Crime and Music [1st ed.] 9783030498771, 9783030498788

Citation preview

Dina Siegel Frank Bovenkerk  Editors

Crime and Music

Crime and Music

Dina Siegel  •  Frank Bovenkerk Editors

Crime and Music

Editors Dina Siegel Willem Pompe Institute Utrecht University Utrecht, The Netherlands

Frank Bovenkerk Willem Pompe Institute Utrecht University Utrecht, The Netherlands

ISBN 978-3-030-49877-1    ISBN 978-3-030-49878-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Contents

 Stories of Crime and Music����������������������������������������������������������������������������    1 Dina Siegel and Frank Bovenkerk Part I The Criminalization of Music  Entartete Musik: Perpetrators and Victims��������������������������������������������������   13 Leo Samama Marginalizing the Muslim Ustad: Hindu Nationalism and Music in Modern North India ����������������������������������������������������������������   33 Bob van der Linden Part II Music and Violence Castrati: Child Abuse and the Search for Musical Perfection����������������������   55 Dina Siegel  Crime at the Opera House������������������������������������������������������������������������������   73 Lodewijk Brunt  “Blood-Thirsty Blues”: The Sonic Politics of American Murder Ballads��������������������������������������������������������������������������   87 Frank Mehring Part III Organised Crime and Music  Praise the Drug Lord: Narcocorridos in Mexico ������������������������������������������  103 Klaas Wellinga  Jazz and the Mob: A Story of Unexpected Patronage����������������������������������  123 Frank Bovenkerk

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 Crimen et Circenses: Serbian Turbo Folk Music and Organised Crime��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  149 Elena Krsmanović Part IV Music, Genocide and Crimes Against Humanity Todestango: Music in Nazi Death Camps������������������������������������������������������  171 Willem de Haan  The Music Act of “Kosovo” and Its Semantic Resonances in International Criminal Trials: An Oral Epic Poetry Case Study Toward a Cognitive Approach to Analysis, Investigations, and Prosecutions��������������������������������������������������������������������  205 Predrag Dojčinović Jihadi Anashid, Islamic State Warfare and the Agency of Sound ��������������  233 Luis Velasco-Pufleau Part V Music as Resistance  The Malleable and Inevitable Path of Demonizing (Sub)Culture: The Case of Greek Rebetiko��������������������������������������������������  247 Vassilis Gerasopoulos  “Keeping It (Hyper)Real”: A Musical History of Rap’s Quest Beyond Authenticity��������������������������������������������������������������  271 Robert A. Roks Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  287

Editors and Authors

About the Editors Frank Bovenkerk  is Em. professor of criminology at the University of Utrecht. He received his PhD in cultural anthropology at the University of Amsterdam. He has published on organized crime, multicultural societies, prostitution, terrorism, and cultural criminology. Among publications in the field of cultural criminology are: (with Y. Yücelgöz), Crime, Ethnicity and the Multicultural Administration of Justice (Glasshouse, 2004), (with M. van San) Loverboys in the Amsterdam red light district: a realist approach to the study of a moral panic (2011), (with T. Fokkema) Crime among young Moroccan men in the Netherlands: Does their regional origin matter? (2016). Dina  Siegel  is a professor of criminology at the Willem Pompe Institute for Criminal Law and Criminology at Utrecht University, The Netherlands. She received her PhD in cultural anthropology at the VU University Amsterdam. She has published on migration, crimes of mobility, human trafficking and smuggling, transnational organized crime, crime in the diamond industry, Russian Mafia, and cultural criminology. Her publications include: Wagner in Israel. The Mixture of Politics and Music (2013), special issue Music and Crime (with Decorte, T., 2013), Maffia, diamanten en Mozart. Etnografie in criminologisch onderzoek (2010).

About the Authors Lodewijk  Brunt was Emeritus Professor of Urban Studies at the University of Amsterdam. From the early 1990s he conducted anthropological research in the Netherlands and later in India. During his academic career, he was involved in journalism and wrote many reviews of books and operas. He has been also involved in the making of documentary films (e.g. Blessed by the Plague, 1999) and translating poems, songs and short stories from Hindi into Dutch.  

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Willem  de Haan  (MA University of Groningen, PhD University of Utrecht) is professor emeritus of criminology at the University of Groningen, The Netherlands. Currently, he is Senior Research Fellow at the VU University in Amsterdam. He formerly held positions at the universities of Utrecht and Bielefeld (Germany) and as a guest lecturer at the universities of Oslo (Norway) and Wales (Cardiff). He is the author of The Politics of Redress. Crime, Punishment and Penal Abolition (1990). His recent research is in the field of international crimes and international criminal justice. Currently, he is writing a book on Holocaust Music. Predrag Dojčinović  worked for the Office of the Prosecutor at the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia from 1998 to 2017. He has authored numerous articles and has edited several volumes on the social, political, and legal aspects of the 1991–1999 series of armed conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, including Propaganda, War Crimes Trials and International Law: From Speakers’ Corner to War Crimes (2012) and Propaganda and International Criminal Law: From Cognition to Criminality (2020). He has lectured widely in Europe and the United States. Dojčinović was the Gladstein Visiting Professor of Human Rights at the University of Connecticut in 2014 and is currently a research affiliate and adjunct professor at the Human Rights Institute at the University of Connecticut. Vassilis  Gerasopoulos  is a PhD candidate in the Willem Pompe Institute of Criminal Law and Criminology in the Utrecht University. He holds a Bachelor in Law from the University of Athens and an MA in Global Criminology from Utrecht University. For his PhD research, he focuses on how the refugee crisis of 2015 has affected, reshaped, and reconfigured the societal attitudes and nationalist narratives towards migrants and migration as a phenomenon. He is chiefly interested in the concepts of fear, exclusion, and identity—in racial, sexual, or cultural terms, in how and why the different “-phobias” are constructed and expressed. He is also involved in projects regarding the dominant representations of crime, migration, and gender as well as the intersection between migration and security. He has published articles on the recent refugee crisis in Greece, the contemporary modalities of racism in the country, and the representation of sexual diversity in popular culture. Elena Krsmanovic, PhD,  is an assistant professor of criminology at the Willem Pompe Institute, Utrecht University. With an academic background in both communication studies and criminology, she specializes in cultural criminology with a particular interest in the mediated representation of crime. She conducted research on media framing of crime, human trafficking for sexual exploitation, and visual representation of trafficking survivors. Prior to her career in academia, Krsmanovic has worked as a TV and radio journalist and a public relations manager in an anti-­ trafficking organization in Serbia. Among her publications are Different Alphabets, the Same Story: Media Framing of Human Trafficking for Sexual Exploitation (2020) and Captured ‘Realities’ of Human Trafficking: Analysis of photographs illustrating stories on trafficking into the sex industry in Serbian media (2016).

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Frank Mehring  is Chair and Professor of American Studies at Radboud University, Nijmegen/NL. His research focuses on cultural transfer, migration, intermediality, and the function of music in transnational American studies. He received the biennial Rob Kroes Award from the European Association for American Studies for his monograph The Democratic Gap (2014) on transcultural confrontations and the promise of American democracy. In addition to his interest in visual and media studies, he has published on intersection of music, literature, and politics in his books such as Sight & Sound in English and American Romanticism (2001), Sphere Melodies on Charles Ives and John Cage (2003), the Soundtrack of Liberation (2015), and the special edition on Sound and Vision (with Erik Redling, 2018) of the European Journal of American Studies. He is a board member of the European Association of American Studies and the Netherlands American Studies Association, a member of the ASA International Committee, part of the steering committee of the EAAS Digital Studies Network, and co-founder of the RUDESA Spring Academy on Grounding Transnational American Studies. Robert  A.  Roks, PhD,  is an assistant professor of criminology at the Erasmus University of Rotterdam. For his PhD thesis, he conducted an ethnographic study on a Dutch “gang,” the Rollin 200 Crips from the city of The Hague. As a qualitative researcher, he has a special interest in navigating digital and physical street life by collecting data via social media platforms. His research has focused on the digitization of street culture, the evolution of street gangs, organized crime in the Netherlands, and drug trafficking in the Port of Rotterdam and has been published in the Journal of Contemporary Ethnography; Crime, Media, Culture; Deviant Behavior; and Trends in Organized Crime. Leo Samama  graduated from the University of Utrecht in Musicology and studied composition and orchestral conducting. Samama taught History of Music and Culture at the Utrecht Conservatory, Musical Criticism in Theory and Practice at the Royal Conservatory in The Hague, and Music of the Twentieth Century and Musical Criticism at Utrecht University. He was a critic for De Volkskrant and a correspondent for the NRC Handelsblad. Samama was a member of the board of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra Amsterdam as the orchestra’s artistic advisor, head of the orchestra’s artistic department, artistic adviser to the Centrum Nederlandse Muziek, and advisor to the NCRV broadcasting company. He was head of the artistic department of the Residentie Orchestra The Hague and general manager of the Netherlands Chamber Choir. Samama has given radio broadcasts and guest lectures all over the country and throughout Europe. As a musicologist he has written books on diverse topics: on Dutch Music in the 20th Century (1986; 2006), The Meaning of Music (2014; 2016), The String Quartet (2018), Alphons Diepenbrock. A Vocal Composer (2012), and more. As a composer he has written over one hundred works that have been performed all over the world, recorded on radio and CD. In 2010 Leo Samama was knighted as an Officer of the Order of Orange-Nassau for his contribution to Dutch musical life.

