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Reggae Rhythms in Dignity's Diaspora: Globalization, Indigenous Identity, and the Circulation of Cultural Struggle Luis Alvarez Published online: 29 Sep 2008.

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Reggae Rhythms in Dignity’s Diaspora: Globalization, Indigenous Identity, and the Circulation of Cultural Struggle Luis Alvarez

In this article the author surveys the production and consumption of reggae music among

diverse indigenous groups, including Native Americans, Maoris, Aborigines, and Pacific

Islanders. Drawing from oral interviews, music and lyrics, artist and record label

websites, and recent accounts of cultural and political activism, he argues that the

cultural connections between different indigenous reggae artists and their fans constitute

a Diaspora, one based not on any single race, ethnic, or place-based identity, but on their

shared struggles for dignity in the face of the dehumanizing effects of globalization. He

ultimately demonstrates how reggae reveals the political, economic, and social

possibilities and contradictions of indigenous identity.

Several years ago I attended a live performance by Mutabaruka, the politically

outspoken Rastafarian dub poet from Jamaica, at a small night club in Mesa, Arizona.

The audience was diverse in its racial and ethnic make-up, including a large number

of Native American Indians from the surrounding Tohono O’odham, Yavapai, Pima,

and Gila River Indian communities. After a nearly two-hour performance during

which the crowd enthusiastically responded to his many references to the history of

struggle by indigenous peoples, Mutabaruka closed with two poems entitled

‘‘Whiteman Country’’ and ‘‘De System.’’ 1

Dedicated to the ‘‘native peoples’’ in

attendance, these final numbers prompted the audience to push forward, crowd the

area directly in front of the stage, and sway in unison to the thick drum and bass line

that accompanied lyrics emphasizing indigenous land claims, resistance to

colonization, and the unity of different native populations.

My observations from the Mutabaruka concert are a good place to begin thinking

about the ways indigenous identity and the African Diaspora meet in the production

and consumption of reggae music, how the political and cultural struggles of

Popular Music and Society Vol. 31, No. 5, December 2008, pp. 575–597

ISSN 0300-7766 (print)/ISSN 1740-1712 (online) # 2008 Taylor & Francis DOI: 10.1080/03007760802188272

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different aggrieved populations intersect, and whether popular music offers any kind

of recourse for people seeking autonomy and dignity in their lives. In this article, I

explore the growing popularity of reggae music in indigenous communities of the US

southwest, New Zealand, Australia, and the Pacific Islands. I investigate how the

consumption and production of reggae by indigenous groups simultaneously

critiques the impact of globalization on their communities and makes use of its far-

reaching networks. I examine how reggae cultivates trans-regional indigenous

identities and cultural exchange while it also emphasizes local experiences, places, and

histories. I consider how reggae serves as a vehicle for some indigenous groups to

claim dignity in the face of the dehumanizing effects of globalization at the same time

as it contradicts such a political project by denying the dignity of others and

reinforcing relations of economic inequality. These lines of inquiry, moreover, reveal

that there is often an intricate relationship between reggae and indigenous social

movements, lending support to the contention that some cultural practices and

venues have the potential to be turned into resources that might ‘‘be mobilized in the

pursuit of social justice under certain circumstances’’ (Yudice 53). The consumption

and production of reggae music in indigenous communities is thus one example of

how globalization operates in the form of everyday cultural and political expression

as much as it does in the activity of transnational corporations and nation-states.

The popularity of reggae among indigenous peoples has been most often

chronicled as a small part of reggae’s larger globalization, as a footnote to reggae’s

popularity in Europe, Africa, or Latin America, or as it has developed in singular

indigenous communities. Much less has been said about how the globalization of

reggae illustrates the shifting nature of indigenous identity, the African Diaspora, and

how cultural politics connects the two. The reggae rhythms emanating from

indigenous communities speak to local social, political, and economic struggles at the

same time as they relate to those of others. The consumption and production of

reggae by indigenous groups ultimately reveals that their shared ‘‘indigenous’’

identity often rests on intersecting desires for dignity, justice, and autonomy as much

as, or even more than, it does on any racial determinism.

I ultimately argue that the connections between different indigenous reggae artists

and their fans constitute a Diaspora, one based not on any single race, ethnic, or

place-based identity, but on their shared and ongoing struggles for dignity amid the

often demoralizing and marginalizing forces of global capitalism and post-colonial

nation-states. Reggae music simultaneously illumines particular ethnic, cultural, and

historical experiences of indigenous populations and the possibilities of an

indigenous identity that draws from shared political struggles and convergences.

The Diaspora fueled by the reggae rhythms in indigenous communities is thus as

much about what cultural and political connections might be in the present and

future as much as it is about similar historical experiences of colonialism, land

displacement, and racism.

Following a brief discussion of the impact of globalization on commercial culture

and reggae music, in particular, the rest of this article chronicles the reggae music

576 L. Alvarez

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scenes in several indigenous communities around the world. I draw from oral

interviews, recent music and lyrics, artist and record label websites, and reports by

several indigenous themed periodicals to reveal reggae’s popularity among Native

Americans in the US southwest, Maori in New Zealand, Aborigines in Australia, and

other ‘‘native’’ peoples in the Pacific islands. In the final section I speculate further on

indigenous reggae both as a struggle for dignity and on the ways it underscores

economic and gender inequality.

Globalization, Reggae, and Indigenous Struggles for Dignity

Though global economic and political relations have been evident for centuries,

intensification of the deregulation of world markets, global flows of capital, ideas, and

labor, and growth of mass technology and communication systems in the last 50

years have led to what many scholars have described as the transnational phase of

globalization. For many indigenous populations this has meant the continuation of

intense struggles to maintain access to their historical land base, to control natural

resources, and to exercise political autonomy, language rights, and freedom of

religious and cultural expression. From Hopiland to East Timor to New Zealand

there are countless narratives of state-sanctioned ethnocide extinguishing indigenous

cultures and communities in the name of progress, tourism, nation-building, and

transnational economic development. The devastating consequences of capital’s

continued globalization have left indigenous communities around the world facing

varied, yet similar conditions of economic stagnation, lack of social services and

political representation, and erasure from the dominant historical narratives of many

nations. Native American efforts to alleviate the often high rates of unemployment,

alcoholism, and corporate influences on reservations, along with the ongoing post-

colonial struggles of Maori communities in New Zealand, Aborigines in Australia,

and native Pacific Islanders to ensure cultural and political autonomy point to the

myriad challenges faced by indigenous populations. As anthropologists Bartholomew

Dean and Jerome Levi (20) argue, many indigenous groups around the world

continue to be dehumanized as folkloric citizens and international tourist

commodities as they are forced from their homelands by corporate mining and

logging interests and encouraged to abandon their ‘‘traditional’’ languages and

cultures.

Alongside processes of ‘‘Coca-colonization, Nike-ization, and McDonald-ization,’’

however, everyday cultural expression is also subtly disseminated around the globe,

opening up possibilities for new social formations (Hall). According to cultural critic

George Lipsitz (12), popular music, in particular, embodies the contradictions of

commercialized culture and serves as a ‘‘dangerous crossroads,’’ ‘‘an intersection

between the undesirable saturation of commercial culture in every area of human

endeavor and the emergence of a new public sphere that uses the circuits of

commodity production and circulation to envision and activate new social relations.’’

It behooves us, in other words, to recognize that new identities often emerge in the

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spaces between capitalist networks and the social or cultural practices they presume

to, but cannot totally, control (Lowe and Lloyd 25). Though popular music may not

have the power to repel the dominant forces of globalization head on, in large part

because it is deeply embedded in the circuits of transnational capital itself, it can

provide a vehicle for indigenous and other historically marginalized populations to

share unique histories of struggles against globalization, form community across

geography, and imagine a future where cultural difference is valued and respected

rather than erased or subsumed in the name of profit, marketing, and political

homogeneity.

