was incorporated and acknowledged as the national music of Jamaica by both of the competing
political parties on the island. At the same time, reggae became a soundtrack to
pan-Africanism and the anti-apartheid movement internationally with several
reggae artists directly addressing the South African struggle for independence
in their music. Thus, reggae was explicitly incorporated to the anti-apartheid
ideology and the formation of both Jamaican and South African postcolonial
Black consciousness. (King 2002: 95–97; Chude-Sokei 2012: 224–236). Secondly,
more recently in the 2000s, reggae has connected with the claiming of indigenous identifications in different places around the world and voiced a stark
critique to prevailing hegemonic national narratives. This claiming includes
the rise of Native American reggae and Australian Aboriginal reggae music;
both celebrate specific ethnic minority identifications (Alvarez 2008; Bilby 1999).
Thirdly, reggae and the Rastafarian social and religious movement related to
it witnessed a rapid growth in South Africa during the past decade, especially
in the province of Western Cape and in the city of Cape Town (Bain 2003; Olivier 2010 & 2013; Reid 2014). Thus, the primary research task of the article is
followed by the question of whether reggae music in Cape Town is also linked
to claims of autochthony or indigeneity, and if so, how these identifications are
asserted in the music.
1 This work was enabled by the Academy of Finland and realized as a part of a research project
Youth music and the construction of social subjectivities and communities in post-apartheid South Africa
that was led by Tuulikki Pietilä and based at the discipline of Social and Cultural Anthropology
at the University of Helsinki.
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Tuomas Järvenpää
Research data, methods and the ethnographic context
The present ethnographic inquiry is based on three months of fieldwork by the
author that took place in Cape Town from September to December in the year
2013. The aim of the fieldwork was to document the activities of Rastafarian reggae musicians in the city. The current analysis focuses specifically on four reggae
vocalists: Teba Shumba, Crosby Bolani, Daddy Spencer and Korianda. All of the
research participants had been born and immersed in reggae culture in Gugulethu, which is a township located around 20 kilometres away from the central
business district of Cape Town. According to the census of 2011, the population
of Gugulethu in the 6.5-km² township area is around 10 000 and predominantly
from a Xhosa ethnic background. Almost half of the population is under 25 years
of age. Many people experience extreme poverty and about half of the households live in makeshift informal housing (City of Cape Town 2011a). Despite this,
and partly because of its relatively central location between the central area of
the city and more remote townships, Gugulethu has recently gained a reputation
as a culturally vibrant location with a growing middle class. During the recent
years, the township has also emerged as a central hub of reggae music production in Cape Town.
In the present article, the song lyrics of these four artists form the primary research material, because my direct observations of their live reggae performances
were scarce and I was not able to focus on the performances of any individual
vocal artist consistently. David Coplain (2005: 25–26) warns against reading ideological meanings directly from the song lyrics of South African urban music
forms, where often bodily movements, sonic references and the social context of
the live performances are highly significant. In addition, South African ethnomusicologist Lara Allen (2004: 2) points out that conscious political intentions
are hard to pinpoint with the method of musical analysis. To avoid these pitfalls
of textual analysis in music research, I juxtapose the song lyrics with artist interviews, which I conducted during the fieldwork period, as well as with my own
ethnographic observations from my encounters with the artists. I interviewed
three of the main research participants, Daddy Spencer, Teba Shumba and Crosby Bolani, twice during the fieldwork. My lack of data from the performances in
Cape Town also reflects the fact that the attention of these musicians is focused
114
outside of South Africa to Europe and I will contextualize this musical orientation more in the course of this article.
The following analysis focuses on “articulations”, as discussed by Stuart Hall
in his seminal works, and which James Clifford (2001: 477–480) has applied further to ethnographic methodology. Clifford understands articulation as a process
in which connections between different established bodies of cultural meanings
are established or dissolved. These connections are always temporary, plural and
under constant social contestation. In the following analysis I examine the ways
in which the Africanist ideologies surrounding transnational reggae music are
articulated to the history and current social conditions of Gugulethu. These articulations are plural as belonging to Gugulethu and the Western Cape and are
constructed in various ways by different generations of reggae musicians.
Teba Shumba and Crosby Bolani were my initial contacts to the field site as
they had collaborated with Finnish reggae musicians and performed in Finland
and I was able to acquire their contacts before the fieldwork period. Both of
these vocalists have recently toured extensively outside of South Africa in Europe with different ensembles. Teba Shumba was a part of a pioneering kwaito
group, Skeem, before venturing to his solo career with reggae at the beginning
of the 2000s. During his solo reggae career, he has released two self-published
albums (Shumba 2005; Shumba 2013c). Crosby Bolani was a member of the reggae group, Chronic Clan (African Dope 2004) in the early 2000s, but at the time of
my fieldwork he was also about to release his first solo debut album through
Oneness Records, which is a German production team and record label specialising in reggae music. Both vocalists had also co-operated with numerous foreign producers and they had released singles as online releases and in compilation albums in both South Africa and Europe. However, their main audiences
in Europe are confined to a relatively small group of reggae aficionados. For
example, a music video for Crosby Bolani’s (2014) track Heart of a Lion released
on Youtube received approximately 5000 views in a year. In this article, I will
analyse their music mainly in the social context of Cape Town and Gugulethu,
as I have discussed the international tours of these artists elsewhere (Järvenpää,
forthcoming).
Through Crosby Bolani and Teba Shumba I soon met Daddy Spencer and Korianda, who were part of the same social circle of Rastafarian vocal artists. In ad-
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Tuomas Järvenpää
dition to Teba Shumba, Daddy Spencer had also been involved in kwaito music
and in a group named Trybe, which was commercially successful in the 1990s in
South African domestic markets. Later, he also has ventured into a solo career in
reggae and toured together with Shumba and Bolani in Europe; he also worked
with foreign producers and released singles through Shilo-Ites Records from
Sweden (Daddy Spencer 2007 & 2012) and Segnale Digitale from Italy (Daddy
Spencer & Anthony B. 2014). Korianda had not yet had this kind of breakthrough,
so he was searching for international music contacts and was about to release
his first self-published solo album locally in Cape Town and as an online release
at the time of my fieldwork (Izajah Korianda 2013b). Three of the vocalists had
other sources of income outside of their musical activities during my fieldwork:
Shumba was a director of primary school students’ drama clubs, Bolani ran an
informal home studio for music production, Korianda worked as a freelance
film maker.
For the sake of clarity, these four research participants are referred to frequently with the term “Gugulethu vocalists” or “Gugulethu reggae”, even though they
are certainly not the only reggae artists in this community. During the fieldwork,
I interviewed 28 reggae vocalists, instrumentalists, selectors and organizers in
total. Most of the people interviewed were from Gugulethu or had been residents
of the township before. I use these interviews as a further tool in contextualizing
the primary material. For various practical reasons, I did not manage to contextualize the histories of these musicians and organizers as close as I did with the
four primary research participants or to acquire their recorded music. Several of
these other musicians were also older than the primary research participants and
I will return to this generational aspect of the Capetonian reggae culture several
times later on in this article.
There are also numerous vocalists in the community, who either have international aspirations or already established international careers in music, but
whom I did not manage to contact during the brief fieldwork. Some artists from
this group, who were omitted from this study include JJ Alcapone and Black
Dillinger. Both have toured several times outside of South Africa and worked
with foreign producers. Other notable vocalists from Gugulethu include Zolile
“Zoro” Matikinca and Vido Jelashe, who have later both emigrated to Sweden and
Germany respectively to pursue their music careers. Virtually all Gugulethu reg-
116
gae musicians, including the primary research participants, subscribe to the Rastafarian faith in their music and are involved mainly in the dancehall subgenre
of reggae, which typically features individual vocalists and digital productions
instead of instrumental ensembles (Chude-Sokei 1994). The lyrics of the music
are generally performed in both isiXhosa and Jamaican Patois.
When discussing the South African context, I apply the standard terminology on the ethnicities of the country, as used in the work of Nadine Dolby (2001:
133), where the term “Coloured” refers to members of the heterogeneous South
African ethnic group, with a mixed ancestry who speak Afrikaans as their mother
tongue. As an ethnic description, the term “African” refers to all people in South
Africa, who hold one of the Bantu languages, such as isiXhosa or chiShona, as
their mother tongue. The term “Black” refers to all South African ethnic groups
who were the victims of the apartheid, including Coloureds, Asians and Africans.
Lastly, the category of “White” refers to the English- and Afrikaans-speaking
minorities, who developed distinctive white South African nationhood (see also,
Ballantine 2004).
The four primary research participants are all from African ethnic backgrounds, although they represent different generations and language backgrounds: Shumba was born in 1974 to a chiShona-speaking Zimbabwean father
and a Setswana-speaking mother. Daddy Spencer was born in 1975, Korianda in
1980 and Bolani in 1982. All three were born to isiXhosa-speaking parents who
had migrated to Gugulethu from the Eastern Cape Province. After the removal
of the apartheid pass laws in 1986, which restricted the number of African population in the city, Cape Town and Gugulethu in particular was subject to intense
migration from the rural areas of the country. Due to the migration, the informal
housing settlements around townships such as Gugulethu have grown rapidly
and the number of people from African ethnic background in Cape Town has
exceeded the former Coloured majority of the city only during the recent years
(City of Cape Town 2011; City of Cape Town 1996).
Besides migration from other parts of the country, Cape Town has also been a
destination for African immigrants from abroad. Jean and John Comaroff (2001)
observe how the fast human movement to urban centres, the porousness of national borders and continuing economic instability and inequality, have made
the public claims of “autochthonous belonging” increasingly common in the
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Tuomas Järvenpää
South African metropolitan areas, such as Cape Town. With autochthony, the
Comaroffs refer to a process where the connection between a certain human
group and place is justified by naturalized arguments, usually by claiming that
they have been the first inhabitant of a place. In South Africa, as well as in various other Southern African countries, autochthony has developed to be a central
political rhetoric that unites different ethnic groups as the autochthons vis-a-vis
the perceived aliens.
Urban centres of South Africa have recently experienced reoccurring waves
of xenophobic street violence. Jean and John Comaroff argue (2001) that the
state’s public campaigns and autochthonous political rhetoric against illegal immigrants in the public sphere have contributed significantly to the xenophobic
atmosphere. These campaigns have been connected to racial hierarchies, as it is
specifically the African immigrants or economically marginalized Black South
African citizens that are perceived as immigrants, who have been the main targets of both the police campaigns and xenophobic violence. The Rastafarians
are drawn especially from these marginalized sections of the Black population
and they have been in the middle of various land disputes over their settlements
on squatted land in the outskirts of the city (Barnes 2008; Tolsi 2011; Nicholson
2008). The socio-economic marginalization of the growing informal settlements
and the lack of public infrastructure in these areas have also recently been a
source of wider public debate and demonstrations in Cape Town (see, for example, Underhill 2013).