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Bob van der Linden  is a historian of modern South Asia, with a special interest in music. Among his publications are Moral Languages from Colonial Punjab: The Singh Sabha, Arya Samaj and Ahmadiyahs (2008), Music and Empire in Britain and India: Identity, Internationalism, and Cross-Cultural Communication (2013), and Arnold Bake: A Life with South Asian Music (2013). In 2016–2017, he was a writing fellow at the Max Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and Ethnic Diversity in Göttingen (Germany), and he currently is a guest researcher at the University of Amsterdam’s Study Platform on Interlocking Nationalisms. Luis  Velasco-Pufleau  is a musicologist and sound artist. He is currently a researcher at the University of Bern (Walter Benjamin Kolleg/Institute of Musicology) and an associated research fellow at the Fondation Maison des sciences de l’homme (FMSH) in Paris. His work critically reflects on the relationship between music, politics, and violence in contemporary societies. As a researcher and sound artist, he is interested in exploring innovative forms of writing at the crossroads of artistic creation and research in the humanities and social sciences. Luis Velasco-Pufleau is the editor of the open-access research blog Music, sound and conflict [https://msc.hypotheses.org/] and an editorial board member of the journal Transposition. Musique et sciences sociales [https://journals.openedition. org/transposition/]. Klaas Wellinga  (1944) has worked from 1969 to 2011 as professor and researcher at the Faculty of Arts of the University of Utrecht, giving courses on Latin American culture (literature, music, film) and history. He was one of the founders—and head—of the specialization “Latin American Studies,” a joint project of the Faculties of Social Sciences and Arts. Apart from that, he collaborated for 15  years (1974–1989) as a literary critic for the weekly De Groene Amsterdammer. Since 2011, he has given some courses at the University of Amsterdam about “Culture and the War on Drugs.” Select book publications: Entre la poesía y la pared. Política cultural sandinista 1979–1990. Amsterdam (1994), De eeuwige ontdekking. Inleiding in de Spaans-Amerikaanse literatuur (with Francisco Lasarte) (1996), Het experiment en de revolutie. De ‘nieuwe’ Latijns-Amerikaanse roman (with Francisco Lasarte) (2006).

Stories of Crime and Music Dina Siegel and Frank Bovenkerk

‘The real history of music is not respectable’ (Gioia 2019: 3) ‘Music is not separated from the world: it can help us forget and understand ourselves simultaneously’ (Barenboim 2008: 17)

From ancient times music has been adored, admired and praised, or conversely, feared or hated. It is the subject of an ongoing debate on the nature of the emotions and socio-political responses it is able to evoke. This discussion reflects the diversity of intellectual fields that study both the making of music in its many forms and variations and how it is received by its listeners. The only matter on which there is unanimous agreement is the importance of the functions of music. What effect does music have on the feelings and moods of human (or animal) listeners? (Schafer et al. 2013). Musicologists are often seen as the experts on everything connected to understanding and feeling music. Students of world cultures ask: how does making music contribute to the integration of individuals in various societies all over the world? (Merriam 1964). Music historians laid the groundwork by analyzing the functions of music in terms of Zeitgeist, styles and genres and by reconstructing the biographies of great composers, performers and orchestras (Burkholder et al. 1988). They were joined by sociologists trying to gain insight into the sociopolitical significance of music, including great thinkers such as Georg Simmel (who studied music’s function in providing a basic structure of communication), Max Weber (who placed the history of music within the context of rationalization in Western D. Siegel (*) Willem Pompe Institute, Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] F. Bovenkerk (*) Willem Pompe Institute, Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_1

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society), Theodor Adorno (who, as a proponent of critical theory, focused on elements of social protest), Howard Becker (who considered ‘an art work’ as the result of collective action by networks of suppliers, performers and consumers) and Pierre Bourdieu (who used classical music as an example of a tool of class distinction). In musicology studies, music had been traditionally understood to mean either Western classical music or music as loved and patronized by the nobility and the bourgeois elites, or original (regional) folk music practised among the peasantry and in tribal areas. But this view began to change in the late nineteenth century. The global emergence of popular music styles such as samba, tango, son (Cuba), marabi (Cape Town), Yellow Music (Shanghai) or kroncong (Batavia) began at the edges of societies, in urban cafes, dance halls, theatres and brothels generally patronized by pseudo-underworld types. According to Peter Manuel, these musical subcultures reflected an urge for freedom ‘not only from premodern forms of patronage and exchange, but also from elite, including bourgeois, musical tastes and inhibitions, which could be limiting in their own way’ (Manuel 2013: 59). Over time, these musical styles became respectable. Today’s classical and popular music encompasses a multitude of different genres, categories and subcategories. New perspectives emerged in the second half of the twentieth century, based on the idea of multidisciplinary theoretical and methodological approaches, such as ‘socio-musicology’, which focuses on the context in which music is created (Hebert 2012). The study of cultures (in the anthropological sense) has come to the forefront. Music sociologists argue for the inclusion of empirical research methods, similar to those employed in the social sciences, such as ethnography, surveys and statistics, thereby incorporating the study of music into social science research. In the 1980s, ‘new musicology’ focused on cultural studies and critical theory (including gender, post-colonial and neo-Marxist approaches) based on the idea that music is never neutral and always the result of a particular sociopolitical context, including its emotional and sexual aspects (Kramer 1993; Mathew 2013). These developments in the study of music and musicians resemble developments in another social science that seems hardly related, namely criminology. In Sutherland and Cressey’s (1955) famous definition, criminology includes within its scope of interest the processes of making laws, breaking laws and reacting towards the breaking of laws. This discipline is itself an amalgam of varying scientific traditions in the study of social problems. In its more than 100-year history, criminology has known different streams and schools. Some criminologists have studied the biological, neurological and/or psychological aspects of criminals and criminal acts, while others have focused on social class or ethnic and gender conflicts as causes of crime. There are those who stress the importance of international crime and criminal justice, while others are fascinated by white-collar and organized crime. Criminology is a multifaceted and multidisciplinary study of crime, criminals and victims. New developments, theories and approaches are always emerging. ‘Critical criminology’ became popular in the 1970s. This school of thought focuses on the present-day meaning of ‘crime’ and ‘criminal’ and questions the ability of existing theories to explain these concepts within the context of the rapid socioeconomic and political changes of late modernity.

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1  Cultural Criminology Musicology and criminology may seem strange bedfellows at first sight, but they can both be viewed as the result of the current interest in cultural studies (for music studies and the idea of culture, see Middleton 1990; for cultural criminology, see Ferrell and Sanders 1995). The fact that these relatively new trends share a critical background makes the idea of combining them an intriguing one. Music can be used as an aggressive accompaniment to crime or during an attack on the enemy in the front lines of battle. It may be listened to in order to celebrate a successful criminal endeavour and it can survive under harsh circumstances (e.g. in prisons). Some types of music or song lyrics are directly based on criminality (e.g. murder in the opera) or are said to provoke criminal activity (e.g. ‘gangsta rap’). Music can fulfil unexpected functions, such as building deviant subcultures, encouraging social movements or propagating a message of protest and rebellion. Social and political responses to particular kinds of music or the people performing them include rejection, stigmatization or even prohibition. All of these themes can be explored by cultural criminology. Mainstream criminology has paid little attention to the link between crime and culture, let alone that between crime and music. Cultural criminologists realize that new ideas and insights should not only come from the behavioural, social and legal sciences, but also from fields such as literature, visual arts, media and music (Ferrell et al. 2008). ‘Life histories, images, music and dance, all have a story to tell in the unravelling of crime’ writes Mike Presdee, one of the forerunners of cultural criminology, in his ‘Carnival of Crime’ (2000: 16). Cultural criminology aims to understand our fascination with danger and risk-taking: ‘its adrenaline, its pleasure and panic, its excitement, and its anger, rage and humiliation, its desperation and its edgework’ (Young 2004: 13). Social scientists studying music have so far placed the emphasis on music’s representation, symbols, messages and the emotions it evokes in the social context within which it is created. There are manifold references to connections between crime and music, whereby a few themes seem to stand out. Firstly, some of the literature focuses on the question of how specific music can cause crime. The classic example is Marilyn Manson, whose music and persona have been held responsible by some for the 1999 Columbine shooting, during which 12 students and a teacher were killed (Muzzatti 2004). Usually this type of research is based on moralistic ideas about music’s ‘good’ or ‘bad’ influence, especially on young people. Musicologist Lily Hirsch (2012), for example, describes penal court cases in which rap lyrics are used as evidence of criminal acts. A second relatively fast growing field examines the criminalization of music and musicians. A few composers, such as Wagner and Shostakovich, are well-known examples in this regard (Carr 2007; Sheffi 2001; Volkov 2004). During the Soviet era, Dmitri Shostakovich, Sergei Prokofiev, Nikolai Miaskovsky, Aram Khachaturian, Alfred Schnitke, Sofia Gubaidulina and many others accused of ‘formalism’ were persecuted and banned (Schwartz 1983). Similarly, in Nazi Germany, Entartete

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Musik was considered unacceptable and therefore forbidden. The Nazi’s ban on ‘degenerate music’ included the works of Gustav Mahler, Felix Mendelssohn and Arnold Schoenberg because they were Jewish; Anton Webern, Hanns Eisler and Otto Klemperer because they disagreed with the Nazi regime; and Ernst Krenek because of his ‘non-Aryan, negroid’ compositions influenced by jazz. And to this day, the collective memory of the Holocaust, the horrors of the concentration camps and the suffering inflicted on millions of Jews, has led to a ban on Wagner’s ‘music of death’ in Israel (Siegel 2013). A third theme of research concerns music performed under circumstances of extreme persecution, such as the ghettoes and concentration camps of Nazi-occupied Europe (Gilbert 2005); at the time of the Rwandan genocide of Tutsis in 1994 (Synder 2006); or earlier in history, during the Turkmen massacre in 1881 (Goharinasab and Latifkar 2015). Such studies usually address three questions. The first question is related to Theodor Adorno’s famous quotation ‘After Auschwitz, to write a poem is barbaric’. This phrase has often been misunderstood as implying that people should no longer be allowed to play music. The second question is: what role did music play in the victims’ survival? The third question asks whether a particular type of music or song can really incite masses to commit violent crimes. A fourth popular theme in the study of music describes state reactions to the emergence of any new genre. New styles usually oppose or do not conform to the rules, norms and morals of the existing order, leading to competition and hostility. (Pino 2009: 39). As Plato warned in his Republic: ‘Beware of changing to a new form of music, since it threatens the whole system’ (Plato 1928). The Chinese philosopher Mozi (400 BC) went a step further by claiming that all ways of making music are wrong, as music has no social function seeing that it does not provide food or clothing to the needy (Gioia 2019: 130). Music mirrors social developments and reflects social changes. As many authors have shown, the role of music in these processes can shed a light on the dynamics of power relationships and emotional reactions (Beckingham 2009; Fineberg 2006; Lebrecht 1997; Johnson 2002). For many musicians, music is indeed a way to express criticism of the existing sociopolitical order. Examples of rebellious, anti-colonial and anti-apartheid musicians include Bob Marley, Miriam Makeba and Fela Kuti, to name just a few. Fifthly, several studies have been conducted into the power relationships between criminal groups and/or individual crime bosses and musicians. African-American hip hop (Chang 2005), Bulgarian chalga (Silverman 2018), Romanian manele (Beissinger et al. 2016), Mexican narcocorrido (Edberg 2004), Serbian turbo folk (Čvoro 2014), Russian blatnaya pesnya (Цукер 2004), Neapolitan la neomelodica (Giusto 2019) are examples of close relationships between crime and music in terms of cultural production, including the glorification of violence and the criminal life style on the one hand, and the economic ties between organized crime and musicians on the other. Throughout history and all around the world, from lower-class singers in Neapolitan neighbourhoods to jazz celebrities in America, powerful crime bosses have supported talented musicians in their careers, often making huge profits from their ‘investment’.