Amid contradictory economic policies and new forms of colonialism that neglect

their livelihood and erase the historical memory of ethnocide, a discourse of dignity

encompassing new social relations and forms of resistance has emerged in the

cultural and political practices of indigenous groups dealing with the ill effects of

globalization. The Zapatista resistance against neo-liberal incursions into their Mayan

communities in Chiapas, Mexico provides one intriguing example of how dignity

can function as a central organizing principle for indigenous social movements. As

a form of grassroots theorizing, the communiqués of Zapatista spokesperson

Subcomandante Marcos and the activities of the Ejercito Zapatista Liberacion

Nacional (EZLN) suggest dignity is less a static quality or state of being worthy,

honored, or esteemed and more the lived struggle for pride, hope, and humanity

against poor life chances defined by the seemingly overwhelming forces of

globalization. In the eyes of the Zapatistas, dignity is a politics of refusal: a refusal

to accept humiliation, a refusal to quietly endure dehumanization, and a refusal to

conform. Dignity does not require a formal political organization nor is it defined by

racial, regional, or gender borders of identity or community. As a struggle against its

own denial, the fluid and inclusive nature of cultural, political, and social

relationships ultimately defines dignity. 2

Albeit less explicitly theorized than in the

case of the EZLN, reggae music is another forum in which the right to live with

dignity reveals itself as a prominent feature in how indigenous groups navigate the

pitfalls of globalization. Against the denial of their dignity by globalization, diverse

indigenous groups have generated a vibrant cultural and political exchange about

how to resist, survive, and thrive against such seemingly overwhelming forces.

As it has become a global music, reggae has emerged as one vehicle for indigenous

and other marginalized populations to articulate their struggles against incursions

of transnational capital into their local communities. A number of scholars (Foster;

Savishinsky; Spencer) have documented the spread of reggae from Jamaica, where

the music evolved from previous traditions of ska and rock steady before being

heavily shaped by Rastafarians in the late 1960s and early 1970s into reggae, to

virtually every part of the world, including Europe, Africa, Australia, Asia, Latin

America, and North America. As ethnomusicologist Steven Feld argues (Feld 273),

reggae’s ‘‘perception by indigenous people outside the Caribbean as an opposi-

tional, roots ethno-pop form has led to its local adoption by migrants and

indigenous in places as diverse as Europe, Hawaii, native North America, aboriginal

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Australia, Papua New Guinea, South Africa, and South East Africa.’’ Part of reggae’s

appeal in indigenous communities thus stems from its rhetorical use of sweeping

and general critiques of exploitation evident in multiple genres of protest music

(Knupp 384–5). At the same time, however, others (Gaztambide-Fernandez;

Giovannetti; Moyer; Yudice) have documented the ways that reggae has grown in

relation to local economic, social, and political conditions, specific histories of

colonization and subsequent resistance, and particular experiences of racialization

to accrue unique meanings in places such as Brazil, Puerto Rico, and Tanzania. In

these and other places, reggae has experienced what Gaztambide-Fernandez (231)

describes as ‘‘hybridization through globalization,’’ where the ‘‘complex interactions

between local and global economic, political, and cultural dynamics drive the

production and reproduction of musical styles around the world.’’ This growing

body of literature on reggae reveals how different communities consume and

produce reggae as a mechanism to reflect, refract, and speak to local politics at the

same time as they are in dialogue with other populations and cultures through the

music. As Lipsitz argues for popular music more generally, reggae works ‘‘through

the conduits of commercial culture in order to illuminate affinities, resemblances,

and potentials for alliances among a world population that now must be as dynamic

and as mobile as the forces of capital’’ (17).

The commercial character of reggae music and the struggles for dignity it helps

facilitate have implications for our understanding of indigenous identity. For many

indigenous peoples, the intensification of consumerism has turned their ‘‘traditional’’

cultures into commodities that are packaged as products and made available to a

global audience (Dean and Levi 3). This can have multiple effects, including, on the

one hand, putting longstanding historical and local systems of knowledge at risk as

their meanings become increasingly appropriated and warped and, on the other,

helping advance the worldviews of indigenous groups and legitimize struggles for

indigenous rights. At the same time that commercial culture transmits indigenous

culture around the globe, it also broadens the pool of cultural influences and

resources that shape indigenous identity, including, for the purposes of this article,

reggae music from Jamaica and elsewhere around the world. As I argue below, the

variant forms of indigenous reggae facilitate a dialogue about how different

populations share histories of colonial violence and the ways they continue to

struggle for better lives, including by (1) securing control and use of their historical

land base; (2) maintaining control over natural resources available on such lands; (3)

practicing political autonomy against incursions by post-colonial nation states; (4)

fighting for the right to speak their ancestral languages; (5) establishing freedom of

religious and cultural expression (Dean and Levi 19–20). These themes all emerge to

varying degrees in the reggae of indigenous communities around the world and

provide points of commonality for different groups to identify with other indigenous

groups and talk back to the power of globalizing economic and political forces.

‘‘Indigenous’’ identity thus garners its meaning from the historical context in which

it is performed, shifts over time and place, and is heterogeneous. The rest of this

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article charts how reggae reveals the contours and possibilities of indigenous identity

in this moment of globalization.

Reggae on the Rez

As my experience at the Mutabaruka concert in Mesa illustrates, there is a strong

reggae following on the Native American reservations in the US southwest. Dating

back to the early 1970s when the music of Bob Marley and the Wailers helped bring

the reggae sound to much of the world, the number of Hopi, Navajo, Pueblo, and

other Native American reggae fans has grown dramatically. In the early 1980s British

filmmaker Joe Menell, working with music producer Chris Blackwell of Island

Records, explored the phenomenon of ‘‘reggae on the rez’’ in a documentary film

chronicling the intense popularity of Marley and reggae in the Havasupai Indian

community, a small reservation located at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The

documentary process included three days of footage and a live concert on the

Havasupai reservation with Cedella Booker, mother of Bob Marley, and Tyrone

Downie, keyboardist for the Wailers. Though the footage was never made

commercially available, the project was widely reported and came to serve as a

hallmark moment in charting the reggae–Native American story (Collins 2). Around

the same time as the Havasupai documentary filming, the popularity of reggae in the

region received another boost when a group of Hopi Indians initiated a concert

series. After years of driving several hours into metropolitan Phoenix for live reggae

shows, several Hopi brought a local Phoenix area band to play at an elementary

school gym on the Hopi reservation in northern Arizona. When more than 200

people showed up, a tradition was born (Weber 36). In the years that followed, the

Hopiland concerts grew exponentially to help bring the biggest Jamaican, British, and

African reggae acts to Hopiland, spread reggae’s popularity throughout the Native

American southwest, and inspire local Native American musicians to produce their

own reggae.

A few scholars have speculated as to why reggae has come to be so popular among

Native Americans (Collins; Savishinsky; Ullestad). The most common assumption is

that there are a number of cultural and historical commonalities between Native

Americans and black Jamaican Rastafarians, including spirituality in their everyday

lives, deep-rooted connections to the land, longstanding struggles against colonialism

and slavery, and more recent battles against tourism, mining, and logging. Journalist

Steve Helig (46) argues as much when he notes that ‘‘Rastafarians and American

Indians are both deeply spiritual peoples, both displaced and downtrodden,

struggling for identity and integrity, sometimes with a psychoactive sacrament used

as an integral part of worship.’’ Ras Joseph, a transplanted Jamaican Rastafarian

living in the metro Phoenix, Arizona area where he promotes local reggae concerts,

similarly argues:

Reggae [is] popular all over the world really, you know. Native Americans love reggae music ‘cause of the culture, you know.’ Cause the culture [reggae and Rasta]

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coincides with their culture pretty much, you know. You know, a lot of things the Indian believe as far as the earth and the natural things Rasta believe. So I think that’s what brings them [Native Americans] more into it [reggae].

3

Though such observations may be accurate to some degree, as cultural critic Loretta

Collins points out, they also tend to reduce Native American and Rastafarian

cultures, along with reggae music itself, to a series of essential components and static

characteristics. It is perhaps more useful to consider the historical and cultural

commonalities between different Native Americans and black Rastas as the impetus

for a dynamic process of cultural exchange and borrowing through reggae music.

Neither Native American, nor Rasta, nor reggae cultures, in other words, are

unaffected by their encounters with one another. As I will explore below, Native

American lives are shaped by reggae just as the music and perspectives of black Rastas

who make reggae are influenced by its growth on the reservations in the US

southwest.