Thus, in the contemporary South African situation, political questions on belonging to an abstract national community are secondary and increasingly replaced by questions on the legitimate claims to specific areas and to their social
and natural resources. Because reggae in Cape Town is a popular music form that
is strongly connected to the African migration to the urban areas, the scholarly
discussions around autochthony also provide the main theoretical underpinning
for the following discussion about the reinterpretation of the legacy of the independence struggle in reggae music.
118
“Do you remember the days of apartheid?” – Rastafarian reggae
music in Gugulethu
Jamaican reggae has been a part of the South African musical landscape for forty
years. It was widely censored by the apartheid regime, but the music began to
circulate in the African and Coloured townships and homeland areas2 through
informal networks already in the 1970s (Chawane 2012: 172–176). The 1970s, and
especially the year 1976 with the uprising in Johannesburg in Soweto Township, are now considered as turning points in the apartheid struggle and as a
time of awakening of shared Black consciousness in the country. This consciousness meant that the urban township population began to recognize the common
blackness and shared oppression of the different African and Coloured ethnic
groups, despite the attempts of the government to portray them as racially distinctive by allocating them to different township areas. International black cultural currents, such as reggae music and the American Black Power Movement influenced and empowered the local Black Consciousness Movement that emerged
in South Africa more as a loose cultural ideology than as an organized political
force (Frueh 2002: 45–48, 65–93).
In the 1970s, Rastafari was introduced to Cape Town as a philosophical and
spiritual stance that was part of the larger emerging urban Black counterculture
and attached to Jamaican reggae music (Chawane 2012: 172–176). According to
the research participants, in Cape Town reggae and Rastafarian faith music became popular among male African migrants of Xhosa ethnic background, who
were allowed stay temporarily in the predominantly White and Coloured city
throughout the apartheid era to fill the shortage of cheap labour in the city. During the waves of protests in the 1970s, some migrant workers engaged in struggles for Black urban permanency as a part of wider movement against apartheid,
but the clear majority of the migrant labourers found themselves on the opposite
side of the conflict, because of their strong roots to the rural homelands (Frueh
2002: 65–93). David Coplain (2001: 110) observes that this widened the gap between urban popular music and the perceived rural and ethnic forms of popular
entertainment that were supported by the cultural policies of the apartheid state.
2 In the apartheid era homelands or Bantustans were nominally independent territories for the
different Black ethnic groups of South Africa. Compared to the White territories of the country, homelands were underdeveloped and overpopulated.
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The political juxtaposition between rural and urban cultures has also continued
in the post-apartheid state, as uncontrolled migration from rural areas to cities
has been seen as major threat to the nation in political discussion (Comaroff &
Comaroff 2001).
Some young Rastafarians in Cape Town reported that the early Rastafarians,
who were determinedly urban, lost their family links to their rural kin in the
process of migration and some sought to abandon their native Xhosa language,
isiXhosa, altogether in favour of a Rastafarian form of English. The development
of urban Rastafarian counterculture outside of conventional ethnic identifications,
during the apartheid era bears parallels to the emergence of the movement in
West Africa during the same era, where the movement also consisted mainly of
socially excluded urban youth who constructed Rastafari as a Pan-African identification across ethnic borders as Neil Savihinsky (1994) concluded in his seminal
work (see also, Chude-Sokei 2012).
As in most townships in the urban centres of South Africa, political violence
was commonplace in Gugulethu throughout the 1980s as the resistance against
apartheid intensified. This time had also affected profoundly the life histories of
the research participants. In the following quote, Crosby Bolani explains the close
intergenerational entanglement between political activism and Rastafarian conviction in his parent’s family. Bolani’s father, Ras Benjamin, was involved in antiapartheid community movements and Bolani attributes his father’s turn to Rastafari directly to the Pan-African political conviction of his grandfather, who named
one of his sons after Haile Selassie, a messianic figure for the Rastafarian faith:
My father - - followed the [Rastafarian] movement in the 1970s already, the late
70s, just because of the fact that his father was a part of a political party called
the Pan Africanist Congress. - - It happened that my father’s brother was given
the name Selassie, because their father was also inspired by the Emperor, you
know what I mean? Because of the stories he had heard, mysterious stories he
had heard about the King of Kings. So my father kinda like carried on with the
faith from then on, you know what I mean? My grandfather passed away in
1978 and my father became Rasta I think in 1979. He started locking his hair and
all of that. (Crosby Bolani & Daddy Spencer 2013.)
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In Crosby Bolani’s account, the respect for the Ethiopian emperor was also a
common ground between the Rastafarian faith and local Black political activism
at the time. Bolani’s account demonstrates how the Rastafarian religious and political symbols were adopted in Cape Town as markers of the international cause
of African and Black liberation.
The history of the independence struggle is central to the postcolonial nationalism of South Africa as well as to the social memory of the local Rastafarians
(Chawane 2008). In Gugulethu, the most physical example of this remembrance
is the Gugulethu Seven memorial that was erected in a central place in the township in 2005. The memorial is for seven local young men from the township,
known as the Gugulethu Seven, who were affiliated with the armed wing of ANC,
uMkhonto weSizwe (MK), and killed in a conflict with state security forces in
1986. They are also celebrated as heroes by the Rastafarians in the township, and
according to them, the Gugulethu Seven were Rastafarian adherents. In 2004
an established Capetonian reggae band Azania released a whole tribute album
to the Gugulethu Seven (Vivian Jones and Azania band 2004), featuring lyrical slogans such as “Do you remember the days of apartheid?” This type of active remembrance of colonial oppression and the histories of resistance, or “the half of
the story, which has never been told” as the reggae singer Bob Marley put it, has
become an international feature of the Rastafarian movement in different localities around the world. For example, Midas Chawane (2008) has documented a
similar type of social remembrance of the local apartheid resistance among South
African Rastafarians in the township of Daveyton in the city of Grahamstown.
The commemoration of struggle in reggae bears a strong connection to earlier
South African genres of crossover and crossed-over jazz3 in which similar historical themes were central in the 1990s. However, with the rise of kwaito and
house music over the domestic music markets since the beginning of the 2000s,
commemoration of the independence struggle has moved away from the central
focus of urban popular music (Allen 2004).
3 Here I follow Lara Allen’s (2004: 92) terminology, where she refers with the two terms “cross
over jazz” and “crossed over jazz” to the same musical genre, where the cross-fertilization of different ethnic music traditions was central. With the former term she refers the music genre in the
era before the independence and with the latter she refers to the same music genre after the independence.
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Musical claims for Black indigenousness and autochthony in Cape
Town
During my fieldwork in Cape Town, there were virtually no formal record labels, music clubs or events that would have featured reggae, despite the notable
number of Rastafarians in the city. One of the only formal commercial actors in
the local reggae culture was a tour company named Coffee Bean Routes, which
organized tourist visits to a reggae dancehall and to a Rastafarian community
in the township area. The current CEO of the company and a former head of a
small record label, Iain Harris, explained to me that the general lack of commercial interest in local reggae music is due not only to the strong stigma attached
to the cannabis use of reggae aficionados, but also to the backgrounds of reggae
audiences and artists, who are known to be drawn from the economically marginalized underclasses of Cape Town:
Unfortunately, the music economy, live, completely depends on selling alcoholic beverages - - If there is a rock show. - - 90% audience smokes ganja, but they
also drink. - - Whereas the reggae audiences, I don’t want to get locked down
to the ganja part, it’s just small part of it, it’s more about the legacy of apartheid
and where the reggae fans live, the kind of access to transport that they have,
the kind of access to income that they have. So it’s less that they would not want
to spend, but that they have less means to spend - - Its apartheid legacy and its
economics, and ganja is just the last kind of stepping stone. (Iain Harris 2013.)
The above quote indicates how reggae is viewed as a commercially marginal
and informal music genre in Cape Town, despite its relative popularity among
the township audiences. In spite of this marginalization, the reggae artists are
conscious of the commercial potential of the music genre among European audiences, which they seek to reach with their online releases. In the absence of
formal performance and recording opportunities, the artists also rely on digital
and informal mediation in spreading their music among local reggae aficionados of Cape Town.
The earlier research on Jamaican dancehall music has noted the connection
between the artists and their urban home communities, routinely named in the
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music as “ghettoes”, as ideologically paramount (Chude-Sokei 1994). The urban
territorialism is also visible in Gugulethu reggae. In earlier ethnographic research,
Heike Becker and Dastile Nceba (2008) have examined the ghetto identification
of the Rastafarian musicians from Xhosa background in Cape Town and concluded that this identity project is a highly politicized act in the metropolitan
context. According to them, the framing of Cape Town’s townships as ghettoes
addresses social inequality within the city and claims symbolic cultural space for
the working class African youth. Becker and Nceba argue that with their ghetto
identification the Xhosa Rastafarians musicians have adopted the racial pride
from the African Renaissance discourse of the government, but deployed it in
their music as a way to assert recognition for themselves as legitimate residents
of the city, despite their class background and marginalised position in the hierarchical urban geography.
In the post-independence years of the African Renaissance, the Rastafarian
movement grew substantially in Cape Town especially among the Coloured
youths. In the South African colonial ideology, the category of Coloured existed
as a liminal group between Africans and Whites. Pauline Bain (2003) and Lennox Olivier (2010) have attributed the appeal of Rastafari among the Coloured
youth to their feelings of cultural dispossession as a population caught between
different racial categories. Although there are no reliable statistics on the Rastafarian population in the Western Cape area, it seems clear that the majority of
Rastafarian adherents in the area are now from a Coloured background. Due
to my snowballing method in the acquisition of research participants, my field
study was confined mainly to the vocal artists of African and especially Xhosa
ethnicity. There is a vibrant reggae dancehall culture and reggae artists active in
the Coloured townships surrounding Gugulethu, but so far, they have not had
similar kinds of international breakthroughs as their Xhosa peers.
Scholars (Bain 2003: 48–54; Olivier 2013; Reid 2014) have documented how
Rastafarians from the Coloured backgrounds have generally seen this ethnic category itself as a colonial term that denies their African origins, and have sought
to rediscover their African roots by defining themselves as Khoisans instead of
Coloureds. Khoi and Khoisan people were the indigenous inhabitants of the
Western Cape area, when the Dutch first established a colony at the site in 1652.
By the beginning of the 20th century, most of the remnants of this indigenous
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population had been assimilated to the ethnically mixed Coloureds. The reclaiming of Khoisan identity has also been a larger cultural movement within the
wider non-Rastafarian Coloured population, but Rastafarians have been closely
connected with the process during recent years. Claiming of Khoisan identification appears as a very different identification to Rastafari, than the one that was
fostered by the early Xhosa adherents, who specifically sought with their conversion to distance themselves from their Xhosa ancestry and its rural rootedness
to the Eastern Cape.
My hypothesis is that the contemporary reggae artists from African ethnic
backgrounds also claim space in the city by forming musical connections between the Rastafarian movement and the natural environment of Cape Town in
addition to their urban ghetto identification. However, as isiXhosa speakers, the
Gugulethu reggae artists are not claiming indigenous Khoisan identification, but
instead imagine this autochthonous connection with discourses that they draw
from African cosmology and political history. I argue further that this claim that
the Rastafarians are the successors of “the first inhabitants of Cape Town” is a
highly significant counter discourse for the hegemonic discourses of the state
and the municipality, where the African migrants are seen as aliens to the city
(Comaroff & Comaroff 2001).