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2  A Theory of Crime and Music? Although a range of studies have been conducted on various aspects of this topic, there have been no systematic attempts so far to bring them together in a theoretically meaningful way. Mathieu Deflem was one of the first editors to collect varying points of view on popular music within one volume: Popular Culture, Crime and Social Control (2010). This book contains an inspiring description by Schept of Palestinian hip hop artists narrating their lives under occupation and an analysis of the contrast between the protest music of the 1960s civil rights movement and the music of the Punk movement in the US by Leichtman and others. But there is still no connecting theory. However, in the past year we found two cautious attempts to answer some of the questions regarding the relationship between crime and music from a criminological perspective. Eleanor Peters provides an overview of the existing sociological and psychological research on music and shows how such a connection (following the title of Nietzsche’s essay on the use and abuse of history for life) may shed light on four possible ‘harms’: social, psychological, physical and financial (2019: 3). She mainly focuses on popular music and discusses these harms from a critical criminological perspective, including (youth) subcultural and moral panic approaches. Peters examines modern genres such as heavy metal and rap music and their alleged link to violence, aggression, hatred, suicide and murder. In addition, censorship, punishment, including music as an instrument of torture and other abuses of music, are discussed in terms of socioeconomic and physical harms. Her text does not elaborate on any concrete connections between crime and music (as we do in this book) but her list of references to possible sources is impressive. The second relevant recent source has been provided by Ted Gioia who, without presenting himself as a cultural criminologist, focuses on the link between music and ‘sex, violence, magic, ecstatic trance, and other disreputable matters’, which he considers to be the engines of innovation in music-making (2019: 2). Gioia’s special interest lies in how ‘respectable’ music, associated in our days with elites, was actually created by ‘outsiders’: slaves, rebels and other marginal groups (idem: 8). He discusses all kind of ‘dangers of music’, such as femininity, emotional excess, the power of witchcraft, seduction and other sins, which demand responses from the side of moral entrepreneurs, including church, royalty and state institutions. He mentions musicians as perpetrators of crime (Carlo Gesualdo, Bartolomeo Tromboncino, Benvenuto Cellini and even Johan Sebastian Bach, who ‘pulled a knife on a fellow musician during a street fight’ (2019: 241)). According to Gioia, ‘much of our knowledge of obscene music comes not via scholars, but from the records of the criminal justice system’ (idem: 293).

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3  About This Book This book does not claim to solve the lack-of-a-grand-theory problem, but what we can say is that we have tried to find a diverse range of authors who share our interest in cultural criminology and some form of music. The idea to compile this book grew out of the enthusiastic reactions of colleagues, both criminologists and musicologists, to our own stories of concrete instances linking crime and music. Many of them had already been considering writing about their own experiences for some time. We then also approached others whom we expected to have inside knowledge of relevant stories. It was our intention to find concrete stories about crime and music across history and in various parts of the world. The contributors to this volume all responded enthusiastically to our invitation to participate in this project, as all of them had a special interest in the theme of crime in relation to a particular kind of music. This has resulted in extremely diverse descriptions of the themes of crime and music in various periods of history and in many parts of the world. The strength of this collection lies in the ethnographic and historical descriptions of a wide array of cases. It is critical in the sense that it does not take the conception of music as an artistic and cultural expression at face value and each chapter embodies a combination of crime and music that is characteristic of the cultural criminological promise to mirror social developments over time. The book consists of five parts: The Criminalization of Music; Music and Violence; Organized Crime and Music; Music and Genocide and Crimes against Humanity; Music as Resistance. We have not tried to unify these themes or standardize the format of the contributions. In Part I, Samama starts with the very first condition necessary to consider any type of behaviour as crime. His chapter is not about crime per se, but about the process of prohibition, taking the case of entartete Musik during the German Nazi regime as an example. Why were specific types of music forbidden? Was it because of the nature of the music or the identity of its composers and performers? Van der Linden takes us to modern-day India, where the process of Hindi nationalism has led to the stigmatization and marginalization of Muslim traditions of music performed by the hereditary class of musicians commonly known as ustads. Part II deals with crime and criminals, starting with violent crime. Siegel examines the immensely popular castrati singers of eighteenth and nineteenth century Europe and considers their condition from the perspective of child abuse. Although castration was formally forbidden, its practise never led to public denouncement or prosecution. With the wisdom of hindsight, can this be considered as criminal? Brunt touches upon the sensitivities of cultural criminology in his exposition on murder and other cases of serious crime in the opera1. Obviously this has less to do with actual criminality than with the use of bloody images as an art form. Murder ballads were brought to the United States by immigrants from Great Britain. Apart from their entertainment value, they also functioned as a means to bring the news to the people. Mehring describes the development of American Murder Ballads and shows how they influenced the ‘resistance music’ of Johnnie Cash and Bob Dylan.  Lodewijk Brunt prematurely passed away just shortly before this book was published.

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Music may also come about as a byproduct of organized crime. Wellinga opens the Part III with a description of the emergence of the Narcocorridos in present-day northern Mexico. These ballads glorify the drugs business and the smugglers’ adventurous life style. The Mexican government’s attempts to ban this kind of music have only made it more popular. The fierce competition between the cartels makes it impossible for musicians not to take sides. Meanwhile, their song lyrics often end in someone being murdered. Bovenkerk narrates how, during the first half of the twentieth century, jazz musicians in the United States were given the opportunity to develop their music in relative freedom and under the protection (also against the harshest forms of racism) of organized crime. He describes their history as a form of modern patronage within capitalist society. During the war that tore Yugoslavia apart in the 1990s, Serbian turbo folk music rose in popularity, especially when it was sung by Ceca, the wife of the notorious crime boss and war criminal Arkan. Several functions have been attributed to this style of music: initially it was seen as inciting nationalism and ethnic hatred, but later it was viewed as a force that held ethnicities together. Krsmanovic comes to a different conclusion on the basis of original interviews. The opportunities for white-­ collar crime in the music industry, including money laundering to provide ‘bread and circuses’, seem to offer a better explanation for its popularity. A special Part IV examines the role of music in situations of genocide and crimes against humanity. De Haan traces the roots of what is now considered a myth about Jewish musicians in Nazi death camps who were forced to perform a ‘Death Tango’ as men, women and children were led to the gas chambers. What does this myth tell us about the genocidal modus operandi during the Holocaust? Dojcinovic discusses the role music played in the incitement of mass atrocities during the Kosovo war of 1998/1999. He situates ‘music acts’, presented before the Criminal Tribunal of the former Yugoslavia in the documentary film Serbian Epics by Pawel Pawlikowski, as a potentially useful prosecutorial concept within the context of international criminal law as a whole. How is it possible that music (in this case chants or recitations known as anashid), which is explicitly prohibited in Salafi doctrine, is sung and listened to amongst almost every armed jihadi group in the world? Velasco-Pufleau explores its history and examines testimonies on the role of anashid in enemy identification and the justification of violence. Part V is about music as resistance. It contains detailed studies of music as an interplay between the making of music as a sub-cultural attribute on the one hand and governmental or ideological suppression of an undesired habit among the outsider classes on the other. Rebetiko music in its commercialized form is currently very popular in Greece and is nowadays considered an indispensable aspect of Greek identity, but throughout the twentieth century it was the subject of intense controversy and marginalization. Gerasopoulos details its complicated history, in which demonization gradually gave way to acceptance. The connection between crime and violence is deeply rooted in the case of the rap music made in the inner-city neighbourhoods of the United States. Controversy

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has been stirred up due to the realism of the explicit lyrics, containing profanity, misogyny and criminality. Roks discusses the importance that is attached to the feature of authenticity.