One result of the growth of reggae on the reservations is the intensification of

cultural exchange and social ties between Native Americans and Afro-Caribbean

Rastafarians. Near the Hopi reservation in northern Arizona, the Navajo in Arizona,

and the Pueblo in New Mexico, a cultural infrastructure including touring concerts,

specialty shops, and networks of informal exchange of tapes, CDs, and reggae apparel

has emerged. In particular, the number of live performances in areas near Native

American reservations fuels reggae’s popularity and makes the music a vehicle for

bringing different Indian groups together. Dennis Sydney, a teenage Hopi youth in

northern Arizona, notes as much when he observes: ‘‘Young people come to the

concerts from all over. Not just Hopi, but Navajos, people from Flagstaff, people

from all over. It is a celebration for the native peoples of the world’’ (Brinkley-

Rogers). Lucas Naranjo, a Pueblo youth from northern New Mexico, recounts the

buzz created by big reggae concerts among his classmates at the Santa Fe Indian

School:

Yeah, they got the big Sunsplash. Sunsplash, that’s like where there’s a lot groups coming. It’s the best concert of all reggae and at the Paolo Soleri [amphitheater] in Santa Fe they have a lot of … The Paolo Soleri at the Santa Fe Indian School so that’s where like, I mean all, mostly all the reggae concerts come to Santa Fe at the Paolo Soleri at the Indian School. So, I mean, most of the Indian School, everyone from there goes.

4

While reggae has a particularly large following among Native American youth, it is

also not a social scene exclusive of older people or the very young. The Mutabaruka

concert I attended in Mesa illustrated this, as the Native Americans that filled the

small, dark, and smoky nightclub varied in age from toddlers to those over 60. One

Navajo mother, Yoli, allowed her six-year-old son and five-year-old daughter to stay

out late for the concert. 5

The increasing number of visits by Jamaican and British artists to the US southwest

since the 1980s helped launch a local economy of reggae music that includes the

informal exchanging of music and the emergence of reggae specialty shops catering to

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Native American clientele. Lucas Naranjo attests to the popularity of reggae among

Pueblo youth at the Santa Fe Indian School in Santa Fe when he states: ‘‘Most

everybody I know, it’s like, they like reggae, R and B, and rap.’’ He remembers

listening to reggae, collecting and trading homemade cassette tapes, and exchanging

reggae-inspired shirts, hats, artwork, and jewelry with friends as early as the fifth

grade. He also explains the popularity of reggae as the choice for graduation theme

music among his middle-school classmates:

Reggae I think a lot of people like, like our eighth grade promotion, like our class song was ‘‘Three Little Birds’’ by Bob Marley. Yeah, I don’t know … Everyone was like ‘‘think of a class song.’’ First there was a hip hop song, ‘‘no, think of another one.’’ Then there was a metal heads song, ‘‘no way dude.’’ Then it’s like, ‘‘How about Bob Marley, ‘Three Little Birds.’’’ We’re like, ‘‘yeah, yeah.’’ For most of the promotions it’s always been reggae.

6

Of course, Lucas and many of his classmates may be drawn to reggae for a variety of

reasons, many of which may not have anything to do with the politics of either the

music or their Indian communities. It may simply be that the exotic, rebellious, and

trendy nature of reggae caught their attention. At the same time, however, it is

difficult to imagine reggae flourishing to such depths in the Pueblos of northern New

Mexico and other Native American communities without a deeper cultural, spiritual,

and political overlap with reggae and its Rastafarian creators.

The appeal of reggae to Native Americans and, in turn, the appreciation of Native

American culture by many Afro-Caribbean and African Rastas is evident in the

growth of Rasta-owned and -operated reggae specialty shops near Indian reservations.

In Santa Fe, the reggae- and world beat-oriented store Tribal Expressions was one

popular outlet for reggae music, T-shirts, caps, posters, and art work throughout the

1990s. Shop owner, Rastafarian, and St. Kitts island native Sylko asserts that most of

his customers are Native American. ‘‘They tend to really appreciate having us here

and supporting us and getting the stuff,’’ he says. 7

Another transplanted Rastafarian,

Ethiopian-born Daniel Wesega, has owned and operated his reggae shop Rasta Tings

for more than a decade. Originally located in Mesa, Arizona because it served as a

central location in area Native American demands for reggae music and goods, Rasta

Tings has since moved to a larger building in Tempe near the campus of Arizona

State University. Prior to the move, Wesega estimated that nearly 80% of his business

came from Native American customers. He simply states that ‘‘The way they [Native

Americans] look at it, reggae music is part of their life, you know. They can’t live

without reggae music.’’ 8

In addition to Tribal Expressions and Rasta Tings, there are

several other reggae shops throughout Arizona and New Mexico, along with locally

run record stores, like Que Pasa Music/The Trader in Taos, New Mexico, that, while

not specializing in reggae, cite it as one of their biggest sellers and include Native

Americans among their clientele (Christman 85).

At the same time that Native Americans of the US southwest consume reggae and

black Rastas become part of their communities by opening shops, the growth of

reggae in these areas has not been lost on Jamaican, British, and US-based reggae

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performers. In fact, in addition to making frequent stops in Hopiland, Phoenix,

Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and other sites where Native Americans make up large

numbers of their concert audiences, many artists reference American Indians in their

music and lyrics. The San Diego-based reggae band Big Mountain, whose lead singer

Quino is Chicano/Irish, articulate their spiritual support for the native peoples of the

US southwest in the liner notes of their second album, Unity. They explain the

meaning and symbolism of their group’s name by stating:

Special recognition goes to the Dineh’ People [Navajo] of the Big Mountain region of Northern Arizona. It was their struggle that inspired us to name ourselves Big Mountain. They are involved in a bitter fight with various forces, including the US government, that conspire to remove them from their ancestral lands, and turn their lands over to mining interests. This could only lead to the destruction of their sacred land, their culture, and the only way of life they’ve ever known.

9

Big Mountain continue by drawing links between the struggles of indigenous

populations around the globe, claiming they

are dedicated to bringing awareness to the struggles of indigenous peoples everywhere. Whether it be the sovereignty movement of the Hawaiian people, the Zapatista freedom fighters in Chiapas, or the incidents at Oglala, we are all bound in the common fight for the survival of our native cultures. We must recognize the solidarity, we all must share against injustice.

10

A number of other artists solidify the relationship between Rastas and Native

Americans by referencing the Native American love of reggae. For example, in

‘‘Reggae on the River,’’ a salute to their many fans, longtime roots reggae harmony

trio Israel Vibration (1991) wail, ‘‘Up in Hopi Land the Indians just a skank it man.’’

Similar lyrical references are made by Mutabaruka, Burning Spear, Toots and the

Maytals, and others. Interestingly, many of these same artists pay homage to the

Arawak Indians, the tribe native to Jamaica, by recognizing their historical

connection to the land and shared struggle with black Rastafarians against

colonialism and white supremacy in the Caribbean.

The Native American interest in reggae music is perhaps most evident in the

increasing number of Native American reggae artists. Groups like Native Roots from

Albuquerque and Casper Loma Da-Wa from Hopiland are among those performers

who address education and poverty on the reservations, inter-tribe unity, and native

claims to land and historical representation through their unique brand of Native

American reggae. More than simply replicating or covering Jamaican reggae, these

musicians incorporate tribal music, chants, and cultural references to make the music

their own.

Founded near Albuquerque, New Mexico by Emmett ‘‘Shkeme’’ Garcia of Santa

Ana Pueblo and John Williams, for example, Native Roots claim to add ‘‘beads and

fringes’’ to the drum and bass rhythm of reggae by mixing blues and rock influences

with traditional Pueblo drums and rattles, chants, language, and flute to produce a

repertoire of reggae styles including ragamuffin, roots, lovers rock, and dancehall.