As Louis Chude-Sokei (2012; see also Bilby 1999) points out, Rastafarian identification fits for naturalized claims for belonging especially well, with its overriding use of the metaphor of “roots”. Autochthonous rhetoric has been prevalent
for example in reggae music in Côte d’Ivoire, where reggae songs are frequently engaged with theories on which of the country’s ethnic groups “came from
where, when and why”, as Anna Shuman notes (2009: 124). Schuman states that,
paradoxically, at the same time that reggae celebrates peace and universalism,
it asserts a natural belonging for certain ethnic and racial groups to the land of
Côte d’Ivoire. Bearing this multiplicity of potential political subject positions of
reggae music in mind, I dedicate the rest of this article to the analysis of the oeuvre of Gugulethu artists. First, I discuss in detail the various ways in which the
history of South African national history and Pan-Africanism are reconstructed
in the music and then I analyse how this interpretation of history is connected
to claims on autochthonous belonging.
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“The lovely country of Azania” and the logic of incompletion
Teba Shumba’s track Lovely Country is a typical example on the ways that the
history of the South African nation is represented in Gugulethu reggae music.
Lovely Country was released in 2013 in Shumba’s second self-released album The
Voice of Azania (Teba Shumba 2013c) and recorded as well as produced with the
Azania band. The song is an explicit narrative of the “lovely country” of South
Africa, as the chorus of the track proclaims: “Come, let me talk ‘bout me lovely
country/Where mumma just wash dem dirty laundry/‘Nuff Africans across the
boundary/People hungry, ah badman hungry”.4
According to Colin Wright (2013), as a genre Rastafarian reggae has historically used three lyrical motifs in the Jamaican context that he identifies as “criticizing Babylon”, “love and unity” and “historical consciousness”. All three are
heard in Lovely Country, but in a form that is adapted to the context and history
of Gugulethu. Wright (2013: 9–10) identifies the first one, criticizing Babylon, as a
militant trope that draws from the Biblical metaphor of Babylon, which is aimed
at the postcolonial state of Jamaica. The trope acknowledges that the Jamaican
state, in Wright’s words, “pretends to include everyone, but in the very same
gesture of inclusion effectively excludes the real sufferers” of the economic underclasses. Lennox Olivier (2010) has argued that precisely this Biblical trope of
Babylon has resonated well with South African Black Christian traditions and
provided a language and aesthetics for local Rastafarians to express their feelings of political disillusionment. In Lovely Country, Babylon is explicitly named
as the governing political leaders, whom the narrator has to “tap down” from
power that they have used to repress the “Black people to cry economically”. In
the lyrics, the speaker sets itself on the side of the “ghetto youths”, who the narrator is bringing together against Babylon: “Politics lie, so fire haffi’ burn/Ah
dem pull the trigger and ghetto youth run/ - - Many are called, I am the chosen
one/Whole heap a ghetto youth haffi’ bring as one”.
The second lyrical motif, love and unity, is, according to Colin Wright (2013:
12), “solidarity built upon the recognition of a common humanity - - beyond
the differences typical of the colonial ‘divide and rule’ tactics”. This is usually brought about with the positive identification to Africa with the symbols of
4 I have maintained the original Jamaican Patois pronunciation of the English words in the transcripts of the song lyrics.
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Haile Selassie and Ethiopia. In Lovely Country, these symbols are absent, and the
speaker places his affection rather on “Rastafari”, “the ghetto youth”, the “working class” and ultimately “the revolution” at the end of the song by proclaiming:
“Towards the liberation we strive/People survive, revolution has arrived/Working class haffi rise”. Thus, love and unity are filtered through socialist language
instead of Jamaican religious symbols. This language on “revolution” is generally more frequent in Gugulethu reggae music than explicit references to Selassie
and Ethiopia, although these features are also used occasionally. Wright (2013:
12–25) maintains that a similar mutation happened in British reggae already in
the late 1970s, where the works of Linton Kwesi Johnson were strongly influenced by Black socialist thought, more than by Rastafari as a religion. Johnson’s
music was in fact one of Shumba’s first musical inspirations and he expressed
to me that Johnsson’s explicit socialist rhetoric fit to the revolutionary political
situation, which he experienced in his teenager years in Cape Town.
Colin Wright (2013: 5–8) names the final roots reggae motif, historical consciousness, as a form of imagination that challenges the symbolic closure of postcolonial nations. This has been evident in the way that the Jamaican Rastafarian
musicians have refused to see Afro-Jamaican people as Jamaican, but persist in
seeing them as Ethiopians, who have been forced to live on the island. Together
with the two other motifs, this forms “the logic of incompletion”, that Wright
sees as a musical process that draws continuities to the past injustices to run
against the dominant constructions of national unity. Immediately at the beginning of the first verse of Lovely Country, Teba Shumba does not identify his historical belonging to either Ethiopia or South Africa, but rather to Azania, which
was a commonly used protest name for South Africa during the anti-apartheid
struggle: “Azania ah the country where I’ya was born/Where gangsta use knife
and police use gun/Where Mandela run things and Sobukwe is gone”. A South
African political party called the Pan-Africanist Congress (PAC), led by Robert
Sobukwe (1924–1978), popularized the name and it was associated especially to
this party from the 1950s onwards. During my fieldwork, the name Azania was
widely used in Rastafarian music and speech and considered as the original African name for the area known today as South Africa.
I interpret that in Lovely Country the invocation of the name Azania constructs
a form of alternative historical imagination on the nation or “counter-national-
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ism” (see Pöysä & Rantala 2011: 9–12). As opposed to the multiracial nationalism
of ANC, the main political thesis of PAC in the 1960s was that that only the Black
majority itself could overthrow the institutional racism by direct action. PAC’s
political philosophy was also influential for the Black Consciousness Movement
in Cape Town in the 1970s and 1980s. (Frueh 2002: 45–48; Saunders 2013). As
was shown earlier, the philosophy and activism of PAC was closely linked to the
early Rastafarians of Gugulethu for example in Crosby Bolani’s family. In Lovely
Country identification to PAC is further invoked in the way that the narrator refers to the founder of the party, Robert Sobukwe, by mentioning that he is gone
and now Nelson Mandela “runs things”.
PAC’s leadership fell into disarray due to apartheid repression in the late
1960s and lost its popular support further in the late apartheid era (Saunders
2013: 295–297). Gugulethu artists do not hold formal membership in the current
PAC, which still exists as a tiny political party in South African electoral political.
Rather the history of PAC fits to the logic of incompletion, which challenge the
hegemonic narrative on South African nationalism. In this narrative, the ANC frequently attempts to portray itself as the sole representative of the unified Black
majority and as the political movement that brought about the peaceful transition to independence. In various South African musical genres national identity
has been celebrated through the commemoration of the victory over apartheid
(Allen 2004: 91–101; Ballantine 2004: 107–113). In contrast to this, Shumba’s lyrical interpretation of the history of Black Consciousness presents the struggle
against apartheid as an incomplete event, rather than celebrating it as a victory.
A similar re-reading of national history has been seen in Jamaican roots reggae,
where the Caribbean slave trade has been seen as an injustice that continues in
the independent nation (Wright 2013; King 2002: 45–65).
Teba Shumba’s references to Sobukwe being replaced by Mandela can be read
as expressing a sense of exclusion from the hegemonic constructions of national
community and history. In the social context Gugulethu, where Pan-African political currents have been historically strong, Shumba’s re-reading of the national
history can be seen as an attempt to construct class consciousness and history
for the growing urban African underclass of Cape Town, who are in many ways
marginalized in the city and perceived as aliens in the hegemonic discourses surrounding urbanization (Comaroff & Comaroff 2001).
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As a further indication of his disillusionment with Nelson Mandela’s legacy
and the ANC, Teba Shumba included in his previous album 20-5-2-1 Manifesto
(Teba Shumba 2005) an interlude where the listener first hears the voice of Nelson Mandela giving a speech, “to all the nations out there”, addressing a variety
of issues. At the end of this two-minute interlude, Mandela proceeds to proclaim
that next, he will light his marijuana cigar, and it becomes apparent that the track
is the work of an imitator of Mandela rather than a speech by the leader himself. In this interlude, South African national history is again rearticulated into
Rastafarian counter-nationalism and Mandela is placed as a promoter of African
nationalism instead of multiracial democracy.
Autochthonous belonging in Icuba Labathwa album
Celebration of cannabis is an international genre feature of reggae that was instrumental in marketing the music to wider audiences outside Jamaica (see King
2002: 89–104). The same marketing process is also evident in Cape Town. For example, Crosby Bolani reported that his cannabis anthems, such as Gimme de weed
with his group Chronic Clan (African Dope Soundsystem 2004), had been by far his
most successful track. To his initial surprise, these anthems also received an enthusiastic response in Assembly, which is a rock-music nightclub in the centre of
the city with predominantly White patrons.
As an aspiring but not yet as established artist, Korianda had developed a
similar lyrical approach around cannabis following Crosby Bolani’s example.
During the fieldwork, he had just started to distribute his first self-released reggae album, on which he had aimed to keep the cannabis theme in the forefront
of the album by naming it accordingly as Icuba Labathwa (Izajah Korianda 2013b),
which is a vernacular isiXhosa term for cannabis. He described his amazement
when he first heard that during the European tours of other Gugulethu artists,
the western audiences had shown interest not only in tracks done in Jamaican
Patois, but also in the reggae tracks that featured isiXhosa. This had led Korianda
to develop his first album to a direction, where he would alternate between isiXhosa, Jamaican Patois and chiShona, which is the main language of the sizable
Zimbabwean diaspora in Cape Town. Having learnt some chiShona, Korianda
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aimed to target his music to the Zimbabwean markets as well, where reggae
was allegedly already in prominent position. In the album, he wanted to explore
themes varying from African nationalism to his Xhosa roots and Rastafarian
faith. According to Korianda, all these different elements could best be brought
together in the celebration of the use of cannabis plant.
Icuba Labathwa is also translatable as the “herb of the Khoi people”. Korianda
was convinced that the name Icuba Labathwa indicates that hemp was a native
plant to the Western Cape and the Xhosa people learned the use of marijuana
from the Khoisan people already in the ancient precolonial times. He stated that
by building the concept of his album around the song of Icuba Labathwa, where
he uses isiXhosa language in a humorous manner to describe a court case where
he begs President Jacob Zuma to release marijuana from captivity, he sought to
highlight how the use of marijuana unites the Khoisan and the African ethnic
groups. It is also evident that with this particular naming of marijuana, Korianda
can claim belonging to the Western Cape and its Khoisan history, from his own
Xhosa background.