References Barenboim, D. (2008) Music Quickens Time, London, New York: Verso. Beckingham, C. (2009) Moribund Music: Can Classic Music Be Saved? Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press. Beissinger, M., S.  Radulescu & A.  Giurchescu (eds.) (2016) Manele in Romania. Cultural Expression and Social meaning in Balkan Popular Music, Lanham, Boulder, New  York, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Burkholder, P, D.J. Grout & C.V. Palisca (1988) A History of Western Music, W.W.Norton & Co. Carr, J. (2007) The Wagner Clan. The Saga of Germany’s Most Illustrious and Infamous Family, New York: Grove Press. Chang, J. (2005) Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip Hop Generation, New  York: St. Martin’s Press. Čvoro, U. (2014) Turbo folk music and cultural representations of national identity in former Yugoslavia. Furnham: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd. Deflem, M. (2010) Popular Culture, Crime and Social Control, Bingley, Emerald Group Publishing Ltd. Edberg, M. (2004) El Narcotraficante: Narcocorridos and the Construction of a Cultural Persona on the US-Mexico Border, Austin: University of Texas Press. Ferrell J. & C.Sanders (eds.) (1995) Cultural Criminology, Boston: Northeastern University Press. Ferrell, J., K. Hayward & J. Young (2008) Cultural Criminology. An Invitation, London: Sage. Fineberg, J. (2006) Classical Music: Why Bother? Hearing the World of Contemporary Culture through a Composer’s Ears, New York: Routledge. Gilbert S. (2005) Music in the Holocaust: Confronting Life in the Nazi Ghettoes and Camps, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gioia, T. (2019) Music. A Subversive History, New York: Basic Books. Giusto, S. (2019) “One of us”: the neomelodic music industry as a Camorra-mediated space of subaltern publicity in contemporary Naples, in: Global Crime, 20 (2), pp. 134-155. Goharinasab, A. & A.  Latifkar (2015) A Musical Narrative of Turkmen Massacre in 1881, in: Klimczyk W. & A. Swierzowska (eds.) Music and Genocide. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Land Edition. Hebert, D. (2012) Wind Bands and Cultural Identity in Japanese Schools, New York: Springer. Hirsch, L. (2012) Music in American crime prevention and punishment, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Johnson, J. (2002) Who Needs Classical Music. Cultural Choice and Musical Value, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kramer, L. (1993) Music as cultural practice, 1800-1900 (Vol. 8). University of California Press. Lebrecht, N. (1997) Who Killed Classical Music. Maestros, managers and corporate politics, Secaucus, N.J.: Birch Lane Press. Manuel (2013) “Music Cultures of Mechanical production”, in Philip V.  Bohlman, (Ed.), The Cambridge History of World Music, Cambridge University Press, pp. 55-74. Mathew, N. (2013) Political Beethoven. Cambridge University Press. Merriam, A. (1964) The anthropology of music, Evanston, Il., Northwestern UniversityPress. Middleton, R. (1990) Studying popular music, Open University Press.

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Muzzatti, S. (2004) Criminalising marginality and resistance: Marilyn Manson, Columbine and cultural criminology, in: Ferrell, J., Hayward, K., Morrison, W., & Presdee, M. (Eds.), Cultural criminology unleashed. Routledge, pp. 143-52. Peters, E. (2019) The Use and Abuse of Music. Criminal Records, UK, North America, Japan, India, Malaysia, China: Emerald Publishing. Pino, N. (2009) Music as Evil: Deviance and Metaculture in Classical Music, in: Music and Arts in Action, vol. 2, issue 1, pp. 37-55. Plato (1928) The Republic, Book IV, 424, Jowett translation, New York: Schribner’s. Presdee, M. (2000) Cultural Criminology and the Carnival of Crime, London: Routledge. Schafer, T. P. Sedimeier, C. Stadtler and D. Huron (2013) The psychological functions of music listening, in: Frontiers in Psychology, 4, pp. 1-33. Schwartz, B. (1983) Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sheffi, N. (2001) The Ring of Myths: The Israelis, Wagner and the Nazis. Brighton and Portland: Sussex Academic Press. Siegel, D. (2013) Wagner in Israel: The Mixture of Politics and Music, in: Brants, C., A. Hol and D. Siegel (eds.) Transitional Justice. Images and Memories. Ashgate. Silverman, C. (2018) 32 Between East and West, Folk and Pop, State and Market: Changing Landscapes of Bulgarian Folk Music in: Montgomery, D. (ed.) Everyday Life in the Balkans, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 351-362. Sutherland, E. & D. Cressey (1955) Principles of Criminology, Philadelphia, Lippincott. Synder, R. (2006). Disillusioned words like bullets bark: incitement to genocide, music, and the trial of Simon Bikindi, in: Georgia Journal of International & Comparative Law, 35, pp. 645-675. Volkov, S. (2004) Shostakovich and Stalin. The Extraordinary Relationship between the Great Composer and the Brutal Dictator, Publisher Alfred A. Knopf. Young, J. (2004) Voodoo Criminology and the Number Game, in: Ferrell, J., K.  Hawyard, W. Morrison & M. Presdee (eds.) Cultural Criminology Unleashed, London: Glasshouse Press, pp. 13-27. Цукер, А. (2004) Интеллигенция поет блатные песни (блатная песня в советской и постсоветской культуре). Искусство XX века: элита и массы: сб. статей. Н. Новгород, pp. 289-308.

Part I

The Criminalization of Music

Entartete Musik: Perpetrators and Victims Leo Samama

1  Introduction When researching what is generally known as “entartete Musik” we may ask if music was a victim too as many musicians were. Is music by being forbidden indeed victimized or where the Nazis in reality perpetrators against humanity and not so much against art? We could even reverse the question and ask ourselves if music could be the offender. Since all music can do is produce sound, not commit crimes as such. The case of “entartete Musik” may give us some proof and food for thought with regard to this point of view1. 

2  An Exhibition In 1937, the Nazi regime organized in Munich an exhibition on degenerated art (“entartete Kunst”), art that was not in line with the party politics about what real German art should be. A year later, in May 1938, a second exhibition was set up, this one in Düsseldorf with as topic “entartete Musik.” This exhibition was  For this article and my studies of the given subject, I am most indebted to the following studies: Altenmüller et al. (2015), Cathart (2006), De Vries (1996), Deak (1968), Goldstein (1912), Hermand (2013), Kater (1974), Koeltzsch (1935), Kolleritsch (1990), Levi (1996), Mecking & Wasserloos (2012), Mendes-Flohr (1999), Micheels (1993) and  Taruskin (2009). Some of my ideas, together with texts by some of my revered colleagues can also be found in Samama et al. (2004) and Samama (2006). Herein one may find some of the basic considerations with regard to “entartete Musik” and “entartete Kunst”. 1

L. Samama (*) Voorburg, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_2

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combined with the Reichsmusikfesttage and opened with a Festliches Preludium composed and conducted by Richard Strauss. The exhibition was produced under the responsibility of Hans Severus Ziegler, the general manager of the Nationaltheater in Weimar, who on this occasion published a brochure on “entartete Musik,” partly based on the ideas and directives made by Hilter’s main ideologist, Alfred Rosenberg (1934: 13–14, 277ff). The basic ideas were simple: all art, and thus all music too, that was not Aryan and deeply rooted in the German cultural soil should be completely eliminated (“ausgerottet” Prieberg 2004: 2033, 3050–30512), that is as well the products of art itself as all persons who were responsible for that art as creators and re-creators. Already on May 18, 1933, during the Preussische Landtag, Herman Göring mentioned that de German culture should be healed in an organic way from its roots onward: “The government of the country will take care that also in the various art forms the healing will be carried on in an organic way.”3 During the opening ceremony of the exhibition and of the Reichsmusikfesttage, that were organized at the same time, Secretary of propaganda, Dr. Joseph Goebbels gave a lengthy speech on the basics of “entartete Musik,” in which he stressed the terrible influence of Jewish elements on German musical art: “Let us at this festive moment once more look back at the vanquished past, that presents itself today almost as a savage dream. Thus, we can hardly imagine that this all was once reality, that once in Germany, the country of classical music, it was possible that our own great masters were blemished and mocked at the performance of their music, that the music of the German people was virtually exclusively reigned by Jewish elements, that the German folk song underwent an increasing trivialization, that the dumbest atonality feasted in savage and provocative orgies, that our German classics were transformed into kitsch and jazz, that instead of clear lines and melodies that touches our hearts, bleak constructions were used based on Jewish experiments.”4 In his brochure for the exhibition Ziegler pointed at a text of the Jewish journalist and essayist Moritz Goldstein, Deutsch-jüdischer Parnass, published in March

 In April 1933, the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung (AMZ) published an article “Verführer und Verführte” (Seducer and seduced, 1933: 277–278) that states that with the great cleansing in art and culture there are still problems that should be totally eliminated [“mit Stumpf und Stiel ausgerottet”], directed toward those professionals in music and music education, who are not in line with party politics. (See Prieberg 2004: 4666–4667). 3  “Die Staatsregierung wird dafür sorgen, dass auch in den verschiedenen Kunstgeboten die Gesundung organisch sich weiter durchsetzen kann” (Prieberg 1982: 74). 4  “Lassen wir nun in dieser festlichen Stunde noch einmal die Blicke zurückschweifen auf eine überwundene Vergangenheit, die uns heute fast wie ein wüster Traum erscheint. So können wir es uns kaum noch vorstellen, daß das alles einmal Wirklichkeit gewesen ist, daß es einmal in Deutschland, dem klassischen Lande der Musik möglich war, daß unsere eigenen großen Meister durch das Aufführung entstellt und verhöhnt wurden, daß das Gebiet der deutschen Volksmusik fast ausschließlich von jüdischen Elementen beherrscht waren, daß das deutsche Volkslied eine empörende Trivialisierung erfuhr, daß die stumpfsinnigste Atonalität wüste und aufreizende Orgien feierte, daß unsere deutschen Klassiker verkitscht und verjazzt wurden, daß an die Stelle klarer Linienführung und zu Herzen gehender Melodien die blasse Konstruktionen um das jüdische Experiment traten. [...]”. 2

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1912 in the national-socialist periodical Der Kunstwart. Goldstein doubted whether an integration between the Jewish and German cultural identities was possible at all. “We Jews are administrating the spiritual possessions of a nation that denies us the right and ability to do so. […] Though, we feel ourselves still fully German, the others make us feel totally un-german. […] We may be called Max Reinhardt […]: we may call ourselves German, the others call us Jewish, they hear in what we do the ‘Asian spirit’, and they miss the ‘German sentiment’ in what we do.”5 Ziegler plainly reposted that Goldstein was speaking about “verwalten” (“administrating”), but—as Adolf Bartels reacted in those days—the Jews were in reality raping or violating (“verwaltigen”) German culture.6 Ziegler added to this his view on the destruction of tonal music specifically by Arnold Schönberg: “It is my opinion […] that the atonality as result of the destruction of tonality, means degeneration and cultural bolshevism. Since atonality has its roots in the Harmonielehre of the Jew Arnold Schönberg, I therefor declare it as a product of the Jewish brain. Who is eating from it, will die.”7 Exactly 3 years earlier, in May 1935, Rosenberg had addressed in Düsseldorf the Reichstagung or National Meeting of the NSKG (the Nationalsozialistische Kulturgemeinde or National Socialist Culture Community) with virtually the same message: “The totality of the atonal movement is in conflict with the rhythm of the blood and soul of the German people.”8 Thus atonality, folk music, “kulturbolschewismus,” the abolition of melodious music, these and much more were largely the result of the bad influences of the Jewish race on the “pure” German culture. In fact, this was not only a musical problem, but a moral and psychological too, as Hans Koeltzsch indicated in 1935 in the “Handbuch der Judenfrage”: “To summarize: in music too, the Jew has never created anything of worth for culture. […] Thus, it is impossible in the wide field of today’s musical life in Germany to accept a political attitude of the middle road, nor to accept any toleration, understanding, humanity; it will be a greater advantage to