Since their inception in 1997 Native Roots have released two full-length compact

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discs (A Place I Call Home in 1999, which won the 2000 Native American Music

Award for ‘‘Best Recording by an Independent Label,’’ and Rain Us Love in 2001,

which won the 2002 Native American Music Award for ‘‘Best World Music

Recording’’), performed with such international reggae stars as Israel Vibration,

Burning Spear, and Toots and the Maytals, and played major events like the Winter

Olympics, Cherokee Tribal Fair, Seminole Tribal Fair, Sundance Film Festival, and

the National Indian Education Association Convention. 11

Though many of their songs are not overtly political in their lyrics, their songs do

often speak to local Pueblo issues rooted in northern New Mexico. In the chorus of

‘‘A Place I Call Home’’ (A Place I Call Home, 1999), for instance, Native Roots wax

nostalgic about living on reservation land. The song references both the physical

geography of the Pueblo region in northern New Mexico and the peace of mind that

comes from being with their families and fellow Indians:

Beautiful Mountains, beautiful valleys, beautiful mesas, and the canyons too A place I call home, a place we call home That’s where I find love, that’s where I find support That’s where I find happiness and comfort

The song ends by making a more overt call for tribal rights to ancestral territories on

behalf of Navajos, Pueblos, Apaches, and Sioux. In ‘‘Rez Yard’’ (Rain Us Love, 2001)

Native Roots combine Pueblo and Rastafarian traditions by borrowing the often-used

slang of ‘‘yard,’’ traditionally employed in Jamaican reggae to refer to the urban

tenement yards in Kingston and rural camps where many poor black Jamaicans

reside, to describe Native American reservations. In addition to alluding to parallel

experiences of how racialization and poverty are inscribed on the living spaces of

reservation Indians and urban black Jamaicans, lead singer ‘‘Shkeme’’ Garcia invokes

the challenges of both past and future life on the reservation when he condemns those

who ignore history by believing ‘‘tradition no part of the plan’’ and those who ‘‘no

care about the tribal future’’ because they ‘‘forget about the Indian people.’’ ‘‘Rez

Yard’’ urges reservation Indians to battle against the longstanding issues of

depression and alcoholism, all the while underscoring that their ‘‘fate is right here

in the yard.’’ Other Native Roots tunes from Rain Us Love (2001), including

‘‘Firewater,’’ ‘‘Frybread,’’ ‘‘Roots and Culture,’’ and ‘‘Native Dancehall,’’ similarly

address issues of Pueblo and other Native American struggles for control over

reservation lands, maintenance and practice of traditional cultures and language, and

political autonomy.

Native Roots further promote indigenous rights and inter-cultural dialogue

beyond their music. ‘‘Shkeme’’ Garcia and Native Roots are also actively involved in a

variety of ongoing political struggles, organizing, and activism advocating indigenous

rights. Native Roots, for example, have played at and helped organize numerous

native arts festivals, benefits against mining and development initiatives in

reservation areas, and inter-indigenous tribal exchanges. In addition to playing with

Native Roots at festivals like the Annual Electric 49 show in Albuquerque that

highlights Native American music from reggae to rap to rock, ‘‘Shkeme’’ Garcia is

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co-owner and manager of Emergence Productions, an outfit that plans and

coordinates a wide variety of events such as the eleventh annual Native Roots &

Rhythms festival held in Santa Fe, New Mexico in 2005. As one of the premiere Native

American performing arts festivals, Native Roots & Rhythms includes indigenous

musicians, dancers, and artists from all over the Americas, a cross-section of

contemporary and traditional performers, and serves as a platform for the growth of

aspiring Native American artists through workshops, events, and interaction with other

performers. 12

In another example, Native Roots played a benefit in 2004 hosted by the

grassroots Navajo organization Dine Bidzill, a group engaged in struggles against

environmental destruction of native lands and the protection of sacred sites. The event,

held in Farmington, New Mexico in January of 2004, was geared towards protesting

new uranium mining development plans targeting Navajo lands in a federal energy bill,

an issue that built on years of anti-mining organizing among indigenous groups in the

US southwest for the destruction of land, radiation dangers, and loss of political

autonomy for native peoples. 13

‘‘Shkeme’’ and Emergence Productions also played a

vital role in the 2005 Emergence Youth Cultural Exchange (EYCE), which included

Upper Sioux Dakota from Minnesota, Seminole from Florida, Yavapai from Arizona,

and even Maori from New Zealand in an inter-tribal cultural gathering in the Pueblos

of northern New Mexico. The multi-day event brought youth from these different

indigenous groups together to learn more about one another and their histories, and,

because it was held in New Mexico, included traditional feasts, music, and dancing in

the Pueblos. In addition to facilitating goals of inter-tribal networking, connecting

different indigenous struggles and identities, and valuing multiple indigenous cultures,

language retention, and life experiences, the EYCE spawned future efforts to continue

such dialogue like the efforts of Pueblo youth to attend the World Indigenous Peoples

Education Conference in New Zealand later in 2005. 14

Just as Native Roots have been an active voice in Native American reggae in the last

decade, so too has Casper Loma-Da-Wa. Born of a Hopi father and Navajo mother,

Loma-Da-Wa was raised in Hopiland in Northern Arizona, where he was deeply

shaped by both Hopi and Navajo cultural traditions, as well as by the visits of popular

reggae performers like Burning Spear, Steel Pulse, Aswad, and Bob Marley. Casper, as

he has come to be known, is perhaps the most well-known Native American reggae

artist. He has released several full-length compact discs on his own Third Mesa Music

label, including Original Landlord (1997) and The Sounds of Reality (2000), the last of

which won the Native American Music Award for ‘‘Best World Music Recording.’’

He has performed across the United States, with internationally renowned reggae

bands such as the Wailers, Burning Spear, and Culture, and was even a featured

musical guest at the American Indian Inaugural Ball in Arlington, Virginia in 2001,

one of several events leading up to the presidential inauguration. 15

Much of Casper’s music draws on traditional Hopi rhythms and beats at the same

time as it is firmly rooted in a variety of reggae styles, including roots and djay

styles. Casper’s versatility as both a singer and djay, in fact, often lead observers to

describe him as a singjay. Whether he is singing in the tradition of roots reggae or

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rapping in a dancehall djay style, Casper maintains that ‘‘I feel what I sing,’’ a

sentiment reflected not only in his passion for reggae and his Hopi/Navajo identity,

but also in the lyrical content of his music. Many of his songs, for example, advocate

for Hopi land rights, political autonomy, and freedom of cultural expression against

forces of the US government and multi-national development companies. In the

title track to his first solo-produced CD, Original Landlord (1997), for instance,

Casper relates the fight by Hopi and Navajo peoples against the US government and

Peabody Energy Company, which has long mined the area for coal while leaving

little but ecological destruction and human rights abuses in its wake. Over a heavy

drum and bass line, Casper chants:

Tell you about the things the world not see

And of the ways, government policies

They strip upon me land at ah Peabody

This a serious, this is not ah funny

In other songs, like ‘‘Hundred Years of Redemption’’ and ‘‘No Indian,’’ Casper

excavates what feminist and cultural critic Donna Harroway (575–99) might

identify as Native American ‘‘situated knowledges’’ of violence and colonization.

Casper shares the often-ignored history of the Hopi to claim their own land and

rights at the same time as he recognizes how Hopi struggles are often shared by

others. In his song ‘‘Hopiland Winter’’ (The Sounds of Reality, 2000), for example,

Loma Da-Wa’s dedication to the ‘‘indigenous people throughout the world’’

highlights his shared sense of struggle and identity, yet his lyrics and music explicitly

anchor his reggae in his Hopiland. In ‘‘How the West was Won’’ (The Sounds of

Reality, 2000), Casper plays dramatically on the Jamaican reggae slang of djaying in

a ‘‘murder style’’ by chanting ‘‘gonna tell you how the west was won, inna murder

style’’ as he references Hopi, Navajo, Sioux, and other indigenous struggles against

white settlement, violence, and manifest destiny. The same song, as literary critic

Loretta Collins (7–8) points out, challenges standard interpretations of the ‘‘wild

wild west’’ in the reggae genre that emphasize the renegade and hyper-masculine

virtues of Hollywood-made Western-style films. Casper, rather, recognizes the

dehumanization of native peoples in Western history and their claims to dignity in

the face of such oppression. In another song, ‘‘Why?’’ (Original Landlord, 1997),

Casper delivers lyrics in a classic singjay style that, despite its essentializing

tendency, draws links between the experiences of Native Americans and black

Africans. He sings:

Being a native, and living in America

Is like being black and living down in Africa

Me don’t get it, me really don’t understand

In people’s eyes I’m a 2nd class citizen

Like Native Roots, moreover, Casper Loma-Da-Wa’s inter-racial and multi-ethnic

politics extend beyond his music to supporting a variety of programs and initiatives

for indigenous rights, including demonstrations against Peabody Energy and other

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mining interests, promotion of native performing arts, and support for efforts to

increase Hopi and Navajo control in devising environmentally safe and economically

successful energy sources on reservation lands. 16

While Native Roots and Casper are among the most recognized Native American

reggae artists, several other bands, musicians, and poets, including Joy Harjo, Red

Earth, and others, experiment with reggae in their performance art (Ullestad). These

artists often convey the spiritual and political connections that Hopi, Navajo, Pueblo,

and other Native Americans have with black Rastafarians. They perform their

indigenous identity in ways that stretch beyond the boundaries of their own

reservations and tribal nations. Indigenous reggae thus facilitates cross-cultural

exchange at the same time as it engages very local experiences and histories. As

globalization intensifies the gap between the haves and have-nots, indigenous reggae

thrives within the very channels of global capital to help fuel new social relationships

and claims to dignity, social justice, and political autonomy.