The similar envisioning of shared Black history of the nation, which is evident
in Korianda’s music, was one central musical themes in the genre of crossover
and crossed-over jazz, where elements from different ethnic music traditions
were mixed to form a South African sound. Several crossover artists, such as
Pops Mohammed, have also claimed continuity to Khoisan music traditions (Allen 2004: 91–104; see also, Ballantine 2004). The discourse on the common history
of the Khoisan and African ethnic groups is also linked to the wider history of
Black political consciousness and Pan-Africanism in South Africa, to which we
saw that Teba Shumba’s Lovely Country was also linked. Xolela Mangcu (2012:
33–78) demonstrates that the late anti-apartheid thinker Steve Biko (1946–1977)
and the Black Consciousness movement were influenced by earlier 19th century
Xhosa writers advocating interethnic consciousness between the Khoi and the
Xhosa against the White colonisers. Gugulethu artists, such as Korianda, are well
aware of these historical musical and political currents that have acted as strong
influences for their music.
Many of the artists interviewed during the fieldwork reported racist prejudices between Rastafarians from different ethnic backgrounds, suggesting that
the ideal of Black consciousness between the Khoisan and the Xhosa Rastafarians
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is not very widely shared on a practical level (see also, Olivier 2010: 4). Rather,
it exists as an idealized musical imaginary, that “mobilizes the imagined past
and gives meaning to the ambivalent present” to quote the words of David Coplain (2001: 113) on maskanda music. The philosophy of Black consciousness
constructed from the widely shared, but at the same time deviant, cannabis use
in different ethnic groups, accommodates the Gugulethu reggae musicians, who
seek to cross boundaries of ethnicity and class when aspiring to be successful
in their craft. This border crossing bears strong resemblance to another group of
Rastafarian entrepreneurs in Cape Town: the herbalists. During the last decades,
the growth of the Khoisan Rastafarian movement has been linked to the revival
of the use of traditional medicine in Cape Town, where it is now common to
see Rastafarians work as herbalists (Olivier 2013; Reid 2014). For the Rastafarian herbalists, the illegal cannabis trade forms an important source of revenue
alongside the sale of medicinal plants. According to Andrew Reid (2014: 24–60),
cannabis is symbolically central for the herbalists, since its ritual use is seen to
foster peace across ethnic borders. Reid analyses how the cannabis trade requires
complex networks of social contracts based on personal trust and how in the
Western Cape the cannabis trade has historically cut across different social and
ethnic borders.
The sociability of cannabis use was also evident in the fieldwork, where I
witnessed how for the main research participants, cannabis was present in their
encounters and collaborations with musical contacts from different ethnicities,
music genres and religious convictions on numerous occasions. In these encounters, the use of the criminalized substance fostered a shared social commitment.5
This implies that cannabis has similar meanings for Rastafarian musicians, as for
the Rastafarian herbalists that Andrew Reid (2014) examined in his work. For
Rastafarian musicians, cannabis is seen to foster both personal connections as
well as social mobility by connecting their music to different audiences across
ethnic and class lines and ultimately national borders in a particular way. Lennox Olivier (2013) has demonstrated in his ethnographic work how through the
use and harvest of various natural plants, the Rastafarian herbalists form a close
spiritual affinity with the natural areas surrounding Cape Town. Furthermore,
in Korianda’s music, the cannabis plant and the social practices around it con5 I have discussed the methodological problems that the cannabis use among Rastafarians posed
to the fieldwork in detail elsewhere (Järvenpää, forthcoming b).
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structs a naturalized connection to the surrounding nature of Western Cape and
its Khoisan ancestry.
The celebration of cannabis is a musical imaginary, where the potential disputes and disruptions in social networks around cannabis are absent. In addition,
Crosby Bolani expressed that he had lately become increasingly uneasy about his
cannabis anthems. He felt that in the process of crossing over to other audiences,
such as the rock-audiences of the Assembly club, he was easily labelled solely as
an artist celebrating drug culture instead of a socially conscious or political artist, as he wanted to be known. Thus, the cannabis anthems can become a double
bind, which on the one hand have been instrumental in the breakthrough of these
artists across different ethnic and social boarders, but which also depend on conventional stereotypes of Rastafarians. Bolani’s frustration speaks perhaps also
on the wider balancing, that the Gugulethu reggae musicians have to do while
aspiring to combine their aspiration to cross social borders with their quest for
rootedness to the land and its ancestry.
Messages from the natives – Negotiating the place of ancestors in
Rastafarian reggae
Although Korianda’s Icuba Labathwa album envisions the mythological and interethnic history of the Rastafarian movement, the isiXhosa language still dominates the album. As with all four Gugulethu vocalists, Korianda’s music is deeply connected to vernacular isiXhosa expressions and proverbs, which roots his
music to Xhosa ethnicity from which the older Rastafarians sought to distance
themselves. According to the research participants, the introduction of isiXhosa
to reggae music is a fairly recent development that has been strongly criticised
by older Rastafarians. In the following quote Korianda explains to me how the
pioneering Rastafarians perceived their Xhosa ancestry and why Korianda himself has started to incorporate isiXhosa to his music:
Rasta and culture [?], Rasta and Xhosa, they clash when it comes to cultural
practices: slaughtering - - In order for a lot of our elders to be Rastas, they had
to leave their homes. ‘Cos their families just would not accept that. - - Thus, the
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community that we have, the Rasta community that we have, it was put together by a lot of Rastas who had to leave their homes, some in very tough situations,
ja, like ten years, fifteen years without seeing their parents and family, just because of those things. That’s why personally I believe, that it is our responsibility
to close that gap before it is too late. (Korianda 2013.)
The above quote speaks for the generational differences between Rastafarians,
where the elders, who are often also the religious authorities within the movement, had attempted to break their links to their rural kin. Korianda expresses
that with the adoption of isiXhosa language in reggae music, the present generation of Gugulethu dancehall artists is trying “to close the gap” that older Rastafarians have allegedly maintained from the larger Xhosa community. Korianda
mentions the rejection of slaughtering as the main difference that sets Rastafarians apart from other Xhosa people. In the Xhosa life-cycle rituals, slaughtering
is essential in the burial ritual known as, umkhapho, where cattle sacrifices are required for the deceased to join the ancestors (Hirst 2005). A vegetarian diet and
the rejection of slaughtering and ancestor or spirit veneration has been seen by
scholars as the defining break that Jamaican Rastafarians made in the 1960s from
other Afro-Caribbean religions. In Rastafarian theology, suffering and misfortune
are not attributed to disturbances in ancestral relations, but to the workings of
the devilish “Babylonian” colonial system (Chevannes 1994: 145–170). During
the fieldwork, several Rastafarians expressed that they reject the Xhosa slaughtering tradition altogether in the manner that Korianda describes here. This has
probably been one the concrete factors that distanced urban Rastafarians from
the Xhosa ethnicity, since the life-cycle rituals link the individual to the lineal
family or clan (Hirst 2005).
In South Africa, as elsewhere in Africa, traditional African cosmology has
been remarkably flexible and co-existed with and within other religions, such as
Islam and Christianity. Rastafari is not an exception to this. For example, Darren Middleton (2006) notes that in the Ghanaian context, the social practices of
spirit healer and Rastafarian increasingly influence each other. According to Korianda, some older Rastafarians are suspicious that similar unorthodox synthesis
of Xhosa cosmology and Rastafarian religion might develop by the mere use of
isiXhosa. It has indeed been the case that “closing the gap” between the isiXhosa
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and Rastafarian music has also entailed novel local theological re-interpretations
of Rastafari. This is very apparent in Teba Shumba’s music where he at times utilizes the notion of ancestral spirits. He specifically considers his tracks in isiXhosa, such as Ababhansi and Azania (Teba Shumba 2013c), as messages from the
“underground”. Here he talks about his track, Ababhansi:
‘Ababhansi’ means ancestors; loosely translated ‘phansi’ means ‘on the ground’ or
‘underground’, so those who are underground or those who have passed away - So in the song it talks about the natives of the land, who are dis-satisfied with the
present situation including the new Black politicians, who have compromised our
struggle for the benefit of the few - - When I sing in vernac, or with African language it is kind of limiting, but it is also invoking the spirits. The African spirits.
These songs – I would classify them as songs that come from the ancestors – I believe that I don’t really write the songs; I am just used by the spirits to express the
songs so the spirits own the songs. They just use me as a tool. (Teba Shumba 2013.)
In his account above, Shumba explains that the African spirituality in his music is closely connected with the Rastafarian social critique towards South African politicians and politics. In Abaphansi, Shumba has combined the concept of
Babylon with the voice of the ancestors, who are dissatisfied with this corrupt
structure. The track Ababhansi also features spirit healers singing in isiXhosa and
shaking their rattles. In this musical context, the message from “the natives of the
land” implies in a autochthonous manner that the African ethnic groups hold an
ancient ancestry to Western Cape, even though they are currently often seen as aliens to the area in the hegemonic discourses about the uncontrolled urbanization.
Shumba’s account of his role as a spirit medium resembles the historical role
of the praise poet, or “imbongi”, in the royal courts of Xhosa clans. Poets have
commonly invoked the voice of the ancestors and besides giving praises to the
kings; they were also expected to give public criticism of the rulers. (Oppland
& McAllister 2010; Mangcu 2012: 75–78). Even though the track Ababhansi is in
this manner rooted specifically to the Xhosa cosmology and praise-poetry, Teba
Shumba remained adamant that his music and his ancestry are “universally African”. In the following quote he answers my question about what separates him
as a Rastafarian from the traditions of the Xhosa and the Tswana:
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Tuomas Järvenpää
I can go to Ethiopia or I can go to Gambia and if I am coming through as “I’m
Rasta” I am in the mix. But if I go to Botswana and say “I’m XHOSA”. Then I am in
that box and then they will treat me like that. - - It’s a universal African connection.
And Rasta is anti-tribalism. There are positive things that are tribal, but most of
the tribal things are negative. They cause conflicts and discrimination among African people. (Teba Shumba 2013b.)
In the above quote Shumba emphasizes that he sees his heritage, and also his
ancestors, as universally African and not attached to any specific ethnicity. In the
context of Johannesburg and Zulu ethnicity, David Coplain (2001: 119–123) has
discussed a similar case, where a Rastafarian musician, John Sithole, acts as head
of a drumming group that draws heavily on ethnic Zulu traditions. Like Teba
Shumba, John Sithole is a committed Pan-Africanist and sees no contradiction
between his ethnic musical style and Rastafarian universalism. In both cases, the
artists see that their ethnic music styles and universalist Black consciousness can
be ultimately combined in Rastafarian identification. In their songs, both Sithole
and Shumba have also negotiated the pronounced tension that has historically
existed between South African urban and rural musical styles (Coplain 2001).
As the critique of the older Rastafarians indicates, the incorporation of ancestral voices to reggae music is a recent development. In the group of the main
research participants, only Teba Shumba had used the ancestral voice in his music. One factor behind Teba Shumba’s incorporation of ancestral spirits to his
isiXhosa lyrics might be his own social distance to the Xhosa life-cycle rituals,
where the agency of the lineal family ancestors and Rastafarian religious beliefs
might contradict more comprehensively in the requirement for ritual slaughter.