 “Wir Juden verwalten den geistigen Besitz eines Volkes, das uns die Berechtigung und Fähigkeit dazu abspricht. (...) Aber mögen wir uns immerhin ganz deutsch fühlen, die anderen fühlen uns ganz undeutsch. (...) Wir mögen Max Reinhardt heißen (...) oder Max Liebermann (...): wir mögen uns deutsch nennen, die andern nennen es jüdisch, sie hören das `Asiatische´ heraus, sie vermissen das `germanische Gemüt´.” 6  “Klagte doch der Jude Moritz Goldstein im Jahre 1911 [sic]: “Wir Juden verwalten den geistigen Besitz eines Volkes, das uns die Berechtigung und Fähigkeit dazu abspricht”. Wer aber hat damals einen Adolf Bartels verstanden, der diesem Moritz Goldstein unerschrocken antwortete und die Juden nicht als ‘Verwalter’, sondern als ‘Vergewaltiger’ des deutschen Kulturguts kennzeichnete?” (See also Aschheim 2001: 64–72). 7  “Ich bekenne mich […] zu der Anschauung, das die Atonalität als Ergebnis der Zerstörung der Tonalität, Entartung und Kulturboschewismus bedeutet. Da die Atonalität zudem ihre Grundlage in der Harmonielehre des Juden Arnold Schönberg hat, so erkläre ich sie für das Product jüdischen Geistes. Wer von ihm isst, stirbt daran.” (See also Heister and Klein 1984: 138). 8  “Die ganze atonale Bewegung widerspricht dem Rhythmus des Blutes und der Seele des deutschen Volkes.” 5

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all of us and the very best for our race, to accept the obligation to restless eliminate the Jews from music.”9 When this all would only concern Jewish musicians, the case would not be less odious, but at least simple and clear. But the Nazi regime considered virtually all art that was not Aryan as suspect and thus a priori to be forbidden. Therefore, all Negro music, in particular Jazz as the fruit of the inferior Negro soul, was forbidden too.10 And since Rosenberg and Hitler detested modern music, that too was on the list to be eliminated from the public stage. Furthermore, the Nazi’s connected to their racial theories several political views of a more general kind. To their opinion also all communist and socialist music was dangerous for the pure German soul. And once they had started a war, they added as well all music composed in the countries of their adversaries, e.g., the United States, England, France, Russia, etc. At the top of the Nazi party not everyone was fully in agreement with hardliners like Hitler, Rosenberg and Göring (Prieberg 2004: 56). Especially Goebbels accepted that the change needed time, and that the people needed good music, even when sometimes Jewish musicians would still be involved to make the latter possible.11 At the same time, the more intellectual members of the Nazi regime had to accept that music was not only loved by the upper classes, but as well by less educated members of society, the larger masses.12 Especially the latter preferred all kind of pop songs and jazzy music that in fact originated mostly from the United States  “Fassen wir zusammen: auch in der Musik hat der Jude nie Kulturwerte geschaffen... Darum kann es im weiten Felde des neuen deutschen Musiklebens keine .Politik der mittleren Linie’ mehr geben, keine Duldung, Verständigung, keine Humanität; wir alle haben vielmehr, in der klaren Erkenntnis, daß nur das höchsten Wert hat, was lebenssteigernd für unsere Rasse wirkt, die Pflicht, das Judentum in der Musik restlos auszuschalten.” 10  According to some critics of jazz and Negro music in general, the Jews were the real cause that Negro music became so popular: “[…] Das Gegenteil von weiß ist schwarz, das Gegenteil von Eros ist Sexus. Der Jude versucht weiß zu verdrängen und schwarz an seine Stelle zu setzen. Er bracht aus den Urwäldern tierische, sexuell bestimmte Musiklaute und Tanzrhythmen. Die hörbare Zusammenballung niedrigster Gedankenwelt brachte er als ‘Tanz’-musik dem nordischen Menschen. […]” (The reverse of white is black, the reverse of Eros is Sex. The Jew tries to suppress white and to replace it by black. He brought animalistic, sexually meant musical sounds and dance rhythms from the jungle. He brought the Nordic people the sounding coagulation of the lowest minds as ‘dance’ music.) Pg. Hadamovsky, “Zum Jazz verbot”, in: Funk und Bewegung Vol. V, No. 11, November 1935. (See also Prieberg 2004: 498). 11  Goebbels’ speech on May 28, 1938: “Ich weiß, daß die Düsseldorfer Reichsmusiktage erst den Anfang einer Entwicklung darstellen. In der Kunst lassen sich neue Werke nicht herbeikommandieren. Am wenigsten solche, die aus der Haltung unserer Zeit emporwachsen. Lassen wir den jungen Musikern die Zeit zum inneren Reifen. Wenn ich sehe, mit welchem Elan und mit welchem Feuer der Begeisterung unsere nationalsozialistischen Musikstudenten am Werk sind, dann ist mir um die Zukunft der deutschen Musik nicht bange.” 12  Wouters 1999, p.  145: “Nicht jede Musik paßt für jeden. Es hat deshalb auch jene Art von Unterhaltungsmusik, die in den breiten Massen Eingang findet, ihre Daseinsberechtigung, zumal in einer Epoche, in der es Aufgabe der Staatsführung sein muß, neben den schweren Sorgen, die die Zeit mit sich bringt, dem Volke auch Erholung, Unterhaltung und Erquikung zu vermitteln.” (“Zehn Grundsätze deutschen Musikschaffens”, in: Amtliche Mitteilungen der Reichsmusikkammer, 1-6-1938, 5e jaargang, nr. II, 1). 9

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of America. However, this could not be accepted, not by Hitler and Rosenberg nor by Goebbels.13 The only solution was the creation of a purely German Jazz (Kater 1992: 52–56). A complicating point was that educated music lovers—among whom Goebbels too—had great admiration for the music of Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Carl Orff, even when they used according to strict Nazi ideologies rather dissonant, thus modern means of expression. The three composers mentioned above were subject to fierce debates. Was their music to be forbidden or not? And on what grounds? Some composers that were fanatic members of Nazi party continued writing what one might call “modern” music, with 12-tone techniques and dissonants… (Levi 1991). The term most used in these debates was “Kulturbolschewismus.” Often cultural bolshevism and Jewish culture were seen as equivalent, since Bolshevism, Marxism, and Communism were considered to have originated from Jewish minds as those of Marx and Engels. Many Jewish artists were politically socialist or communist (e.g., Kurt Weill, Hanns Eisler, and Berthold Brecht, as most quoted names). Indeed, a majority of artists in the Weimar Republic of the 1920s believed that society could only be changed for the better under socialist or communist guidance. The Nazi’s used the term Cultural Bolshevism, however, rather loosely for every form of modern art, in fact for anything they didn’t like. Already in 1931, the essayist Carl von Ossietzky wrote in Die Weltbühne: “We are dealing here with a devastating slogan, that is easy to manage by demagogues and enforcement officers, by those who want to judge the arts or laws. If we’d like to denominate it on a closer distance, then we will be groping around in pitch dark. When conductor Klemperer takes tempi different from his colleague Furtwängler, when a painter paints a color into his sunset one cannot see in Lower Pomerania, not even on a bright day, when one favors birth control, when one builds a house with a flat roof, this is as much Cultural Bolshevism as a Caesarean birth shown on a movie. Cultural Bolshevism is what the actor Chaplin is doing, and when the physician Einstein declares that the principle of an invariable speed of light is only possible when gravity doesn’t exist, then that is Cultural Bolshevism too, and a personal courtesy to Mr. Stalin. Cultural Bolshevism is the democratic mentality of the Mann brothers [Thomas and Heinrich], and a composition by Hindemith or Weill, and should considered on the same level as the subversive desire of any madman who screams for a law permitting him to marry his own grandmother […].”14

 Wouters 1999 deals with the way the Nazis eliminated Jazz and Modern entertainment music in Germany and the Netherlands. 14  “Es handelt sich also um ein devastierendes Schlagwort, leicht zu handhaben von Demagogen und Ordnungsrettern, von Kunst- und Strafrichtern. Wollen wir es näher bestimmen, so tappen wir allerdings im dicksten Finstern. Wenn der Kapellmeister Klemperer die Tempi anders nimmt als der Kollege Furtwängler, wenn ein Maler in eine Abendröte einen Farbton bringt, den man in Hinterpommern selbst am hellen Tag nicht wahrnehmen kann, wenn man für Geburtenregelung ist, wenn man ein Haus mit flachem Dach baut, so bedeutet das ebenso Kulturbolschewismus wie die Darstellung eines Kaiserschnitts im Film. Kulturbolschewismus betreibt der Schauspieler Chaplin, und wenn der Physiker Einstein behauptet, daß das Prinzip der konstanten Lichtgeschwindigkeit nur dort geltend gemacht werden kann, wo keine Gravitation vorhanden ist, so ist das Kulturbolschewismus und eine Herrn Stalin persönlich erwiesene Gefälligkeit. Kulturbolschewismus ist der Demokratismus der Brüder Mann, Kulturbolschewismus ein Musikstück von Hindemith oder Weill und genau so einzuschätzen wie das umstürzlerische Verlangen irgend eines Verrückten, 13