Reggae from the ‘‘Other’’ Islands

Just as Native Americans have used reggae to make sense of globalization and explore

their connections with other marginalized groups, so too have other indigenous

peoples around the world. Reggae’s message of liberation and resistance against the

dehumanization of colonization and globalization has long resonated with the Maori

of New Zealand, Aborigines of Australia, and native islanders across the Pacific. The

Maori, in particular, have developed their own brand of reggae music and style,

overlapping reggae with other musical styles ranging from hip hop to traditional

Maori haka chants and rhythms. The political thrust of much Maori reggae,

moreover, highlights the anti-colonial movement still strong in New Zealand today,

efforts to maintain the Maori language (many of these artists combine English and

native Maori lyrics in their performances), and points of commonality with other

native populations. Beginning with Dean Hapeta’s hip hop–influenced Upper Hutt

Posse (UHP) in 1985, bands like Katchafire; Dread, Beat, and Blood; and David

Grace and Injustice have underscored the specific experiences of Maori colonization,

land rights struggles, resistance, and cultural expression. For example, in their first

release, Revival (2003), which was the top-selling album on www.maorimusic.com

for the first several months of 2004, the pop-oriented reggae of Katchafire creates

their own Maori brand of reggae at the same time as they pay homage to Bob Marley

with a version of his ‘‘Redemption Song’’ and to Jamaican Rasta and reggae culture

more generally with songs like ‘‘Reggae Revival,’’ ‘‘Collie Herb Man,’’ and

‘‘Sensimillia.’’ David Grace, who helped begin the Dread, Beat, and Blood band in

the mid-1980s and the Injustice band in the 1990s, is more overtly political in his

musical documentation of Maori history. His roots reggae repertoire from Dread,

Beat, and Blood’s Tribute to a Friend (1985) includes songs like ‘‘Colonial Law’’ and

‘‘Teach the Children.’’ Grace’s lyrics on Weapons of Peace (1997) in songs like ‘‘One

People,’’ ‘‘Revolution,’’ ‘‘Empower My People,’’ and ‘‘Live as One’’ are a particularly

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poignant example of how reggae music has become a salient vehicle for calls for

Maori unity, autonomy, empowerment, and anti-colonization. Grace’s ‘‘Pakaitore’’

from the same compact disc, for instance, is a powerful number in support of the

Whanganui Maori, who drew support from Maori all over New Zealand when they

moved onto their ancestral lands in spite of governmental efforts to block them. The

song recalls the clash between Maori supporters and the police seeking to evict them,

with Grace singing, ‘‘When I see Maori people stand up for their rights, yeah it makes

me feel good inside.’’ Over heavy reggae drum and bass rhythms, Weapons of Peace

also delivers songs like ‘‘Equal Rights’’ and ‘‘Occupation,’’ which draw links between

Maori struggles for dignity and those of ‘‘youth in China,’’ ‘‘black people in

Rwanda,’’ ‘‘black people in Somalia,’’ the ‘‘Kanaky people in New Caledonia,’’ and

Native Americans in the United States.

In New Zealand, however, it is UHP, under the leadership of Hapeta, aka D

Word, that has been the most audible voice in Maori reggae and hip hop. UHP

combines hip hop beats, reggae rhythms, and more traditional Maori music with

English and Maori lyrics stressing the dignity and autonomy of Maori people. Their

music and lyrics, in fact, helped jumpstart the resurgence in Maori nationalism in

the late ’80s and early ’90s that was particularly salient among young people.

Originating in the Upper Hutt neighborhood just outside of Wellington, Hapeta

and UHP were heavily influenced by ideas of nationalism, freedom, and autonomy

in the speeches and political writings of black American leaders Malcolm X, Martin

Luther King, and Louis Farrakhan. Hapeta’s political conscience, in particular, was

also impacted by his tenure working for New Zealand’s Department of Justice, a

position which required him to travel the country to hear Maori land grievances

(Buchanan). The dual influences of black nationalism and Maori rights initiatives

result in UHP’s commitment to musical production and political activism that

simultaneously highlight their identity and rights as Maori in New Zealand and

recognize how Maori experiences intersect with those of other indigenous

and marginalized groups struggling against globalization. Most of UHP’s music

and lyrics contain a strong political and ideological slant. Their reggae- and rap-

influenced ‘‘Te Hono Whakakoro’’ (Te Reo Maori Remixes, 2002), for example,

which translates to ‘‘Movement in Demand,’’ urges the rejuvenation of Maori

grassroots activism against the history of colonial occupation and intra-Maori unity

as means to overcome the divisiveness of tribalism. In the song, Hapeta raps, ‘‘Wake

up, get up. Mash up society/So we can forge a better place to be/Free of wicked

politics and dirty tricks against true humanity/… Actions now are gonna forge the

future tense/Hence we gotta teach peace, truth/Inspiration for true equity that’s

what we gotta be.’’

The political motivations behind Hapeta and UHP’s artistic production are further

underscored in the ways they describe their work. In an interview with New Zealand

Radio, Hapeta expounds on his stances against globalization and colonization and for

inter-tribal activism and unity. Hapeta squarely views the music of UHP as

‘‘continuing the struggle against malignant governmental and corporate greed

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systems who stifle liberty through falsehood and foster allegiance to so-called

democracy and other deceitfulisms.’’ Hapeta more specifically locates UHP as a

critical voice in the Maori struggle for cultural autonomy against the pakeah, or white

colonizers of New Zealand, when he asserts that ‘‘… over here, you know, they’re

crying for us to become Kiwis, call ourselves New Zealanders, all of this sort of

nonsense. You know what I mean, that’s why I say ‘F-U-C-K New Zealand because

Aotearoa is the name of the country!’’’ 17

Hapeta and UHP’s devotion to their Maori identity and struggles, however, also

encourages collaboration with other people fighting the ill effects of globalization and

colonization. Hapeta, for example, recently completed a docu/rapumentary film,

Ngatahi: Know the Links (2003), in which he explores the intersections of local hip

hop, reggae, poetry, and activist scenes around the world through an amazing array

of video footage, music, and interviews with individuals from Washington, DC, New

York, San Francisco, Kingston, London, Havana, Paris, Toronto, Auckland, Bogota,

Sydney, and elsewhere. Know the Links illustrates both the wide reach of globalization

and the myriad ways that local populations mobilize cultural forms to articulate often

seething critiques of its impact on their most immediate surroundings. The film and

the lengthy process Hapeta undertook to create it demonstrate how local cultures

simultaneously engage the global penetrations of transnational corporations, mass-

produced goods, and mass media, on the one hand, and traditions, rituals, and

longstanding elements of place, on the other. The result is a conversation between

seemingly disparate local cultures on how to resist, survive, and negotiate

globalization that is facilitated by the inter-related and growing local networks of

reggae, hip hop, poetry, and political activism.

Hapeta and UHP’s efforts to link their music, culture, and politics to those of

others, like their other Maori and Native American reggae counterparts, is part of a

larger discussion among different indigenous groups about the nature of indigenous

culture, identity, and struggle. Though Jamaican Rastafarian reggae artists have not

explicitly noted in their lyrics the popularity and influence of their music among the

Maori as they have with Native Americans, Maori and Native American reggae artists

have initiated more extensive social and political relations with one another. In

March of 2004, for example, the Albuquerque-based Native Roots performed in New

Zealand as part of the festival for ‘‘Indigenous Unity Through Reggae Vibrations.’’ 18

Featuring a number of international and New Zealand–based artists, it is no

coincidence such a concert took place in Wellington and echoed the efforts of the

Native American-based EYCE’s travels to New Zealand to attend the World

Indigenous People’s Education Conference.