Teba Shumba grew up in Gugulethu in an urban environment, not with a Xhosa family, but with Tswana and Shona parents, and is, as he put it, a “product
of western missionary education” from a Capetonian Catholic boarding school.
Shumba’s view that ancestors are attached to the land and not to any particular
ethnicity, resonates with earlier scholarly observations that autochthony can be
constructed outside of ethnic demarcations in a manner that a specific claim to
indigeneity to the land can unite individuals across ethnic borders (Comaroff &
Comaroff 2001: 254–258).
134
Conclusions
At the beginning of this article I asked how South African national history is
reinterpreted in the Capetonian Rastafarian reggae music, since the genre has
been known paradoxically for both its postcolonial social critique as well its
central role in the nationalist projects of the postcolonial states. In addition, I
asked how reggae artists might construct indigenous identifications, since the
socio-political commentary of contemporary reggae music has been linked to
such identity claims around the world (Alvarez 2008; Bilby 1999; Wright 2013;
King 2002: 95–97).
I analysed reggae music vis-à-vis the social claims of urban permanency by
the African migrants to Cape Town. I discussed how the experiences of urban
exclusion were voiced in the music by connecting the Rastafarian identification
with the radical African nationalism of the historical PAC party and Black Consciousness movement. In addition, I analysed how the musicians claimed a naturalized belonging for themselves as Africans to the city of Cape Town. This connection was forged through imagining the ritual use of cannabis use as a common
tradition between the Xhosa and the Khoisan and the cannabis plant as natural
to the Western Cape as well as incorporating the ancestors of the land to their
political project of African nationalism.
The aforementioned themes of Gugulethu reggae music bear continuity to
various urban South African musical genres. Lara Allen (2004) discusses how
crossed-over jazz enjoyed popularity with a lyrical approach where serious sociopolitical themes were central and mythical and interethnic African history was
envisioned. However, crossed-over jazz lost popularity to more party-oriented
kwaito, where the celebration of urban territorialism and township identity were
central and which connected the genre to the international Black popular culture
of the time. Even more recently, the genre of conscious hip-hop has gained popularity with blunt political criticism (Coplain 2005: 19–25). Contemporary reggae music can be seen to negotiate the thematic differences between these urban
South African musical styles. Rastafarian artists in Gugulethu simultaneously
subscribe to a ghetto-centric celebration of Gugulethu, envisioning a mythical
African history and rootedness and voice a direct socio-political critique of the
political establishment. This variety of different subject positions in Gugulethu
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Tuomas Järvenpää
reggae is also typical for the music genre in the international context. The enduring success of dancehall reggae lies partly in its ability to envision the particular,
but interconnected histories of marginalized Black urban communities as manifestations of the same Black Atlantic cultural network (Chude-Sokei 1994).
I argued that Gugulethu reggae is still based on African (counter) nationalism, despite the current legitimacy crisis of the ANC and the declining vision of
African Renaissance. For the Gugulethu artists, Africanness does not imply a
closed national community as it does in the usual political discourse surrounding the concept of African Renaissance, where Africanness is deployed vis-a-vis
the alleged aliens, who threaten the prosperity of the nation (see also, Becker &
Nceba 2008: 27–29). As Jean and John Comaroff (2001: 249–250; 254–258) remind
us, in this hegemonic political discourse on African Renaissance, the limits of the
natural order of things are authenticated, new political distinctions interpolated
within it and some objects or people are rendered as unnatural. I argue that rhetoric on the attachment to the land is used in Gugulethu reggae in a countering
manner. Instead of bordering the limits of the natural order, the naturalizing discourse of reggae music assimilates the Rastafarian movement and specifically the
young working class African men, into the natural world in place of Cape Town.
Although the previous discussions on autochthony in Africa have connected the
phenomenon strongly to xenophobia and patriotism (Comaroff & Comaroff 2001;
Schuman 2009), these features were absent from the analysed Gugulethu reggae
music. In this music, the counterpoints for the Rastafarian autochthony are not
alien groups of people, but instead “the Babylon” and “the new Black politicians”
whom the musicians feel have excluded them from the national community. Here
the musicians draw from the tradition of the South African Black Consciousness
Movement in which blackness was envisioned against the political establishment
of the apartheid government as an indicator of oppression rather than an essential racial category (Mangcu 2012: 267–287; Frueh 2002: 45–48).
Jean and John Comaroff (2001) note that issues of land use and ownership
of natural resources are concrete economic issues in South Africa, but their significance lies also in the assertions of social identities and alliances. The claims
of indigeneity by the Rastafarian reggae musicians are not claims of the redistribution of the land away from the perceived aliens or celebration of ethnic chauvinism, but they are “about finding ways to exist in a multiplex modernity, but
136
with a difference, a difference derived from cultural tradition, from landedness,
and from ongoing histories of displacement, travel, and circulation” to quote the
words of James Clifford (2001: 483) on the land claims of the indigenous people
movements of the Western Pacific. The search for rootedness, which has been
a dominant theme in the history of Jamaican reggae music (Chude-Sokei 2012),
has in Cape Town become an apt symbol to construct shared social identification
across ethnic boundaries for the working class African men from different cultural backgrounds. What is common amongst them is that in Cape Town they find
themselves in similar culturally and socially marginalized positions as did the
first Rastafarians in Jamaica, where the movement was born in the fast migration
to the shantytowns of Kingston from the rural parishes (Chevannes 1994:44–77).
The described form of rootedness has been developed by the current generation of younger Xhosa musicians, whose approach to Rastafari differs from Neil
Savihinsky’s (1994: 42) seminal interpretation of Western African Rastafari as a
youth subculture with “open disdain for anything having to do with indigenous
African religious systems”. Reggae musicians in Cape Town have constructed
novel forms of Rastafarian identifications in relation to the Jamaican movement
and thus created new distinctively South African Black subjectivities (see also,
Ballantine 2004: 106–107). However, Savihinsky’s description fits better to the
older generation of Rastafarians from Xhosa background, who have distanced
themselves from the Xhosa cosmology. This older generation has also criticised
the main research participants for their introduction of elements of Xhosa cosmology to reggae music. This indicates further that at the moment Rastafari in
the Western Cape is a fast-developing, multigenerational cultural form with different age groups and its own internal value tensions.
137
Tuomas Järvenpää
References
Interviews
Crosby Bolani & Daddy Spencer (2013) recorded 10.9.2013, 38 minutes, in the possession of the
author.
Crosby Bolani (2013) recorded 9.10.2013, 70 minutes, in the possession of the author.
Daddy Spencer (2013) recorded 23.11.2013, 62 minutes, in the possession of the author.
Iain Harris (2013) recorded 11.11.2013, 66 minutes, in the possession of the author.
Izajah Korianda (2013) recorded 2.11.2013, 69 minutes, in the possession of the author.
Teba Shumba (2013a) recorded 18.9.2013, 93 minutes, in the possession of the author.
Teba Shumba (2013b) recorded 3.12.2013, 16 minutes, in the possession of the author.
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Underhill, Glynnis (2013) “Cape Town Protesters: It’s not about Politics but Delivery”. The Mail
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141
Elina Hytönen-Ng, Terhi Skaniakos & Kwok Ng
“I Was a Soldier in Kosovo”
Discourses of war in James Blunt’s early musical career
Wars affect and have been affecting a vast number of people’s lives in the world.
One of the recent European conflicts was the war in the Serbian province of Kosovo that started in February 1998 involving high levels of ethnic cleansing against
the Kosovar Albanians. After unsuccessful peace talks and Milosevic’s refusal to
stop the violence in March 1999 NATO intervened. NATO troops took control of
Kosovo after the ceasefire in June 1999. (Arkin 2001; Clark 2002.) Stationed with
KFOR NATO forces James Hillier Blount was amongst the first troops to arrive in
Kosovo and was deployed as a commander of a tank crew in the Serbian border
region. Having served in the Household Calvary Mounted Regiment in London,
and in Queen Elizabeth’s personal guards he resigned in 2002 after six years of
service. (Barnes 2006; Hardy 2010: 4, 93; Sisario 2007.)
Following this, Blount created a stage name as James Blunt and went on to
pursue a music career as a singer-songwriter. With the support of his pop rock
band set up, his military experiences were often reflected in the music. His music can be seen as mainstream popular music and falls in-between folk or pop
rock. The genre of his music is somewhat contradictory as Blunt’s visual image.
His band seems to imply folk rock influences, and has been described as “highly
emotional male singer-songwriter” (Ramaswamy 2008), which is not normal
for the genre, but rather common in mainstream popular music. Critics have
defined his music as “a throwback to the 1970s soft-rock golden age” (Sisario
2007). In 2004 his debut album Back to Bedlam was released. From the album, the
© SES & Hytönen-Ng, Skaniakos & Ng, Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 2015, vol. 27, ss. 142– 166.
142
“I Was a Soldier in Kosovo”:
Discourses of war in James Blunt ’s early musical career
song You’re Beautiful reached number one in numerous charts around the world1
despite being loathed by critics. (Hardy 2010: 4–6; Sisario 2007.) As the album
received more attention, the inclusion of the last track, No Bravery led to more
inquiry into the experiences of war by Blunt. (BBC 2005; Tranter 2006; Williams
2005). The song received radio play but was never released as a single in the US.
The theme of war appear in Blunt’s early musical career generating an interesting topic for music research. Within our article the related themes covered in
the media between 2005–2008 are explored through discourse analysis of the
culture that is near and penetrates our everyday lives. Throughout this article,
we will be contributing to the scholarly discussion of the “dark side” of popular
music, referencing violence and war. (Johnson & Cloonan 2009: 1–12; Rice 2012.)
Ethnomusicological research on war
The ethnomusicological research addressing music in relation to war emerged
after the 1990’s and has since been growing steadily. A notable example on music
and violence is Music and Conflict (O’Connell & Castelo-Branco 2010), where a
wide range of articles from Brazil to Azerbaijan were included. It is nonetheless
evident that most of this ethnographic research looks at music, war and violence
outside the western world (i.e. Burkhalter 2011; O’Connell & Castelo-Branco
2010; Kartomi 2010; McDonald 2010). However, there are few studies on war
within ethnomusicology for two basic reasons: the difficulty to obtain permission to do fieldwork in war zones: and, the dangerous circumstances of conducting research in such situations (Kartomi 2010: 453–56). In our study, we provide
an alternative way of conducting safe and ethical ethnomusicological research
through the examination of secondary material.
War’s impact on music in the former Yugoslavia has been researched within
ethnomusicology. Jane Sugarman (2010) studied the Kosovo conflict and the significance of music in the media in incitement to war and as an advocate for peace.
Svanibor Pettan (1996 & 2010) conducted research on Bosnian refugees’ music
making in Norway, and the Roma’s musical transactions in Kosovo during and
1 Blunt’s first album has gone down in history as the biggest-selling album in the United Kingdom
between 2000 and 2009. By 2010, it had sold over 18 million copies. (Hardy 2010: 4–6; Sisario 2007.)