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3  What to Fear? A handful of basic ideas guided the Nazi’s when deciding what or what wasn’t degenerated: 1 . The fear of contamination of the German culture in general 2. As an addition to the previous, the abomination for everything Jewish 3. The fear for socialism, communism, Marxism, anarchism 4. The fear for the dangers of bad or dangerous music 5. Antipathy for music without clear melodies and tonal harmonies Concerning the first point, the quotations by Göring, Goebbels, Ziegler, and Koeltzsch in the introduction above are exemplary. The need for a cleansing of the German culture did not concern the Jews only but every possible undermining of the pureness of the German, Aryan, or Nordic race, by the Jews, the African and African-American people, by Roma, even by people who were mentally or physically disabled. Once the war started, this was largely extended to influences from all consecutive inimical countries, e.g., the USA, England, France, the Soviet Republics, etc. At the same time the reverse happened too: the quite modern music by Bartók was accepted in Nazi Germany, since Hungary joined the Nazi forces… (Evans 2003: 586; Prieberg 2004: 245–246).15 The less modern music by Alfredo Casella was accepted too, mainly since he was Italian.16 And the rather mild 12-tone compositions by Winfried Zillig, a pupil of Schönberg, seemed to have escaped the sensor only since he was an accepted member of the RMK and a successful conductor in the Reich (Levi 1991: 19–20). The second point is the uttermost consequence of race theories developed first of all in the bosom of the Christian church (by the Church of Rome as well as within the Reformation movements)—“Jesus Christ was betrayed and murdered by Jews”—, until well into the nineteenth century, especially once the Jews were allowed by Napoleon the same professional careers as all other citizens in his realm. The results of the emancipation of the Jews in the nineteenth century was to be found among bankers as well as musicians, among politicians as well as lawyers or general physicians, in science and in commerce. However, for those who could not find a job, who were financially dependable on Jewish bankers, who were socially, politically, or socially outruled by the successes of the Jews, the Jewish race was considered to be a danger (Levi 1990). der nach einem Gesetz schreit, das gestattet, die eigne Großmutter zu heiraten. […]” (Die Weltbühne, 21. April 1931, p.560). 15  Bartók was quite chocked that he was not mention at the Entartete Kunst exhibition in Düsseldorf and demanded to be included. Over the years he tried time and again to have his music not performed in the Reich, without avail. 16  An extra problem with regard to Casella was, that some dubious German research established that he was Jewish, which in reality he wasn’t. Casella even declared in an interview in 1938 the music by some unnamed Italian composers “the product of international Judaism.” At the same time, however, his second wife was herself Jewish. (See Prieberg 2004: 5623; Casella 1939: 259).

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The third point, the fear for socialism, communism, Marxism, and anarchism, has of course all to do with the fascist politics of the Nazi’s but was also mixed with anti-Semitism. Predominant was the battle of ultra-right against ultra-left. After the demise of the Weimar Republic and the Nazi party’s political victory in 1933, with as a result Hitler’s appointment as Reichskanzler, all political adversaries were systematically put offside, incarcerated, and murdered. Especially in Berlin the tensions had been for at least a decade already quite violent and completely out of control. In the 1920s, the socialists and communists were fighting their way to the government, laming the industry with strikes and trying to assemble the masses for their cause. Disorder and lawlessness were the result, not only in the eyes of the Nazi’s but long before also of less right-wing oriented people (Stresemann 1987: 51–54). The next topic is rather complex, but basically the ultimate result of ideas that were already formulated by Plato: the human mind and the culture produced by this mind are connected by their mutual ratio and thus point to each other. Music is not only a reflection of the soul, but conversely also has its influence on the soul. Plato could therefore attach an important moral and educational value to music. Goethe used this idea again in the revolutionary year 1789 in his essay Einfache Nachahmung der Natur, Manier, Stil, in which he connects man’s nature and soul with the culture he brings forth. Plato continued his train of thought by relating, for example, the Phrygian mode to the Phrygians as a race, to their character and behavior. Phrygians were considered to be rather military and rough, and thus someone singing, playing, or listening to Phrygian music could in his brains be inflicted by the Phrygian spirit. That could be a danger… (Samama 2016:153–154, 194–195). However, another development, with the rise of the bourgeoisie in the late eighteenth century, is equally important: music was moved away from the mind (as part of the Quadrivium) into the realm of the heart. When Immanuel Kant declared that music cannot be grasped cognitively, music was not any more the reflection of either the real world or concrete sciences as mathematics and astronomy.17 In the early nineteenth century, Arthur Schopenhauer took another step, further away from the mind, and placed the source of music in the immutable will of life, the subconscious force driving all human actions, where humanity maintains itself as a species.18 In the middle of that same century, music became an inseparable part of the individual human soul, the result of one’s most intimate and private emotions. The combination of music as an inseparable part of one’s soul and of one’s culture resulted together with newly developed race theories to connecting culture to those groups, people, nations, and eventually to those races from which it emerges. Along these lines, the writings of Joseph Arthur de Gobineau and Ernst Renan in middle of the nineteenth century (Johnson 1987: 382; Mundy 2013: 59–60), and more specifically of Houston Stewart Chamberlain around 1900 (Die Grundlagen  Immanuel, Kant, Vergleichung des ästhetischen Werts der schönen Künste untereinander, in: Kritik der Urteilskraft (1790/93/99), §53. 18  Arthur Schopenhauer, Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung: vier Bücher, nebst einem Anhange, der die Kritik der Kantischen Philosophie enthält. Leipzig 1819 [1818], pp. 370–371. 17

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des 19. Jahrhunderts (1899), Arische Weltanschauung (1916) and Rasse und Nation (1918)), nurture an increasing anti-Semitism: the Jewish race was a danger for the future not only of the German race but of all of Europe (Johnson 1987: 393–394). The fourth and fifth topics are largely intertwined with each other and with the race theories mentioned above. Already since the days of Plato theories exist about the dangers of bad music. Plato connects the ratio of music to the ratio of the spirit or the soul. The concept of the ratio of the spirit, even if the reality is more complex, could be clarified with the following expression: a bird is known by its note, and a man by his talk. For Plato this means: each bird sings in the way in which its soul and its spirit are put together. On the one hand, the soul has a parallel with the cosmic order, like exemplified in Pythagoras’s harmony of the spheres, and on the other hand, it connected with the specific characteristics of the human whose soul it concerns. The effects are reciprocal: detested races as the Jews, the Negros, or the Chinese, for example, must produce dangerous music that one should not perform nor hear, and at the same time those who produce dangerous (for example atonal) music should be banished because of that. At least, that is the common view. But, what is dangerous music? Is that music one cannot understand, one cannot connect to? Or is it music that evokes unwanted emotions? Or is it simply music that is considered to be ugly? And is this a particular or a general idea? Is it nurture or nature? During more than two and a half millennia of Western civilization theorists, theologists, politicians, and philosophers have dealt with this problem. And not only the Nazi’s used the ideas of the so called dangers of bad music in their political and cultural theories, also the Italian and Spanish fascists, the Communist party in the Soviet Union, the Chinese party during the Cultural cleansing in the 1960s and—yes— many religious communities forbidding bad music of all kinds. One final point is quite interesting here, that is the idea that music can cause diseases, which certainly has influenced the Nazi party regulations as much as all other above-mentioned fears (Kennaway 2012). Of course, this is an extension of the previously mentioned theories of Plato and the Neo-Platonists until into our days. In the late nineteenth century, Cesare Lombroso wrote about this in The Man of Genius (Londen, 1891, translated into German as Entartung und Genie, Leipzig 1894) and connects genius with degeneration. His student Max Nordau went one step further declaring that the decadence in the arts of his days (e.g., Skrjabin, Stravinsky, Debussy, Strauss) originated from pathological minds. From this notion it is only one step to the writings of Karl Wolfskehl (Über den Geist der Musik, 1912) and Oswald Spengler (Der Untergang des Abendlandes, 1918) both of whom connect the culmination of European culture (for many the same as German culture) to the decline due to “sick” minds (Biddis 1997). We might remember Ziegler’s words regarding product of the Jewish soul: “Wer von ihm isst, stirbt daran.” Mostly a mix of all the above-mentioned fears, ideas, ideologies, and party politics were used in order to determine which art was to be forbidden and which one was not. Quite often however, the decisions made were as well personal as arbitrary. The final judgments were made by the highest members of the Nazi party, under the supervision of Hitler and his closest circle of disciples. As long as neither the

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German race nor the German state or the soul of the Germans at large would be undermined. But a clear-cut plan, a set of immutable and strictly applicable rules, never existed.

4  How to Control? The Nazis directed and controlled their cultural policies on several levels, using their propaganda machinery and administrative network all the way into the most remote corners of the Reich. Quintessential was the Reichskulturkammer (RKK), the Culture Chamber of the Reich that was founded in 1933 by Joseph Goebbels as part of the Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda, the Reich’s Ministry for the Education of the people and of propaganda (Levi 1994: 24–34; Sieb 2007). The numerous publications of the RKK were obviously all propaganda, explaining the people the dangers of modern art, of atonal music, of art made by the offspring of inferior races, and much more. All means of propaganda were allowed in order to enforce the party lines on what is or what is not degenerated art. Therefore, the exhibition of Entartete Musik in Düsseldorf was widely publicized as one of the most culture changing events of recent times. From the late 1920s, onward a plethora of books, research papers, encyclopedias, and pamphlets were circulated by the Nazis to proof their case, including lists of many hundreds of composers, conductors, soloists, music teachers, musicologists, and stage directors to be banned, first from public life, then out of Germany. Famous examples of these methods are to be found in are the Handbuch der Judenfrage (Fritsch 1935) and the Lexikon der Juden in der Musik (Stengel and Gergk 1940). The RKK had several departments. The one that dealt with music was the Reichsmusikkammer (RMK), of which the famous composer and conductor Richard Strauss was named honorary president in 1933. Strauss was ousted after 2  years (when he was not willing to stop his cooperation with the Jewish author Stefan Zweig) and was succeeded by Peter Raabe. Until 1934, the vice president was Wilhelm Furtwängler, the conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (Prieberg 2004: 1741–1789), who was eventually not willing to give up conducting Hindemith’s banned opera Mathis der Maler (Idem: 1772–1773). He had to resign from his position at the RMK but remained a member. As was the case with the RKK, the RMK consisted of several departments: for composers, soloists, orchestras, entertainment music, music education, choral music, church music, publishers, etcetera. An important instrument of the RMK was improving the financial situation of all musicians.19 In the 1920s and 1930s, the income of most musicians was rather bad,