Beyond New Zealand, indigenous populations in the Pacific Islands and Australia

have also generated local reggae scenes. Hawaii, for example, is quickly becoming

known for its uniquely island-influenced brand of ‘‘Jawaiin’’ reggae from artists like

the Typical Hawaiians, Mana Ohana, and others. Throughout the Pacific Islands

there are many others, including Fiji, who traces his roots to the island country of the

same name, Australia’s Kineman Karma, and Papua New Guinea’s O-Shen. These

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artists have all emerged as leading voices in the Pacific and South Pacific reggae

scenes, many having produced numerous full-length compact discs and compila-

tions. 19

Much of their music incorporates music, rhythms, sounds, and language

native to their own islands and also re-narrates their own island’s history to focus on

the ill effects of colonization and racism, the political potential of trans-Pacific Island

unity, and efforts to maintain native cultures.

Kineman Karma, for instance, has been at the forefront of the burgeoning

Aboriginal reggae scene in Australia since its inception in 2002. The band represents a

diverse cross-section of Australians, including several Aboriginal and Maltese-

Australian members, but squarely identifies with the country’s indigenous groups in

its music, lyrics, and politics. Formed by John Rigney, a member of the Ngarrindjeri

Aboriginal community from southern Australia and former member of the

Ngarrindjeri band Rough Image who performed at a number of indigenous

themed-music festivals in the 1990s, including on the Pala Native American

Reservation in California, Kineman Karma has come to be a stalwart in local music

and political scenes in Adelaide, South Australia. The band won back-to-back South

Australian Music Awards for Indigenous Acts in 2004 and 2005 and participated in a

variety of indigenous music and art festivals, including the Unity Against Racism

concert and event series.

According to the band members themselves, Kineman Karma ‘‘aim to document

traditional and contemporary Australian and Ngarrindjeri political issues’’ through

their unique blend of roots and rock steady reggae, funk, ska, country, and jazz

influences. 20

Rigney elaborates on the band’s meaning, pointing out that

‘‘Kineman’’ is the Ngarrindjeri word for ‘‘Black’’ and is meant to stand for ‘‘the

people of this land, the spirits of our ancestors and represents the black culture’s

struggle for true freedom.’’ ‘‘Karma,’’ continues Rigney, ‘‘stands for positivism,

energy, togetherness. One circle of people creating peace through reggae music.’’ 21

Like their Native American and Maori counterparts, consequently, Kineman Karma

simultaneously view their music as a localized cultural performance and a vehicle

for creating political dialogue with others. Many of their songs focus on

Ngarrindjeri and other Aboriginal issues of social justice, environmentalism, and

cultural survival and reconciliation. For example, in an interview Rigney describes

the song ‘‘Ancestors Calling’’ as being about how ‘‘language is a very important tool

in our community to signify our strength.’’ He continues, ‘‘If you don’t have

language it becomes very hard to identify who we are as an Aboriginal person. I

mean, you can identify with who you are as an Aboriginal person but our

connection to our culture and our community is our language.’’ 22

Other Kineman

Karma originals center on similar issues, such as ‘‘Murras,’’ the Ngarrindjeri word

for ‘‘hands,’’ which urges younger generations of Aborigines to learn from and talk

to their elders. In another song, ‘‘Political War,’’ the lyrics of Rigney and Kineman

Karma articulate Aborigines’ struggle against the cultural genocide imparted by a

paternalistic Australian government that claims to know what is best for them.

While their music might very well be their primary platform to find their political

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voice, Kineman Karma, like so many other indigenous reggae artists, extend their

activism off stage as well. Rigney explains this practice, stating, ‘‘I also focus my

efforts as a community ambassador with local events in the community as well,

where I talk about my experiences as an Aboriginal person and as a musician

working abroad.’’ 23

Another of the most popular reggae artists to emerge on the Pacific Island scene

is O-Shen. Born Jason Hershey to American medical missionary parents in Papua

New Guinea, O-Shen grew up in the small village of Butaneng, learning to speak the

native Pidgin language and practice local customs. When he was 15, O-Shen moved

with his family to attend high school in Spokane, Washington, where he began for

the first time to speak English as his everyday language and, eventually, spent time

in the state prison at Walla Walla after being arrested for burglary. Soon after his

release, O-Shen launched his musical career from his new home base in Hawaii,

incorporating influences from Papua New Guinea and the hip hop he learned to

love as a high school student in his own brand of Pacific Island reggae. He has since

recorded numerous full-length compact discs and performed across the Pacific and

in the mainland United States. His popularity is such that one of his performances

in Palau generated the largest human gathering in the island’s history. 24

O-Shen’s music and performance style are deeply shaped by his connection to

Papua New Guinea and the South Pacific. He makes heavy use of indigenous

drumming and chanting and the Pidgin language in his music, while centering his

lyrics on calls for Pacific Island independence and inter-island unity. He claims, ‘‘I

like to hit issues in my lyrics. I want people in the Islands to be proud of their cultures

and languages and lifestyles.’’ 25

O-Shen’s ‘‘Free Island People’’ (Island Warriors,

2000), for example, echoes the calls for local indigenous autonomy made by Native

American groups in the US southwest and Maori groups in New Zealand. In a

particularly powerful verse over a hard-driving reggae drum and bass line, O-Shen

sings, ‘‘We don’t want European government, We don’t need American government,

don’t like to see too much foreign power here, cause western influence been killing us

for years.’’ O-Shen’s lyrics extend to question the production of knowledge and who

has the power to narrate history when he croons, ‘‘Captain Cook never discovered

anything, the Polynesian people had already settled in, so they telling lies in all the

various story books, we better open up the past and take another look.’’ He concludes

with a call for pan-Pacific islander independence and sovereignty that might just as

easily apply to Native Americans, the Maori, and Australian Aborigines. ‘‘Pacific

Island independence, the way that it should be, but they don’t want to go, they say

that we need them, from Hawaii to Tahiti, the whole Pacific Sea, I’m hearing children

as they’re crying for freedom.’’ While some might argue that O-Shen’s relatively

privileged background as a well-traveled and educated Euro American discounts him

as an indigenous cultural performer or marks him as an exploiter of his ‘‘Island Boy’’

image for commercial gain, his music and politics also illustrate the dynamic,

multiple, and contradictory nature of what it means to be indigenous in this moment

of globalization.

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Diasporic Contradictions and the Politics of Listening

There is, of course, much more historical and ethnographic work to be done to

analyze the reggae scenes in the Native American southwest, New Zealand, Australia,

and the Pacific. Even this cursory examination, however, illuminates the multiple

meanings, discourses, and performances of Caribbean and indigenous identity as a

series of intersecting local struggles for political autonomy, cultural survival, and

dignity against the dehumanizing effects of globalization. Just as Native Americans,

Maori, and Pacific Islanders simultaneously draw from and transcend the tradition of

reggae music as a black, Jamaican Rastafarian practice, so too does O-Shen force us to

examine what it means to be indigenous. The cultural performances of Casper,

Native Roots, UHP, Kineman Karma, O-Shen and others suggest that their identities

depend as much on social and political commitments, relationships, and obligations

as they do on any racial or ethnic markers. If the complicated personal histories of

these artists and their diverse fan bases come together in a Diaspora where indigenous

groups struggle for dignity against a globalization marked by longstanding

experiences of colonization, violence, and exploitation, however, this is not without

contradictions.

Among the most apparent of contradictions is the degree to which musicians and

their fans are complicit with the very circuits of global capital they critique in their

lyrics and political activities. One might argue that their commodity consumption or

production momentarily shifts the capitalist gaze, enabling them to better navigate

the marketplace at the same time that they cultivate a subversive politics. There is

still, however, the potential for the overtly political nature of their reggae music to

become lost in its own commercialization, tourism, and market forces of the

globalized music industry, oftentimes within the same regions where it galvanizes

indigenous struggles for dignity and against globalization. One author (Giovannetti),

for example, has demonstrated how Puerto Rican reggae foments a subculture that is

disconnected from the more overt politics of its musical tradition and is more drawn

together by reggae’s relationship to tourism, surfing, and other leisure activities.

More extensive research on the reggae scenes in Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand, the

Pacific Islands, and even the Pacific coast of Mexico might yield similar findings.