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Elina Hy tönen-Ng, Terhi Skaniakos & Kwok Ng
after the war. Naila Ceribašić (1995 & 2000) studied gender roles in Croatian and
Serbian popular music during the war.
War and music have also been studied in the broader context of musicology
and popular music studies for example in relation to the conflicts involving the
U.S.A, such as Vietnam war (Andresen 2003), Iraq war (Pieslak 2009), and the
9/11 terrorist acts and the following musical reactions, compositions and performances in and out of US (Fisher & Flota 2011; Ritter & Daughtry 2013). Recently,
research has been carried out by Susanna Välimäki (2015) on musical representations of trauma caused by war and genocide. Her aim was to demonstrate how
music can aid people in collective traumas and burdens through three musical
pieces. One related, rather large research area focuses on violence (Johnson &
Cloonan 2009; Cusick’s (2006 & 2008; Richardson 2011; Armstrong 1993; Smith
& Boyson 2002). However in this article we do not use the aspects of violence,
instead focus on war in relation to the music of mainstream ‘white’ popular musicians, a topic that is still overlooked by ethnomusicologists.
Ethnomusicological literature has in recent years highlighted a ‘historical
juncture’, that has seen to shift the research away from the ‘automatic identification with the exotic’. The ethnomusicological research has branches in new areas,
not just ‘the other’ and orientalism. (Stobart 2008: 1.) There has been a paradigm
shift where the focus has been turned on the researcher’s own cultural and musical environment. Yet, this shift in conducting research is rarely accepted within
ethnomusicology, the exceptions to this can be found in Nordic countries that
have a long tradition of combining popular music studies with ethnomusicology.
Our aims are to show how ethnomusicologically questions and discussions
are presented in popular music and media. Throughout this article we want to
raise awareness on how war can be part of the Western popular music making
and mainstream pop. Academic discussions have generally avoided artists such
as Blunt and others whose mainstream repertoire sells millions. We demonstrate
how, in popular music, the artist’s own experiences has influenced music making; the “real life” can be relevant in all kinds of music and cultures. Our main
research question is to study what kind of war related discourses can be found in
James Blunt’s music making and its media representations in the years 2004–2008.
144
Methods and research material
Our approach can be located at the cross-section of ethnomusicology, cultural
musicology and media anthropology. Cultural practices and their meanings are
studied through a variety of forms of cultural texts (Childs 2006). Our analysis
was comprised of cultural texts that consist of written and audio-visual materials.
We applied ethnographic methods to media texts that focused on the particular
artist in this study. In the case of our material, ethnography is partly virtual (Hine
2008) that focused on a phenomenon dependent on media and digital production.
Through this, we followed the current conceptions of the changes in the ways to
carry out fieldwork in the last decades, and include electronic forms (Wood 2008).
Following the examples of virtual ethnography we used heterogeneous data
(text, audio-visual data, etc.) in the analysis and combined research from what
is known as “in front of the screen and in the virtual field”. (Domínguez et al.
2007.) However, we did not investigate online communities but used the Internet
as an archival resource. The analysis also includes audio-visual ethnography (cf.
visual ethnography by Pink 2008) used as a research tool engaging with online
print and audio-visual media. The aim is to engage with the symbolic meaning
construction and critical analysis of cultural texts.
Even though our analysis is not critical discourse analysis in its purest form,
we have adopted Norman Fairclough’s main ideas that included the linking of
textual analysis with the social analysis of practices, organisation and institutions.
Textual analysis involves interdiscursive analysis (analysis of discourses, genres
and styles are drawn upon in a text and how they are articulated together) and
analysis of different semiotic modes (language, visual images, music etc.) (Fairclough 2010: 7). Here, discourse analysis refers to the analysis of the relationships
between concrete language use (through any communicative system) and the
wider social and cultural structures. (Fairclough 1995: 56). In other words, the
analysis focuses on the ways the world is represented in the events and relations
of the text, and how they constitute socially produced meanings as discourses.
Discourses are constitutive of social practices and processes, and are essential in
the meaning making process. Culturally produced meanings are not fixed, stable
or ‘pure’, they are produced under certain conditions and within a context. It is
part of the analysis to critically pay attention to values and power relations, that
145
is, the ideological setting of the “good” and the “right”, and the various related
position. (Fairclough 1995: 104; 2010: 7–8.)
The research material used in this study comprises of Blunt’s first two albums,
Back to Bedlam (2004) and All the Lost Souls (2007), the documentary film Return
to Kosovo released at the time Blunt’s second album came out in 2007, two music
videos and media texts collected from 14 online music reviews and magazine articles written between 2004 and 2008 (table 1). Materials from both conservative
and liberal broadsheet British and American newspapers were used.
Form of research material
Name
Year of release
Source
Journalist
Albums
Back to Bedlam
2004
All the Lost Souls
2007
High1
2004
No Bravery
2006
Return to Kosovo
2007
James Blunt interview
2005
BBC Norfolk
Williams, Sarah
James Blunt: Back to Bedlam
2005
Slant Magazine
Cinquemani, Sal
Turning up the charm and the eye contact
2005
The New York Times
Sinagra, Laura
James Blunt Interview
2005
Female First
James Blunt & Carrie Fisher: The odd couple.”
2006
The Independent
Barnes, Anthony
Q&A; James Blunt
2006
Rolling Stone
Scaggs, Austin
Slightly Bigger: Interview with James Blunt
2006
PopMatters
Tranter, Nikki
Blunty’s back. Oh yes he is…
2007
BBC
Blakeney, Jerome
Album: James Blunt
2007
The Independent
Gill, Andy
James Blunt: All the Lost Souls
2007
Rolling Stone
Hoard, Christian
James Blunt, All the Lost Souls
2007
The Guardian
Petridis, Alexis
Making a Career After a Monster Hit
2007
The New York Times
Sisario, Ben
James Blunt Interview: Blunt and too the point
2008
Scotland on Sunday
Ramaswamy, Chitra
Music videos
Documentary
Articles
Table 1: Research material.
1 There are two version of the music video for the single High. The first one was released in 2004 and
another version for the re-released in 2005. In this article used only the video released in 2004.
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Even though our research data includes Blunt’s two albums, we avoided comprehensive analysis of the lyrics. After 2008, the themes of war and death no longer appear in quantity from the media texts and therefore works produced later
were not been included in this study. The texts generated symbolic meaning of
the constructions of war and three particular discourses related to the artist James
Blunt; the soldier; the saviour and the traitor. These three discourses gain different weight in the analysed material and even contradict each other in some ways.
Soldier (saviour)
The discourse of the soldier reflects upon Blunt’s experiences of the war. The
soldier can be found in his music making, in the album art and in the documentary Return to Kosovo. We have also identified a subdiscourse closely related to
the soldier, however it appears as a specific way of representing certain aspects
of soldierhood. As a whole, this discourse is the strongest one in our research
material, and was heavily constructed in the media materials produced by the
artists.
The soldier discourse can be found from journal articles that frequently highlighted Blunt as different to other musicians because he has a history of military
honour. In the interviews in the British media done in the beginning of his musical career, Blunt was presented as a military officer, and that gave him a status
that was used to highlight the special nature of his career. This was evident from
the perspective of reviews about the quality of Blunt’s music as a form of selfexpression. There was a tendency where the media would introduce Blunt’s military career as a way to establish a narrative of a soldier realizing his dream rather
than a musician at the beginning of his career. The journal articles pointed out
his music possesses a special depth and insight; after all, he wrote songs while
being an officer. (BBC 2005: Williams 2005.)
The journalists often implied that Blunt’s former career was a strength of character he was able to draw upon. Blunt’s experiences as a soldier in war might
have carried both personal and painful memories. In an interview for a British
celebrity and lifestyle magazine, Female First, Blunt’s life as a musician was portrayed as an interruption to his more ‘respectable’ career as a soldier (Williams
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2005). BBC Norfolk, on the other hand, posed Blunt’s song-writing as a way to
helped him during his time in Kosovo inferring that music was his primary interest (BBC 2005). It could be seen that these interviews extended the perception
of Blunt’s musical career as a way to come into terms with his past experiences
of a soldier.
Blunt’s responses to the journalist’s questions brought out different aspects of
his career and the soldier discussion. In the Female First interview Blunt emphasized the personal meaning and experiences behind the songs, it created a strong
divide between his current life as a musician and the time in the army. Blunt himself stated that the soldier’s had a different ‘frame of mind’ on the field suggesting that a form of detachment took place. He also emphasized that through his
military training he was better prepared to face different types of audiences and
to deal with the media. His responses implies that his past is no longer present
in his life. He has presented himself as an image of a strong independent man
accustomed to abuse and resistance. (Williams 2005.)
US based Slant’s review on Blunt’s debut album offers Americans an opportunity to “go gaga over this able British bloke” based on his military past. (Cinquemani 2005.) This seems to be one major reason for his success in the US, a
country so many popular British acts have struggled to break through into. His
success could be emphasised through the history of the alliance between the UK
and American troops in the forming of the NATO alliance, something that Blunt
was part of.
The events in the Return to Kosovo documentary construct heavily the soldier
discourse, and the film assumably represents the artists’ voice. It consist of three
types of material: a visit to the capital of Kosovo, Pristina and its surroundings
five years after Blunt’s service, concert performances at the NATO base, and video
diary clips from 1999. The self-recorded video diary provides a second time layer
onto the film. Even though he gives a concert for the troops, his past career as
a captain was the main focus as evidenced by the black and white concert performances and other documentary materials in colour. This provides a striking
contrast between the reality of life in Kosovo and the special conditions that the
peace keepers live at the base. The ‘real’ life is in colour, whereas the stagnant
life at the camp appears in the shades of grey.
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The captions of the life at the camp and the concert represent Blunt, who as a
tough soldier was seen male bonding with the troops. During his performance,
he addressed the soldiers with respect and a friendly attitude, so that it could
reinforce the image that he was one of them. The documentary also shows us
how Blunt keeps up the high spirits and the motivation of the troops by thanking the soldiers for important work they were doing. Through these actions he
is perceived to step back into the soldier discourse and his old role of an officer,
and because his success as a musician was used to follow the old traditions of the
military by providing entertaining to soldiers in the war zone.2 Yet, the border
of performer and soldier seem to blur as there were elements of male bonding,
often a sense of insider jokes could be observed, through his return to the army
culture and the normative army behaviour.
The most direct reference to the soldier discourse and Blunt’s experiences in
Kosovo could be found from the last song of his debut album, called No Bravery.
In the interviews, it has been assumed that Blunt’s song and song-writing in general helped him to cope with the war (BBC 2005; Williams 2005). In an article by
Female First stated in the beginning of the interview that writing “songs, a form
of expression that helped him [Blunt] make sense of the senseless world around
him” (Williams 2005).
In the documentary film Return to Kosovo, Blunt explained that he composed
No Bravery while he was stationed in Kosovo:
I wrote it besides my tank [in Kosovo]. And I’ve just come back of [sic] the border and we had our own moments. It took about 10 minutes to write really.