 Sieb (2007: 20, 23f) and Wouters (1999: 183, 208) describe the situation in The Netherlands, based on the German system. 19

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even with such well paid employees as the members of for example the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (Kater 1997: 7–8). The Nazi’s changed this considerably. The salaries of musicians were not only raised but also regulated in minute lists based on position, range, age, and years of employment. In addition, pension funds were set up (Idem: 9). Many composers received regular commissions to write new works. And most important, the profession of musician was hence protected by the government and thus a musician’s income and social securities were secured. That being said, we have to realize that only in 1938/1939 these measures were fully functional, while at the same time musicians were still earning far less than laborers in the prewar industry of the 1930s. By the way, several of these regulations, including the copyright protection, were already proposed (and the copyright protection organized) by Richard Strauss at the very beginning of the century (Idem: 18). However, there was a price to pay for all these “goodies”: one had to become a member of the RMK in order to practice the profession of musician. That is, more specifically, one had to be allowed to become a member of the RMK by proving his or her pure Aryan descent, at least from the grandparents onward. In case of doubt, a committee would decide. Race was first of all the trigger. One would think that composers of degenerated music would not be accepted either! As we will see this was not always the case. Therefore, we may safely conclude that race was more important than technique or style. Of course, one might not want to become a member. In fact, many did. Of these, many moved out of the country, and for diverse reasons (being Jew, communist, or at least antifascist or against a dictatorial state). Richard Strauss, however, became a member20 and Paul Hindemith too, though he was expelled later (Prieberg 2004: 2984–3017). Karl Amadeus Hartmann did not; that is, he never actively sent in the necessary proof of being Aryan, and finally the RMK accepted this situation without blocking his “automatic” membership (Kater 2000:91–92). The rather apolitical and self-centered Carl Orff used his membership to his personal goals trying not to be compromised nor condemned (Prieberg 2004: 5040–5041; Hanau 1999: 252). For those who remained in Germany, either since there was no other place to go or the necessary finances lacked to move out or even since they felt themselves too German to leave the country, and quite often also since they felt a moral obligation for those they may have to leave behind, a membership of the RMK was the only way to get or to keep a job, and to work as a professional musician. Not only in the  The situation of Richard Strauss, his position in the RMK and in the Third Reich in general is quite complex. Strauss was in the early 1930s the most famous and most honored German composer and conductor. He was also a long-time fighter for the rights of composers and musicians in general. Furthermore, he had cooperated in many productions with Jewish artists and was not likely to change this. Finally, his son was married to a Jewish girl. Whatever his decisions where during the Nazi period, they were largely dictated by pride, by concern for his fellow musicians and for his daughter-in-law. But, indeed, he was also in close contact with the highest officers of the Nazi regime and remained so. Extensive documentation can be found in Prieberg (2004: 6924–7036). (See also Kater 1997: 17–18). 20

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German Reich, but over the years in every country occupied by the Germans, the described methods and organizations were virtually the same. The heads of local Kulturkammer always had to provide regular feedback to the Minister in Berlin and act on his instructions (Sieb 2007: 133–134). This was the way the Nazi’s were able to control their citizens and their output wherever in the Reich. Thus, they tried very hard to bring all citizens in the Reich under one rule, with as final goal one single uncleansed Germanic culture.

5  Some Musical Examples In order to give an idea of the sometimes rather arbitrary way the Nazi’s dealt with decisions whether music was degenerated or not, some examples out of many are presented here. It is interesting to read in a report by the Dutch composer and critic Wouter Paap, “Ontaarde Muziek” in het Derde Rijk, written in 1939 after a visit to the Düsseldorf exhibition, that to his mind the Nazi’s view on what is or isn’t degenerated music proved the arbitrariness of their decisions and their lack of knowledge of music (Paap 1939). From a strictly musical point of view this is true, but it denies other grounds for their decisions as mentioned above. Reading the innumerable sources, letters, commands and instructions, private notices, and official statements, one begins to understand the many conflicting opinions of those in charge of the RKK and the RMK.21 As indicated above, the statement whether a person was Jewish or not was the easiest. Although some mistakes were made, as for example by declaring Max Bruch a Jewish composer for having composed Kol Nidrei, although his name was not to be found in de Lexikon der Juden in der Musik. Someone remarked in 1942: “In case Max Bruch wasn’t a Jew, as could be assumed according to the ‘Lexikon’, he still worked in the service of the Talmud Jews.”22 In the 1930s, Igor Stravinsky seemed to be rather in favor of the Nazi regime and boasting quite some performances of his music until 1940 (Evans 2003). At the same time there was a persistent rumor that he was Jewish and that he was in the same league as Arnold Schönberg (Prieberg 2004: 4761; Evans 2003: 537). A possible reason for the rumor of his Jewishness that existed already before the Nazis rose to power, could have been simply his countenance… The list of degenerated composers according to Ziegler’s introduction for the 1938 exhibition in Düsseldorf is not very extensive (Ziegler 1938).23 Most ­composers  Many of these can be found in many thousands of pages of Prieberg (2004).  “Wenn Max Bruch nicht Jude war, wie nach dem, “Lexikon” anzunehmen ist, so hat er doch im Dienste des Talmud-Judentums gearbeitet” (Prieberg 2004: 747). 23  The list deals as well with classical composers as with composers of operetta and lighter music: a.o. Paul Abraham, Leo Ascher, Alban Berg, Paul Dessau, Leo Fall, Paul Hindemith, Carl Hofer, Leon Jessel, Ernst Krenek, Arnold Schönberg, Franz Schreker, Erwin Schulhoff, Paul Stefan, Igor Stravinsky, Ernst Toch, Anton Webern, and Kurt Weill. 21 22

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were Jews. Some wrote atonal or dodecaphonic music. Some used elements of jazz in the compositions. A few were composers of operetta or were jazz musicians. Ziegler added to these the conductor Otto Klemperer, the publisher of the then famous Zeitschrift für Musik, Melos, Heinrich Strobel, the author Adolf Weissmann,24 the renowned critic Siegmund Pisling and more in general all “liberatarian” music educators, who were considered a danger for the German youth.25 Two names a rather peculiar: Igor Stravinsky (see above) and Alban Berg. The latter because his most famous opera was not only partly atonal but dealt first of all with a Jewish protagonist, Salomé. Interesting is the question what to do with composers who are not Jewish, in fact who are not even against the Nazi ideology, but do write either in an advanced idiom (being according to the Nazi’s atonal) or are influenced by jazz? The case of Anton Webern is one of many examples. A performance of the Sechs Stücke für Orchester, an early atonal score by Anton Webern, at the Musikfest of the Allgemeine Deutsche Musikverein in Dortmund in June 1933 was canceled by the censor. However, Webern was a member of the RMK and was allowed to travel outside the Reich for performances of his music (Prieberg 2004: 7600f). In fact Webern was very much in favor of Hitler and Nazi politics. At the same time, the Danish-born composer Paul von Klenau and one of Schönberg’s pupils, Winfried Zillig, were both able to have their predominantly atonal music performed, although not without controversies (Levi 1991: 19–20). Von Klenau’s opera Michael Kohlhaas was at its première in Stuttgart 1933 heralded as one of the first new operas in the Third Reich. Von Klenau’s use of 12-tone techniques was criticized, but he explained that his music was nevertheless tonal and that thus be considered as apt for the new National Socialist World (Prieberg 2004: 3715). Zillig’s opera Die Windsbraut was premièred 8 years later, in Leipzig 1941, but for unknown reasons not criticized despite the use of 12-tone rows and a mix of tonal and atonal harmony. Both composers were accepted by the RMK, Von Klenau as a Danish citizen, and received several major commissions for new works (Potter 2005: 442). Although the use of 12-tone techniques was not wholeheartedly accepted, the fact that a composer was Jewish seems to have been by far more important. Therefore, the music by Werner Egk and Carl Orff was accepted; both composers leaned in the 1930s quite often on the techniques used by Stravinsky in Le Sacre du Printemps and the later in his Neo-Baroque works, techniques that were also used by Hindemith in the 1920s. However, both (and Stravinsky and Hindemith too) did

 Weissmann was a musicologist of great reknown. He wrote a.o. Musik in der Weltkrise (1922), but also Der klingende Garten—Impressionen über das Erotische in der Musik (1920), which Ziegler used in his pamphlet for the exhibition as an example of degenerated art. Weissmann was one of the founders of the International Society for Comtemporary Music (ISCM) and wrote many articles in the music magazines Anbruch and Melos, both mentioned by Ziegler as examples of “entartet.” 25  As the text mentions: “Deutsche Jugend in den Händen liberalistischer Musikerzieher” (German youth in the hands of libertarian music educators) (Ziegler 1938). 24

