| By SHAWN L. NANCE/RANGOON | SEPTEMBER, 2002 - VOLUME 10 NO.7 |
Rap music and Hip-Hop have gained a foothold in Rangoon, but many still prefer to step to a different beat. Sai Sai stands waiting backstage wearing his high-top Nike Air Jordans, both hands in the pockets of his oversized shorts that match his loose-fitting hooded sweatshirt. His friend, wearing a bandanna on his head beneath a New York Yankees baseball cap flipped backwards, talks to a fellow band-member sporting her favorite skintight jeans. They are waiting to perform along side some of Burma’s newest and hottest music stars in Rangoon at an outdoor concert—a rarity in a country where public gatherings of more than five people are officially prohibited. As showtime nears, hundreds of Rangoon’s hippest youngsters file into the amphitheater jostling each other for a clear view of the stage. The carnival-like atmosphere is reinforced by scores of young women with dyed hair and mini-skirts that attract the attention of men donning denim jeans and t-shirts, some holding a can of Tiger Beer in one hand and a London cigarette in the other. Burmese longyis are conspicuously absent this evening. Occasionally the pungent odor of marijuana wafts by while some men are doubled over on the grass reeling in the effects of too much alcohol. Dozens of security guards stand watch. Everybody seems to know each other. Welcome to the newest musical scene in Burma: Rap and Hip-Hop. The first artist to take the stage is Myo Kyawt Myaing, Burma’s rap pioneer. At 31, he is nearly a decade older than most of the audience and the other musicians performing this evening. The crowd edges towards the stage as he emerges from behind a fog of dry ice with his mic in hand: My name is Myo Kyawt Myaing I’m from Seven-Mile My father is U Kyawt Myaing and he is a pilot… I have a lot of temporary girlfriends that I used to hang out with As everybody knows, as everybody knows, as everybody knows Like most Rap and Hip-Hop musicians in Burma, Myo Kyawt Myaing recites his lyrics, not to original tunes, but to remakes of famous American rappers such as Dr Dre, Eminem, Snoop Doggy Dogg, and, most surprisingly, NWA (Niggaz With Attitude) whose seminal 1988 single, "F- Tha Police", is often credited for launching the sub-genre, Gangsta Rap. The controversial single’s combination of profane bitterness towards racial inequality with anti-systemic gun-toting bravado elicited complaints from the FBI. Burma’s own syncretic brands of Rap and Hip-Hop are undeniably apolitical by comparison, primarily the result of the artists’ prudent self-censorship. Indeed, the intrusion of Western-style music has long been a contentious issue in Burma. After seizing power in 1962, the military quickly moved to ban clubs featuring Western-style music—along with beauty contests and dance competitions—in order "to preserve the Burmeseness of the culture". The ban was only partially successful, as the emergence of rock music in the late 1960s sparked an irrevocable trend that brought new socio-cultural tensions to the surface, and created rifts, not only between artists and authorities, but also between different generations of music fans. Burma’s newest musical phenomena similarly reflect resentments against imposed discipline and reveal aspirations for cultural freedom. They also possess similar abilities to offend the ears and sensibilities of many, especially the older generation. "I don’t like Hip-Hop because it is copy music and does not reflect a creative spirit," says a Rangoon music instructor in his forties. "I also can’t stand the dancing." Sai Sai, a former model turned Hip-Hopper in his early twenties who broke onto the scene two years ago, understands this generational resistance, "I know my parents don’t like Hip-Hop, but I do it because I like it." A veteran writer in Rangoon who is in his mid-sixties, however, says he likes the music and identifies with the creative impulses of the new artists. "The songs reflect the emotions of the younger generation. Many elder people like Hip-Hop because it expresses freedom better than other forms of music." Burmese Rap and Hip-Hop music is in fact less about overt expressions of political and social discontent than it is an artistic stance. The fresh fashions may make cultural conservatives cringe but the content of the songs have yet to earn much contempt from government censors. Lyrics urge listeners to avoid playing the lottery, or heap scorn upon bad teachers, or confront the challenges of growing up. "I don’t write [political] lyrics," Sai Sai explains. "I prefer to write about love and life. But the music makes me feel free—I can dance and do what I want to do." Don’t Believe the Hype This freedom of expression has fueled strong resentment for some—not because of the challenge posed to accepted cultural norms, but because it is a liberty some feel is granted only to Burma’s elite. "The rappers don’t reflect the taste of the majority of Burmese music fans. They are just socially privileged kids chasing the trends," says a Burmese youth who fled the country last month. In fact, just getting through the door to experience the new scene is a privilege reserved for the affluent. At 3,000 kyat per head, the price of admission to a concert can consume half the monthly wages of a government worker or public school teacher. And although some Rap and Hip-Hop music is available in Rangoon’s music stores, access to MTV, Channel [V], and other foreign music outlets in Burma is limited. Thus, many artists depend upon overseas contacts to bring them the latest rap cassettes and CDs from the West. And unlike many songwriters and singers in Burma, the financial stability of most rappers frees them from the burden of having to work additional jobs to make ends meet. Yet others disregard the economic divide between the majority of Burmese and the Rap scene, but simply dislike the music because it is electronically produced. "It’s not real music because they use computers," says the music teacher in Rangoon. The use of computers instead of live musical instruments, however, may have less to do with aesthetic values and more to do with the tight economics of the industry. Computers capable of producing sophisticated music are expensive, particularly by Burmese standards, but the cost of hiring live musicians for recording sessions and performances is