There were so many things to visualize. Just needed to describe what we were
seeing. Erm... And yeah it is, you know, it’s a really heartfelt song that captures
the experiences of the time. (Blunt 2007b.)
Blunt constructs a narrative of transferring primary experiential images of a
soldier into the lyrics of the song. The rationale behind such descriptions seems
to provide a selected dialogue presented by his publicity machinery to validate
his authenticity. By drawing on the soldier discourse and repeating the story over
and over again in the media it became a normative description of the authentic
2 For more details on the USO scheme see USO 2015.
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song-writing. The experience of the individual’s voice in their music making is
seen to dominate this song. Blunt’s claim to have written this song in 10 minutes
points out the expressive visuals he experienced were documented within a few
minutes into a meaningful song that he shares with the world. Unbeknown to
him, this song would later be sung to people all around the world. The performance of such altruistic acts and describing these acts in the song lyrics can be
seen as the dark side of popular music whereas the song can also be taken as a
narrative of historical events in a particular war zone.
The constructed truth value is also recognised in the media, for example the
magazine Pop Matters mentioned that No Bravery presented a picture of war
only a soldier can have (Tranter 2006). The New York Times live performance review stated that the song as a ‘grisly reportage’ that ‘lends weight to’ Blunt’s
other songs (Sinagra 2005) suggesting that No Bravery made Blunt a musician
to be taken seriously despite his other songs. Soldierhood and war experiences
as neither the truth value nor the pathos of the song were questioned, as in the
case of Blunt’s other songs. These true accounts of a soldier were presented also
visually in the documentary film Return to Kosovo, and the same video footage
is also used in the official music video to No Bravery (2007). No Bravery had received radio play in the US, but was never released as a single, and the reasons
for this remain unknown.
Another soldier discourse is related to ranks and orders. Ranks relate to the
way soldiers are acknowledged for their work. On the album slip of No Bravery,
the musicians are identified by first initial and full surname as well as a military
rank. With reference to the musicians as soldiers it illuminates powerfully the
identities of soldiers, tightening the contextual web. Naming the band members
by military rank synthesized commonalities and shared effort that has gone into
the album. This way Blunt’s past status as the leader of a group is highlighted by
presenting the band as his “troops.” When he left the army, he held the status of
Captain. The same rank of Captain was noted in the album credits for the song
No Bravery, illustrating a singer-songwriter who led his group into “battle”. This
was all under the watchful eye of the song producer and bass guitarist Linda Perry
who was credited as “Col. L. Perry”. Colonel is the highest possible military rank,
and there has been no proof that Perry has any experience of the army, let alone
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reached the accolades of a Colonel. Even though her gender is hidden behind the
initials, she as a woman is now written into the normative masculine discourse.
The heteronormative and masculine soldier behaviour is part of the soldier
discourse. In the documentary, Blunt makes a live appearance on stage and while
talking to the audience, he made sexual references of women, clearly addressed
to the men:
Two reasons why I sing it one is ‘cause some of you have girlfriends who are
home, so this will make you miserable. And the second reason is that there are
some girls here and hopefully this will make them cry, and so I make them cry,
and then you can score them. (Blunt 2007b.)
It can be seen from the film that the audience mostly consists of men, but there
are few female soldiers. In addition, some female civilians were in the audience.
By this comment Blunt referred to the local women as companions or escorts,
whose functions at the camp were to relieve the soldiers’ longing for their partners. It is a sexist remark and an objectification of Kosovar women. The soldiers
are amused; they laugh and applaud while the women’s reactions are not represented. Blunt appears to be one of the blokes, stepping into their culture and the
normative army behaviour. Other footage from High featured Uncle Sam dragging a man on the ground who had been dreaming of a woman, hence illustrates
the male dominated environment of the military. War can be seen as a liminal
space of ambivalence and ambiguity, that takes place in-between the normative
life, breaking social barriers. (Turner 1977, 94–96.)
Visual assertion of the associations between the song No Bravery and the
soldier theme can be found in the background image used in the album slip
(see picture 1). Behind the song lyrics and the credits for the song is the widely
recognised “Flag Raising over Iwo Jima” photograph taken by Joe Rosental in
194534and received the Pulitzer Prize in the same year. Although the origins of
this image came from the end of WWII, and No Bravery contained experiences
from the Kosovo War, there are universal generalisations in the visuals of a solider. Its ubiquity in the context of wars continues. Death is also a risk that soldiers
encounter regularly. This part of each soldier’s life is represented in the album
3 For the picture see https://catalog.archives.gov/id/520748.
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cover for the second album, All the Lost Souls, where a photomosaic image of
Blunt’s face made up of small photographs (see picture 2). The illustration uses
pictures that seem to portray Blunt himself, from childhood to adulthood, representing the whole cycle of his life. Within the inner pages of the album slip is
a similar photomosaic image of a skull. The skull is placed on the flip side of his
own face. Through this, Blunt coalesces with death, highlighting the other side
of all human life, and particularly the life of a soldier.
Picture 1: Album slip for the lyrics of
No Bravery.
Picture 2: Picture in the album slip of
All the Lost Souls.
The saviour subdiscourse, apparent in the texts published in the beginning of his
career, appears first in the song lyrics as referrals to saving others. The personal
experience of war strongly invested his character and conferred approval of his
military operations in conflict areas. During the beginning of his musical career,
the British press constructed the image of Blunt as the good soldier through an
association with honour, and characterised by bravery (BBC 2005; Williams 2005).
One possible explanation for this admiring tone in the media was that other stories in the British media were, at that time, linked with the Iraq war. The official
music video of Blunt’s opening single High was set in a dessert, much like the
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landscape of Iraq. Towards the end of the video, while Blunt lies of the ground,
his arm is dragged by the Patriotic symbol and image of army recruitment, Uncle Sam. The dragging movement was in a similar fashion that a wounded soldier is taken out from the battle zone to receive medical attention. It is possible
the media wanted to sustain the positive image the British army’s action abroad,
whereby Blunt was used as a role model that underlined the good work carried
out through the military, even though Blunts involvement was through NATO
troops in Kosovo. This could also explain why the media in the United States
seemed to have maintained their positive statements about Blunt until 2007 (Sisario 2007; Scaggs 2006). Using the military discourse as part of Blunt’s image
also emphasized his masculinity, strengthening his otherwise rather feminine
character. Blunt draws upon the saviour discourse himself by constructing an
image of a strong and independent man used to harsh conditions.
The strongest source of the saviour discourse came from the film Return to
Kosovo. It was built on the reminiscences of the good deeds performed to bring
peace. In these cases, Blunt was depicted as a saviour, an empathetic soldier that
helped Kosovars in the midst of the war. This setup is exemplified by the music
video and clips of Blunt’s video diaries of the British troops in the documentary.
In this, the troops were driving through villages with their cars and tanks, and local people standing at the sides of the streets were greeting them with their arms
in the air. The documentary follows Blunt going to a graveyard, as he explained
the mass of graves were in the process of being exhumed. Remembering the sight
of bodies he stated a “lot of people died and have been buried in shallow graves
here” (video diary), and the same phrase can also be found in the lyrics of the
song No Bravery – “Brothers lie in shallow graves.” Though Blunt’s music making, he found a way to distance oneself from traumatic experiences.
The saviour theme can also be found in the photos in the second album’s slip.
The pictures towards the end of the album slip represent a dove and a butterfly.
The dove refers to purity and peace, is often used to represent freedom, whereas
the butterfly is a symbol of transformation, death and new life, as well as also
a symbol of the soul (Becker 2000: 50). This is reflected through the picture on
the cover of the slip where there is the picture of Blunt’s face and a skull. As the
pages of the slip get turned, it can be interpreted that the order of the pictures
bears a story line representing the idea of life after death, as well as spiritual free-
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dom followed by death. As an alternative reading is that this metamorphosis is
reached along and through music. The butterfly is also representative of Blunt’s
career trajectory from an ordinary soldier to internationally recognised musician.
Although the soldier discourse is covered through the materials, it is not supported in Blunt’s music. For instances, there is a distortion between the masculine
soldier discourse and Blunt’s music that is considered feminine. He sings mellow
songs with a soft voice. His music, use of falsetto and high pitched voice associates him more closely with pop styles. Voice is always gendered, pitch being significant in this, where a slow voices most often associated with masculine power.
(Johnson & Cloonan 2009: 19–20; see also Biddle 2007: 126; Goldin-Perschbacher
2007: 213; Johnson 2000: 96–97).
Traitor (feman)
The second discourse, a traitor can be viewed as an opposite to the soldier/saviour discourse discussed above. This is a negative aspect that was casted over
the music career in reflection to Blunts action as a soldier by journalists. Two different levels that the traitor is portrayed in. Firstly, there is the actual traitor that
was seen post military career, through his behaviours and actions that defame
the army honours. Secondly, there is also the traitor that moved away from the
army as a soldier and desired to progress with his musical career. In the traitor
discourse there is also one subdiscourse that was identified in the media material, that of feman. As a whole the traitor is a negative representation of Blunt’s
relation to war and his military career, and it is constructed in the journal articles.
The change in the approach by the media was very clear as it turned against
Blunt during the transition from a debuting musician to the release of his second
album. British media texts after 2007 seem to have highlighted how Blunt become
a traitor to his army identity. He was called as the “posh ex-Army tyke” by The
BBC’s rock critic (Blakeney 2007) and Blunt’s past career as a soldier was briefly
mentioned also in The Guardian to explain or highlight his behaviour (Petridis
2007). This was also detected within the newspaper Scotland on Sunday:
He entered the forces for six years, rising to captain, serving in Kosovo – where
he strapped his guitar to a tank – and standing guard at the Queen Mother’s cof-
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fin. From there, it has been a fast, steep ascent to international pop stardom - -,
the villa in Ibiza, the entertaining bikini-clad supermodels on yachts, the “shipload” of drugs - -. (Ramaswamy 2008.)
Contrasting his past and present, the article created a picture of a man who,
from the side of the ‘Queen Mother’s coffin’, entered the world of supermodels and
drug abuse. The construction of stark contrasts seems consciously made to highlight Blunt’s inappropriate behaviour. Similar but with softer means are also used
in The New York Times article a year earlier by referring to his military background
before describing his tabloid celebrity and ‘playboy’ reputation (Sisario 2007).
The use of such discourses can be interpreted as a description of Blunt as a
traitor to the army and betraying his country. Such rock and roll antics are hardly
portrayed as suitable for military men preparing for battle. He lost his statue of
being a man of honour, the idealised army-officer. By drawing negative images
in relation to his behaviour during his musical career, the journalists emphasised
Blunt’s inauthentic nature and the traitor discourse. His relationships with celebrities were seen to manifest his lowered standards. By 2007 he was pictured
as a man who had abandoned a respectable career and his past as a soldier was
used as a stick to beat a man. Topics such as scandalous sybarite represented in
the quote above, mentioned only in order to emphasise his decadence. Blunt had
become a traitor, someone to be despised both because of the way he lived and
also because of the sound of his voice.