While indigenous reggae music is part and parcel of the matrix of global capital, its

producers and consumers are often quite aware of the contradictions created by their

dual roles as practitioners and critics of globalization. Dean Hapeta and UHP, for

example, describe themselves as ‘‘just part of the continuing struggle to live on this

planet as one people holistically, ‘cause as you notice Pakeah (white) don’t live

holistically.’’ When asked how they might play a role in helping Pakeah society in

New Zealand to acknowledge their violent history with Maori and work to recognize

indigenous autonomy, members of UHP half-jokingly suggest, ‘‘They can buy our

CD!’’ Hapeta further highlights how he unabashedly manipulates the same patterns

of globalization he has dedicated his life to fighting against. He argues ‘‘by any means

necessary, Malcolm X told us that. If we need some money to get somewhere for a gig

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and the Ku Klux Klan’s gonna come up with it, well, I’m taking that money and

getting on that plane and I’m gonna be there.’ Cause I just take their stink money, I

don’t have any problems about it.’’ 26

Hapeta, UHP, and other indigenous reggae

musicians employ global networks of capital at the same time as they struggle against

their dehumanizing impact. Their musical and political activity points to what we

might consider a kind of ‘‘globalization from below,’’ where indigenous reggae

performers and their followers explore new possibilities of identity formation and

cultural struggle that make use of the everyday social and political spaces that result

from capital’s reach into virtually every mode of human life.

If some indigenous groups struggle against the dehumanizing effect of

globalization by realizing their commonalities with other communities through

reggae music, they do so in ways that sometimes deny the dignity of others. It is

particularly evident that the deeply gendered nature of indigenous reggae often

replicates much of the male-dominated and hyper-masculine character of the larger

music industry, indigenous communities, and national societies in which these artists

and their fans reside. There is a strong tendency in many of the songs and lyrics by

indigenous reggae artists, for example, to equate resistance and warriorlike activity

with manhood. In songs like Fiji’s ‘‘Warrior of Love’’ (Island Warriors, 2000) or

O-Shen’s ‘‘Strong Like a Warrior’’ (Faya, 2006) or ‘‘Island Boy Don’t Play’’ (Rising

Son, 2005), the artists articulate their masculinity as dependent upon being physically

strong and tough, and refusing to be bullied by others. This trend not only risks

reinforcing the longstanding patterns of patriarchy in many of their communities,

but also obscures and silences a wider range of gender identities and voices. The

failure to recognize masculine stereotypes and patriarchal power may, in part, result

from situations where male reggae performers entertain largely male audiences

(Bucknor 79).

Conversely, there is also a seemingly requisite inclusion of songs on virtually all of

the compact discs discussed above that construct a typology of indigenous women

either as objects of male sexual desire or as feminine protectors of the ‘‘old ways.’’ In

songs like Casper’s ‘‘Hopiland Girls’’ (The Sounds of Reality, 2000), O-Shen’s ‘‘Maoli

Girl’’ (Faya, 2006), ‘‘Cool Fever’’ (Rascal in Paradise, 2002), or ‘‘Sweet Thang’’

(Rising Son, 2005), Mana Ohana’s ‘‘Island Dream Girls’’ (Island Warriors, 2000) or

Native Roots’ ‘‘Native Girls’’ (A Place I Call Home, 1999), Native American,

Hawaiian, and other ‘‘island girls’’ are noted mainly for their physical attributes and

appearance or for the maternal role they play as a giver of ‘‘traditional’’ culture.

Mirroring strains of the gender politics evident in reggae’s digital dancehall genre

over the last 20 years, these male performers assume the ability to understand women

and know what they want in ways that uncritically accept longstanding assumptions

about patriarchal power (Bucknor 75). In ‘‘Native Girls,’’ for example, Native Roots

sing, ‘‘I want one with brown brown skin, pretty face and jet black hair, I want one

that wants to be there, that’s got to be there, never wants to be selfish, really wants to

be conscious …’’ Such trends not only limit the liberatory potential of indigenous

reggae because they risk denying the dignity of indigenous women, but they also echo

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conventional treatment of gender performance, women, and sex in popular music

more generally. What is more, they distinguish indigenous reggae as a cultural terrain

where dominant or heroic masculine and sexual identities are defined as such against

the subordination of alternative masculine, feminine, and sexual identities. Cultural

critic Michael Bucknor convincingly argues that such patterns demonstrate how the

reggae aesthetic often ‘‘elides the politics of gender and sexuality in the favor of the

politics of artistic revolt’’ (72).

The contradictions embedded in indigenous reggae music have much to teach us

about the shifting contours of indigenous identity and struggles for dignity. Native

American, Maori, Aborigine, and Pacific Island reggae illuminates how different

indigenous identities intersect in unexpected ways, sometimes resulting in

interlocking struggles for dignity and social justice and, at other times, leading to

increased economic or gender tension. The eclectic world of indigenous reggae music

brings into focus an indigenous identity that, as anthropologists Bartholomew Dean

and Jerome Levi (27) argue, has no universal definition and is no longer simply an

instrument of categorization wielded by colonial powers. Indiginism, Dean and Levi

(7–8) suggest, is a useful poly-ethnic identity that can serve as a platform for

mobilizing cultural identity and political action among diverse peoples within and

between existing countries. If the shifting nature of indigenous identity is at least

partially a result of efforts to maintain cultural autonomy and continuity in a world

increasingly dominated by global processes, indigenous reggae music is one way to

track such changes and monitor struggles for dignity. The Diaspora of indigenous

reggae, in other words, is also a Diaspora of dignity. Or, as cultural critic Stuart Hall

argues about Diasporas more generally, indigenous reggae ‘‘doesn’t cling to closed,

unitary, homogenous models of cultural belonging, but’’ embraces ‘‘the wider

processes—the play of similarity and difference—that are transforming culture world

wide’’ (18). Dean Hapeta of UHP puts it another way. He argues, ‘‘We’re all of the

planet. It’s the most crucial thing, you know. We are of this planet. So why I got to be

in my little corner? That’s a problem with the planet, too many people in their

corners … But that’s not all of us, it sure as hell ain’t UHP.’’ 27

As indigenous artists

continue to make reggae ‘‘at the risk of being heard,’’ we might all benefit from

listening to them. We just might learn a lot about how seemingly powerless groups

struggle against the overwhelming forces of globalization to make their lives better.

Notes

[1] Both ‘‘Whiteman Country’’ and ‘‘De System’’ appear on Mutabaruka, Check It!, Ras Records, 2003.

[2] John Holloway, ‘‘Dignity’s Revolt,’’ in Holloway and Pelaez 159–98. This formulation of dignity as a category of critical analysis, like many new and continuing social movements around the world, has been inspired by the Zapatista opposition to the acceleration of capitalist relations that value profit over humanity. In a communiqué shortly after their armed uprising in January of 1994, the Zapatistas located dignity at the center of their oppositional politics. ‘‘We saw that not everything had been taken away from us, that we had the most valuable, that which made us live, that which made our step rise above plants and

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animals, that which made the stone be beneath our feet, and we saw, brothers and sisters, that all we had was DIGNITY, and we saw that great was the shame of having forgotten it, and we saw that DIGNITY was good for human beings to be human beings again, and dignity returned to live in our hearts, and we were new again, and the dead, our dead, saw that we were new again and they called us again, to DIGNITY, to struggle.’’ Ejercito Zapatista Liberacion Nacional, La Palabra, vol. 1: 1222, as quoted in Holloway and Pelaez 159.

[3] Ras Joseph, interviewed by author, 14 October 1995. [4] Lucas Naranjo, interviewed by author, 25 May 1996. [5] Yolanda and Rosando, interviewed by author, 12 October 1995. [6] Lucas Naranjo, interviewed by author, 25 May 1996. [7] Sylko, interviewed by author, 28 December 1995. [8] Daniel Wesega, interviewed by author, 12 October 1995. See also Brinkley Rogers. [9] Liner notes from Big Mountain, Unity, Giant Records, 1994.

[10] Liner notes from Big Mountain, Unity, Giant Records, 1994. Incidents at Oglala refer to multi-national mining interests pillaging of land and labor in West Papua, Indonesia.

[11] For more on the biography of Native Roots, see their website at <http://www.nativeroots. net.

[12] For further description of the Native Roots & Rhythms 2005 festival, see press release located at <http://www.santafe.net/nativerootsnrhythms/overview.pdf>.