steep, making the purchase of an expensive computer a wise strategy to reduce overhead expenditures. A respected author in Rangoon says she prefers original compositions to copy songs and computer music, but is sympathetic to the problems faced by today’s artists. "Musical instruments are rare and expensive but with limited time and resources, what other options do they have?" A Funky Situation Financial limitations contribute to the continuing popularity of compilation albums that feature individual songs by various artists. Most do not have the money to produce an entire album, so these collaborations are commonplace. Those that do have enough cash oftentimes produce their first album for free, with hopes that the producer will take them on for future recordings. One young Hip-Hop act fronted US $45,000—relatively cheap by local industry standards—to hire a band and to produce, distribute, and promote their first album. It proved to be a smash hit, selling nearly 60,000 copies in only a few months, but the band bitterly complains that they only received $400 while their producer pocketed more than 10 times that amount. "Producers are the money men in the industry", says a Hip-Hopper who adds that most musicians are reluctant to speak out against the inequities of the industry. "Only a selected few can earn a sufficient living from their music earnings." As a result from these kinds of experiences, the band’s leader says he will try to upgrade the computer in his studio so that he can go completely solo, sidestepping the producers altogether. It Takes a Nation of Millions Discordance in the music industry between the creative talent and the business talent is a common tune worldwide. In Burma, however, where runaway inflation and strict social control prevail, the problems that musicians face are particularly acute. With a population of 50 million people, Burma’s market for potential music consumers is relatively small, and market problems are compounded by ethnic divides and geographical limitations. To cover the costs of production, distribution and promotion, artists must sell about 30,000 cassettes just to break even—a lofty ambition in a country where an album that sells 20,000 copies is considered a success. But the music industry is not immune to inflationary pressures and music fans are feeling the pinch: Cassettes that sold for 350 to 400 kyat earlier this year, now sell for 600 kyat while CDs have also nearly doubled in price fetching up to 1,800 kyat today. Music pirates also cut deeply into the legal market. Zaw Paing, one of Burma’s best selling artists of all-time, sold over 300,000 copies of his hit album, Myo Ah Win Nya—a phenomenon that happens only once every five or six years. He also sold nearly 10,000 karaoke VCDs. But much to Zaw Paing’s chagrin, buyers purchased nearly five times as many bootlegged copies of the album. Pirates are rife along the border and their products are particularly coveted in Mandalay and upper Burma where incomes are much lower than in Rangoon. While artists acknowledge that no single group has monopolized production of pirated music, most quietly fingered the Wa, who have diversified their opium-dependent income to producing methamphetamines and bootlegged video and music CDs for sale in Burma and abroad. "We face big problems but we can’t do anything about it," complains one songwriter. "Thus, we need to produce a large volume just to survive even though we are not always proud of our songs. We compromise quality for quantity because the pirates are destroying our market." With no music copyrights and a musicians union that has been co-opted by government sympathizers and no longer represents the interests of the artists, musicians are powerless to air their grievances and claim their fair share of the profits. Fight the Power For now, Burma’s Rap and Hip-Hop scene is confined primarily to the younger generation of privileged urbanites. Art does not exist in a vacuum, however, but arises from social limitations and the desire for new forms of expression that challenge accepted cultural norms. In a country where communication is highly controlled and regulated, it is no surprise that the lyrics are not politically charged. But by the very iconoclastic nature of the music, Rap and Hip-Hop becomes a tacitly subversive expression of socio-cultural discontent. The introduction of new rhythms, themes and ideas—and defiantly casual fashions—serves as a direct response to the alienation between government authorities and social realities while providing an artistic escape from imposed ideology, discipline and social identity. "The military tries to define what is ‘good art’ and says this is a bad influence from the West, but many of these youths are progressive-minded and talented, and they don’t like what is established," says the Rangoon-based writer in his sixties. It remains to be seen how boldly Burma’s dozen or so Rap and Hip-Hop artists will challenge the country’s social and political limitations, just as it is uncertain where the authorities will finally draw the line. In the 1980s, Eastern Bloc countries like Hungary cautiously loosened policy restrictions on rock music to reclaim the confidence of the increasingly alienated youth as a "safety valve", allowing the discontented to vent their frustrations musically rather than politically. But because Rap and Hip-Hop, like rock music, deals in the currency of symbols such as clothing and personal appearance, it is always ambiguous, and thus can expand the boundaries of social and political debate indirectly making it difficult to control by the authorities. And in Burma, ambiguity is the safest approach when addressing desires for change. "Everybody’s scared stiff," adds the writer. "These artists dare not speak what’s really on their minds." Rap and Hip-Hop can function as a mirror that reflects societal frictions, or can serve as an entertaining opiate that forgets such conflicts. In Burma, this new artistic trend is neither a sonic weapon aimed at established power structures, nor a tool to politicize the audience but an expression of the desire for new sounds and new tastes and it has struck a responsive chord in the country. And while the music and its associated fashions are still largely limited to the fringes of society, there is no denying that Rap and Hip-Hop music in Burma is "in the house".