This leads us into the subcategory of feman, visible in the journal articles, that
portrayed Blunt as, “a heterosexual male with feminine characteristics” (Urban
Dictionary 2014). We use the term feman as most of the other existing terms are inadequate to describe Blunt’s character. His identity does not seem to conform to
transgender (transman/transsexual), homosexuality, effeminacy or third gender.
His visual image does not obey to metrosexual definitions either, that is described
as a fashion-conscious and well-groomed urban male to the point of feminization
(Macnamara 2006: 132; Merriam-Webster 2014).
Blunt used his falsetto voice in what seemed like a very conscious choice
for the title of the first song in Back to Bedlam, High. His vocal cords reach to the
higher ends of the falsetto range while singing ‘high’. Blunt breaks the association of masculinity and low voice whereas his songs and performances contribute to this new type of masculinity. The video of High depicts a story of a man
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in the desert chasing after what starts off to be a beautiful woman, who ends up
through various transfigurations of a dancing woman, a figure of a long haired
person, old woman in a wig, and Elvis (see picture 3). It remains unclear if the
long haired person was a drag, and this questions the intentions of the feman.
Blunt’s vulnerable masculine image collides with the aspects of his persona presented in the media and film. His soldier-masculine past and stud-masculine jet
set lifestyle contrasts with the ‘pretty boy’ image and the singing of romantic
songs with a soft voice. His appearance as a tough soldier with his peers was
strikingly contradictory to the nice boy and the pop star image.
The feman discourse appears in the contradiction to Blunt’s physical appearance and high-pitched voice. This was picked up by the media and used to question his masculine identity. Blunt’s voice and his singing style and his singing
style has been described by the journalists as ‘an androgynous warble’ (Blakeney
2007), ‘tremulous warble’ (Petridis 2007), ‘tremulous warble’ (Petridis 2007) and
as ‘thin’ and ‘reedy’ (Ramaswamy 2008). A critic in The Guardian paid attention
in his album review to Blunt’s feminine aspects too when considering his voice in
relation to the themes he sings about. It is apparent that Blunt’s trembling voice
makes his work sound insincere.
If you sing about killing a man, as Blunt does on I Really Want You, in precisely the same voice you use to sing about fellatio, it’s bound to have an emotionally levelling effect: you’re going to come across as if you don’t mean any of it.
And perhaps that, rather than his class or his looks or his success, is the reason
so many people dislike James Blunt. There’s something weirdly insincere about
what he does. (Petridis 2007.)
The reviews suggests Blunt’s vocal androgyny to be inconsistent with an armymasculine image. These characteristics were seen to compromise Blunt’s authenticity and credibility, whereas the masculine discourse was used against him.
Through Blunt’s singing voice the feman subdiscourse is present in songs such
as No Bravery that represented stern behaviours by troops in war and contradicts
the song’s theme. Many critics, for example The Guardian (Petridis 2007) and The
Independent, have expressed their annoyance with the noticeable contradiction. The
Independent’s critic introduces Blunt as a “plummy former army captain with an
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Picture 3: Screen captures from the music video High.
157
odd falsetto” (Barnes 2006). Through his feman voice Blunt seems both vulnerable
and tough, the sombre words create a sense only a masculine soldier could present. In the critics’ eyes this incongruity seems to create an implausible character,
someone to be suspicious about, referring back to the traitor discourse.
Conclusion
Since the early 20th century popular music has served as a vehicle for political
rebellion, opposition to war, humanitarian aid projects, nation building, patriotism, morning, healing, and as a soundtrack of the war for soldiers in war (Garofalo 2007: 3–4). As Välimäki has pointed out cultural representations can help
us to deal with traumas and transferred burdens and help us to “act for a better
today and tomorrow only if we are able and allowed to deal freely with our collective past, the traumas and transferred burdens therein in cultural representations” (Välimäki 2015).
The post 9/11 situation in the US resulted in musical support for the grieving
nation that was presented in music, particularly in lyrics, but was manifested
also in other music related activities and events. However, as the terror attacks
resulted in “suppression and marginalisation of voices resistant to dominant
ideologies” (Garofalo 2007: 24), the political climate became conservative that
influenced cultural industry and cultural production. In the analysis of James
Blunt’s music making in relation to war, the ideology has varied. What is ”good”
and ”right” has been seen in different light in different positions. For Blunt, his
side of the soldierhood was to serve the country that was represented by nationalism and as a cathartic tool for healing from the pain from war. His music had
become part of the soldier’s soundtrack through a performing visit upon a return
to Kosovo after his active service.
Through this study, the artist James Blunt appeared as a contradictory public
figure and a musician. The two main discourse categories were identified, the
soldier with a subdiscourse saviour, and the traitor with a subdiscourse feman.
These discourses appeared in numerous ways in these texts. The discourses have
been positioned differently. The discourse of the soldier is one that explains the
role of the soldier in the music making and appeared most prominently in the
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analysis. The material that supports this has been constructed through an image
that Blunt has portrayed himself. In this context, war is seen as a cause of destruction and grief for individual people but at the same time being a soldier is
represented with a glory and honour. Blunt’s success came at a time where conflict in Iraq was a topical debate in NATO countries, and media were able to put
a positive spin of the work of the military through music.
These discourses appeared also later on in 2010 when Blunt again drew on the
soldier and saviour discourses in his interview titled “James Blunt: How I prevented a third world war” (Michaels 2010) and sparked The Guardian’s critic response “James Blunt saves the world”, with the same to questioning of his truth
value as well as and contributing to the traitor talk (Petridis 2010). The recurrence
of these discourses outside our data collection phase would seem to validate our
findings. The saviour discourse is something that gets given to a person as recognition of their good acts and honour, and it can be drawn from the person when
necessary. Meanwhile, the soldier discourse is something one cannot shake off
as easily as one would want to. The soldier discourse is something the person
carries with him for a long time, and it might take years to overcome.
All in all, the traitor discourse has been constructed by the journalists. Although some audiences have responded positively to Blunt’s music, some critics
have detested him. In Blunt’s music making, the trend is clear. The media initially
respond to his past with interest, but by the time the second album came out, the
media turned against the artist and his dark themes. This turn could have influenced the exclusion of these themes in the later albums, but the exclusion could
also be explained by the distance from the Kosovo events. It is also possible that
after the initial interest on Blunt and the rock critic’s opinion having been heard,
other journalists begun to take influences from the critics and by avoiding to appear to have bad taste in music. Furthermore, it seemed that some particular journalists produced the traitor discourse consistently. Scotsman’s journalists points
out that “being middle class is a heinous crime in pop music” and that makes so
many people and critics hate Blunt. (Ramaswamy 2008.)
This study of Blunt’s music making reveals several various aspects concerning the treatment of the themes of war and death in the popular culture. The
broader cultural context of mainstream popular music in Anglo-American influenced world has been undergoing a strong mediatization process in the last
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decades. Media has enormous power in relation to the public’s conception of
popular music and musicians. Furthermore, this study reveals how the themes
of war and death are dealt superficially with the construction of the narrative of
an artist, rather than serious and difficult issues that call for a critical and ethical
discussion. It is the representation of a person as a soldier that was brought to
the forefront, whereas the war itself was taken for granted and not questioned in
the media texts at all. Blunt avoided a political stand and kept quiet his personal
views about the war. By doing so, this could have negatively influenced his musical career. As such, the ways of dealing with the negative and horrific aspects
of war and related issues are scarce and personal, rather than open and shared.
For Blunt himself it seems likely that music making has acted as a cathartic
tool. Blunt’s past has been well covered in the media in connection to the lyrics and the mood of No Bravery. Music seemed to have acted as a medium from
where to discuss the acts of war he witnessed. Musical expression could be considered as a way to overcome and converse with the past. This is consistent with
Peter Hardy’s commentary of Blunt’s experiences of war and had continued to
shape his life (Hardy 2010: 71).
The treatment of his soldierhood has two faces; on one side, he is an officer,
higher rank soldier, who through the narratives turns into a brave, heroic saviour,
and the other side, a traitor who turns his back to the respectable life. However,
he seemed to express the personal experiences of war through his music, with
newer material lacking war related content. These albums could have also been
justified as the general opinion about the British troops in Iraq turned negative.
To maintain his iconic identify as a pop star, his representation of being part of
the British troops had to diminish.
The subcategory of the feman appears in relation to Blunt’s visual image and
the discussions about his voice. His image combines both feminine and masculine characteristics. He appears relatively soft and vulnerable in his music. The
songs deal with love and disappointment in relationships although his voice is
effeminately soft and high pitched. This is incongruent with the soldier discourse
that Blunt himself tries to construct. The contradiction is then used by the critics
to question the truth value and authenticity of Blunt as an artist. Furthermore,
the presentation of men and masculinity has changed. In general, it has become
increasingly common to portray men negatively in the media. The most favour-
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able presentations are a family man, gentleman, and buddy, whereas the representation of metrosexuals, which the feman can be assimilated, is mostly unfavourable. (Macnamara 2006: 90, 132.) This result is consistent with the turn in
Blunt’s media coverage as his public view changed from a soldier to a traitor. It
seems that even though the representations of male social behaviour are widely
varied, the favoured models are rather narrow. As the media both mirrors and
constructs social attitudes, its role is substantial in construction of the image of
individual musicians. The military past seemed to be the most unfit piece to the
otherwise neat pop star puzzle.
To conclude, we would like to point out two issues. Firstly, it should be remembered that the James Blunt discussed in this article is partly a fictional character, who lives through the publicity and the products circulated around him.
Therefore, the discussions presented here do not necessarily reflect the private
personality, but the discourses are attached to his public persona. The ‘real’ James
Hillies Blount, as his surname is originally written, is hardly revealed in these
discourses. As Burkhalter states, musicians are both “public personae and private personalities, and the two do not always run in the same direction” (2011:
57). The question of how consciously Blunt has exploited the imagery of his past
in his image remains partly unanswered. But he is certainly aware of the realms
of public character and image building: his undergraduate thesis in sociology at
the University of Bristol was titled “The Commodification of Image – Production of a Pop Idol” (1996).
While contributing to the academic discussion about music and death, war
and violence, we have wanted to demonstrate that it is important to explore
the music making of widely popular artists often ignored by researchers. These
themes are important and instructive in their own right, and should not be excluded from scholarly research simply because the artists sell millions and receive
controversial publicity. The contradictions in their public persona and messages
underlying their work should make these topics more appealing for research. As
this article has demonstrated, findings can be made by looking into artists the
researchers are not the biggest fans of. Our personal taste is irrelevant when we
investigate the contributions artists make into our popular music culture.
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References
Media articles
Barnes, Anthony (2006) “James Blunt & Carrie Fisher: The odd couple”. The Independent
12.2.2006. http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/james-blunt-amp-carriefisher-the-odd-couple-466350.html (accessed 31.8.2015).
BBC (2005) “James Blunt interview”. BBC Norfolk 18.5.2005. http://www.bbc.co.uk/norfolk/
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The Voices of Azania from Cape Town

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