[13] For more on this event, see Norrell, ‘‘Remembering.’’ [14] For more on the EYCE, see Norrell, ‘‘Youths Participate.’’ [15] For more on Casper Loma-Da-Wa, see his website at <http://www.3rdmesa.com>; Collins;

Edwards; Rozemberg; Weber. [16] For descriptions of examples of such projects, see the website for Third Mesa Music at

<http://www.3rdmesa.com>. [17] Interview with Dean Hapeta and Upper Hutt Posse, broadcast on New Zealand Radio. MP3

available at <http://www.tekupu.com/sound/uhpinterview-radionz.mp3>. [18] Press release, ‘‘Indigenous Unity Through Reggae Vibrations,’’ March 5, 2004. Located at

<http://www.scoop.co.nz/mason/stories/cu0403/s00037.htm>. [19] See, for example, Island Warriors, Hobo House on the Hill Records, 2000. [20] For descriptions of Kineman Karma, see the band’s website at <http://www.kinemankarma.

com>. [21] John Rigney, quoted in Telfer. [22] Interview with John Rigney, transcript located at <www.deadlysounds.vibe.com.au/dsounds/

archive/read.asp?id5745>. [23] Interview with John Rigney. [24] ‘‘O-Shen Between Two Worlds,’’ Pacific Magazine, September 2002, located at <http://

www.pacificislands.cc/pm92002/pmdefault.php?urlarticleid50011>. For more on O-Shen, see his website at <http://www.o-shen.com>.

[25] ‘‘O-Shen Between Two Worlds,’’ Pacific Magazine, September 2002. [26] Interview with Dean Hapeta and Upper Hutt Posse, broadcast on New Zealand Radio. MP3

available at <http://www.tekupu.com/sound/uhpinterview-radionz.mp3>. [27] Interview with Dean Hapeta and Upper Hutt Posse, broadcast on New Zealand Radio.

Works Cited

Brinkley-Rogers, Paul. ‘‘Reggae Vibrations Take Root in Mesa.’’ The Arizona Republic 24 April 1995: B1.

Buchanan, Kerry. ‘‘A Maori Warrior Claims New Territory.’’ Unseco Courier, July–August 2000 <http://www.unesco.org/courier/2000_07/uk/doss22.htm>

Bucknor, Michael A. ‘‘Staging Seduction: Masculine Performance or the Art of Sex in Colin Channer’s Reggae Romance Waiting in Vain?’’ Interventions 6.1, 2004: 67–81.

Christman, Ed. ‘‘Sisters Dress Up Taos, New Mexico Music Outlet: Store Caters to Diverse Locals in Tourist Community.’’ Billboard 12 February 1994: 85.

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Collins, Loretta. ‘‘Ribbon Shirts in Rasta Colors: Native American Syncretic Musical and Visual Strategies of (Jamaican) Resistance in the Lyrical Imagery, CD Jacket Art, and Performance Costuming of Hopi/Dine Reggae Singjay Casper Loma-Da-Wa.’’ Image & Narrative: Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative 11 (May 2005).

Dean, Bartholomew, and Jerome M. Levi, eds. At the Risk of Being Heard: Identity, Indigenous Rights, and Postcolonial States. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2003.

Edwards, Michelle. ‘‘A Voice of Hope: Casper Uses Roots to Fight for Hopi People.’’ The Pulse 24 May 1999: 26.

Feld, Steven. ‘‘From Schizophonia to Schismogenesis: On the Discourses and Commodification Practices of ‘World Music’ and ‘World Beat’.’’ Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues. Ed. Steven Feld and Charles Keil. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1994.

Foster, Chuck. Roots Rock Reggae: An Oral History of Reggae Music from Ska to Dancehall. New York: Billboard Books, 1999.

Gaztambide-Fernandez, Ruben A. ‘‘Profetas de la Cultura: Notes on the Puerto Rican Reggae of Cultura Profetica.’’ Centro Journal 16. 2, fall 2004: 227–247.

Giovannetti, Jorge L. ‘‘Popular Music and Culture in Puerto Rico: Jamaican and Rap Music as Cross-Cultural Symbols.’’ Musical Migrations Volume 1: Transnationalism and Cultural Hybridity in Latin/o America. Ed. Frances Aparicio and Candida Jaquez. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

Hall, Stuart. ‘‘Thinking the Diaspora: Home-Thoughts from Abroad.’’ Small Axe 6, September 1999: 1–18.

Harroway, Donna. ‘‘Situated Knowledge: The Science Question in Feminism as a Site of Discourse on the Privilege of Partial Perspectives.’’ Feminist Studies 14. 3, 1988: 575–599.

Helig, Steve. ‘‘First People’s Music Opening the Door to New and Ancient Native American Music.’’ The Beat 15. 2, 1996: 46–53.

Holloway, John, and Eloina Pelaez. Zapatista! Reinventing Revolution in Mexico. London: Pluto Press, 1998.

Knupp, Ralph E. ‘‘A Time for Every Purpose Under Heaven: Rhetorical Dimensions of Protest Music.’’ The Southern Speech Communication Journal 46, Summer 1981: 377–89.

Lipsitz, George. Dangerous Crossroads: Popular Music, Postmodernism and the Poetics of Place. London: Verso, 1994.

Lowe, Lisa, and David Lloyd, eds. The Politics of Culture in the Shadow of Capital. Durham, NC: Duke U P, 1997.

Moyer, Eileen. ‘‘Street-Corner Justice in the Name of Jah: Imperatives for Peace among Dar es Salaam Street Youth.’’ Africa Today 51. 3, Spring 2005: 31–58.

Norrell, Brenda. ‘‘Remembering the ‘Yellow Sand’.’’ UN Observer and International Report. January 2004 <http://www.unobserver.com/printen.php?id51353>.

———. ‘‘Youths Participate in Cultural Connections.’’ Indian Country Today. 15 August 2005 <http://www.indiancountry.com/content.cfm?id51096411405>.

Rozemberg, Herman. ‘‘Hopi Message Takes Form of Reggae Beat.’’ The Arizona Republic 18 December 2000: B1, B4.

Savishinsky, Neil J. ‘‘Transnational Popular Culture and the Global Spread of the Jamaican Rastafarian Movement.’’ New West Indian Guide 68. 3–4, 1994: 259–81.

Spencer, William D. ‘‘Chanting Change around the World through Rasta Riddim and Art.’’ Chanting Down Babylon: The Rastafari Reader. Ed. Nathaniel Murrell, William D. Spencer, and Adrian McFarlane. Philadelphia: Temple U P, 1998. 253–65.

Telfer, Waiata. ‘‘Kineman Karma ‘Stir it Up’ in Adelaide.’’ Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Online 6 February 2006 <http://www.abc.net.av/message/blackarts/music/s1654096. htm>.

Ullestad, Neal. ‘‘American Indian Rap and Reggae: Dancing ‘To the Beat of a Different Drummer.’’’ Popular Music and Society 23. 2, summer 1999: 63–90.

Weber, Bruce. ‘‘Reggae Rhythms Speak to an Insular Tribe.’’ New York Times 19 September 1999: 36.

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Websites and Films

Casper Loma-Da-Wa <http://www.3rdmesa.com>. Kineman Karma <http://www.kinemankarma.com>. Native Roots <http://www.nativeroots.net>. Ngatahi: Know the Links, Dean Hapeta, 2003. O-Shen <http://www.o-shen.com>. Upper Hutt Posse <http://www.tekupu.com>.

Selected Discography

Big Mountain. Unity. Giant Records, 1994. Casper Loma-Da-Wa. Original Landlord. Third Mesa Music, 1997. ———. Sounds of Reality. Third Mesa Music, 2000. David Grace and Injustice. Weapons of Peace. Jayrem, 1997. Dread, Beat, and Blood. Tribute to a Friend. Jayrem, 1985. Israel Vibration. Forever. RAS Records, 1991. Katchafire. Revival. 2B1 Records, 2003. Native Roots. A Place I Call Home. SOAR/Warrior, 1999. ———. Rain Us Love. SOAR/Warrior, 2001. O-Shen. Faya. Sharpnote Records, 2006. ———. Rascal in Paradise. Hobo House on the Hill Records, 2002. ———. Rising Son. Sharpnote Records, 2005. Upper Hutt Posse. Te Reo Maori Remixes. Kia Kaha Productions, 2002. Various Artists. Island Warriors. Hobo House on the Hill Records, 2000.

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