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not venture into the realm of atonal music (Stravinsky would do so only after 1950. Also, Hermann Reutter was able to write reasonably modern music during the Nazi years, partly since he was protected by Peter Raabe, Richard Strauss’ successor as head of the RMK.26 Kurt Weill and Ernst Krenek were both singled out by Ziegler for their use of jazz elements in their music (and of course, Weill also for being Jewish). Especially Krenek’s opera Jonny spielt auf (1926) was hugely popular, with its mixture of serious modern music and music hall stiles full of swing (not so much jazz as jazzy). In 1934, Jonny spielt auf was banned from the stage (Krenek moved to the USA in 1938) and in 1938 exemplified by Ziegler as degenerated music. But even then, Jazz remained a hot topic in Nazi Germany.27 Not only because of its origins (Bergmeier and Lotz 1997:137–140), but as well since such a large part of the population loved to listen to and dance on jazz for decades already. Politically it would be unwise to forbid them to enjoy this, especially since the economic situation was such that the population continued to need entertainment (Potter 2005: 438). A special case was that of the so called Swingjugend, mainly youngsters in large cities like Berlin and Hamburg. The Swingjugend was against virtually everything Hitler and his party commanded and exposed their contempt by dancing what officially was forbidden, the swing (Kater 1992: 153–162). Thus from 1938 onward, the Nazis exerted a zero tolerance against the Swingjugend. At the same time, they were quite lenient toward performances and even more the broadcasting of jazz (at least more lenient than hardliners as Hitler and Rosenberg demanded), especially since they were connected to the propaganda machine (Bergmeier and Lotz 1997: 141, 157–158). The latter started, notwithstanding Goebbels initial ban, already in the mid-1930s. It indicates that strict rules could be dismissed when eventually the “enemy,” e.g., England and the USA, could be reached through the air that is by radio transmission, and won over for the German cause… (Kater 1989; Bergmeier and Lotz 1997; Aumüller 1997). Jazz proved to be a useful weapon, though mostly with German texts and performed, of course, by German musicians.28 Another interesting topic deals with the “aryanization” of popular classical music composed by Jewish composers or using texts or librettos by Jewish authors (Levi 1990). An example of this is first of all Mendelssohn’s music for A Midsummer

 Ziegler 1938 mentioned Reutter as an example of constructionist music. (See also Levi 1991: 17).  We should not forget that not only the Nazis were opposed to jazz. The American modernist composer Henry Cowell wrote in 1930 in the German periodical for modern music Melos: “Die Grundlagen der Jazz sind die Synkopen und rhythmischen Akzente der Neger; ihre Modernisierung und gegenwärtige Form ist das Werk der Juden—zumeist von New Yorker ‘Tin-Pan-Alley’-Juden. Jazz ist Negermusik gesehen durch die Augen dieser Juden.” (The fundamentals of jazz are the syncopation and rhythmic accents of the Negro. Their modernization and actual form are the work of the Jews—mostly the New York “Tin-Pan-Alley”-Jews. Jazz is Negro music seen through the eyes of these Jews.) (Cowell 1930: 363–364; Mundy 2013). 28  See also Wouters (1999: 96–97, 118–119). 26 27

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Night’s Dream by Shakespeare. Although Mendelssohn’s score was hugely popular since its creation, the Nazis could by no means accept any performance of it anymore. Thus, quite some composers of great and lesser renown were asked to write new theater music for Shakespeare’s play. Some refused (e.g., Werner Egk), more composers accepted and received generous fees (Carl Orff, Rudolf Wagner-Régeny, Winfried Zillig). None of these scores remained on the repertoire after the war, with the exception of Carl Orff’s (Prieberg 1982: 144–145; Prieberg 2004: 4553).29 Other targets for “aryanization” were for example all Lieder set on texts by Heinrich Heine. Since it was hardly possible to write new texts for all those so well-­ known songs by Schubert (Schwanengesang) and Schumann (Dichterliebe and Liederkreis), they only way out seemed to be to ignore Heine and simply declare that the greatness of both composers was such that in their songs we do not hear the Jew Heine, but only Schubert and Schumann…30 Basically the same kind of problems were pointed out in the Da Ponte opera’s by Mozart, since Lorenzo da Ponte was considered to be Jewish in the same way as Heine, Mendelssohn and Mahler: they were born as Jews and converted to Christianity. The only way to solve the Da Ponte-problem, was to use instead of the original Italian versions of the librettos, the German ones. But, the most used were made by another Jew, the conductor Hermann Levi… Thus, new German version had to be made, this time by Siegfried Anheisser and others (Levi 1990: 21). One step further down the line of rewriting librettos was the transformation of Händel’s oratorios Judas Maccabeus into Wilhelmus van Nassauen, and Jephta into Das Opfer (Levi 1990: 19, 23). But the hugely popular operas Tiefland by Eugen d’Albert (libretto by Rudolph Spitzer/Lothar) and Der Rosenkavalier by Richard Strauss (libretto by Hugo von Hoffmansthal)—both librettists were partially Jewish—remained untouched (Levi 1990: 20). Strauss’ Die schweigsame Frau, on a text by the fully Jewish author Stefan Zweig, was immediately banned.

6  A Few Final Considerations It may be clear that the situation with regard to what is “entartete” music and what not, to what was to be forbidden and what could possibly be allowed on the public stages and the radio, and how to adjust the musical scene in general to the new rules of the Nazis, was not as simple as one might think. It seems that the rules were first of all based on race, then on politics and finally on musical techniques. The first two

 Prieberg (1982: 144–145) and Prieberg (2004: 4553)—Prieberg has counted over 45 different scores for Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, partly arrangements of older music (Weber, Purcell, etc.), partly brand-new music. 30  Blessinger, Carl, Judemtum und Musik, Berlin 1944, p.79 (cited in Levi 1990: 20). 29

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were rather straightforward: all music composed by Jews (as well as by Negros, Roma, etc.) was forbidden and to be banished, as was all music composed by citizens of inimical countries. Then all music was forbidden that has a political content other than the Nazis advocated (e.g., everything they called “Kulturbolschewismus”). With regard to the used techniques, the situation was more complex, as we have seen above. One gets the impression that the quality of a piece of music was the least important as long as everything written and performed was purely Aryan by origin. With regard to contemporary music, that is everything composed after 1900, the Nazis lacked uniform restrictive rules. Those in charge (first of all Goebbels, then Hitler, Rosenberg, and Raabe) were seldom in agreement with each other. Their most important goal was to preserve the pure German race and defend it against sounds dangerous for the soul and mind of the people. What was the result of these policies? The victims of the Nazis were either murdered or evicted or escaped in time, and a few went into “innere Exil,” like the composer Karl Amadeus Hartmann. However, we should not underestimate the number of musicians who remained in the “Vaterland,” in Germany. After the war some musicians at the top were punished, though many continued their line of expertise. The music of those who were in agreement with the Nazi policies or at least adapted to these, largely vanished from the stage and was soon forgotten, not per se because of their lack of quality, but simply because of their function and use or misuse during the Nazi era. It may very well be that some of this music will be retrieved sometime in the future. For now, a few questions have remained unanswered. Were composers victimized because of their music, was the forbidden music victimized, or was the music the Nazis advocated victimized? Was the music composed for the Nazis committing any crime? We could extend these questions to some additional ones: were Richard Wagner, Richard Strauss, or Carl Orff committing crimes since their music was accepted, performed, and even hailed by the Nazis? And were Mozart or Beethoven criminals since their music was performed during the murder of many thousands of Jews in the gas chambers? Should we make a clear division between the living and the dead? Mozart, Beethoven, or Wagner had nothing to do with the use of their music in de twentieth century, but Straus and Orff did support the Nazi regime for some time and composed therefore for criminals, in a certain way making themselves criminals too. Such questions resemble another one: who is committing a crime, the rifle or the man who handles the rifle?31

 We might consider situations where severe crimes have been committed with the help of music. For example, the music used in the American bombers in Vietnam (see James 1989: 139). Or the AC/DC hard rock music used in 1989 as sound torture against the opera loving General Manuel Noriega during the blocking of the Vatican Embassy in Panama City where Noriega was hiding (see Cloonan and Johnson 2002: 35). Or the “acoustical bombardments” in jails and detention centers (see Cusick and Joseph 2011). 31

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As we have seen above, many composers were indeed victimized, however first of all because of their race, political orientation or nationality, and then only for their art. If the first three denominations were not disputed and the used compositional techniques were considered unacceptable, a composer could still continue working, though out of the limelight (e.g., Anton Webern) or in “inneren Exil” as Karl Amadeus Hartmann. And sometimes even that was not necessary as we have seen with Zillig or Von Klenau. Was any music victimized for being forbidden? Only when all copies would have been destroyed, including the autograph and the plates used for the printing process. Since music does exist only in sound. A score is merely a suggestion of what might sound, but not the sound itself. Thus, forbidding music to sound could be seen as a crime against the music, were it not that the restrictive measures lasted only for some 13 years, after which most music could in principle be performed again,32 and much music was secretly performed during house concerts or smuggled out of the country for performances elsewhere. In all mentioned cases the music itself was never committing any crime. Music can only be an instrument in hands of those who are using it. It can by itself not be politically left or right wing, fascist or communist or democratic, Roman Catholic, or even Jewish. The use of it can though. All music can do is produce sounds, exhilarating sounds, dulling sounds, disorientating sounds, even fearful sounds and painful sounds, depending on the performance of it, the use of it, and depending on the person who is listening, who is reacting, with his personal emotions, his experiences, his physical and psychological situation. Exactly there lies the source as well as the power of music and the same time the fear for music. Music goes beyond the mind, but not without the mind. Music that numbs or triggers the mind is able to make us do unthinkable, unwanted, or exhilarating things. But analyzing the connection between used techniques and the use of music under certain circumstances will not alter that ultimately the music itself is always and will always be part of the Politeia at large, that is an instrument of people, made by people and used by people. They are committing crimes, not the music itself.

 Restrictive measures concerning music exist probably since the dawn of times, and at least as long as music is considered to be able to dominate our mind and soul. Plato’s views on this have been used in many different ways by religious and political leaders all over the world. But also, less harmful maybe, in educational systems and among music lovers, imposing their predilections upon others. What Hitler c.s. advocated wasn’t much different from the ideas Stalin, Franco, Mussolini or Mao Zedong forced on their people. Or for that matter, what the Church of Rome of Protestantism enforced on their composers and worshippers. Or advocates of avantgarde music propagated in the 1950 and 1960s against contemporary composers of romantic or tonal music. 32

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References Altenmüller, E., S.  Finger & F.  Boller (2015) Music, Neurology and Neuroscience: Historical Connections and Perspectives, Amsterdam: Elsevier Aschheim, S. (2001) In Times of Crisis: Essays on European Culture, Germans, and Jews, Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press Aumüller, H. (1997) Charlie and His Orchestra. Jazz als Mittel der nazionalsozialistischen Auslandspropaganda, in: Jahrbuch für Kommunikationsgeschichte, 14. Bd, 2012, pp. 133-151 Bergmeier, H. & R. Lotz (1997) Hitler’s Airwaves. The Inside Story of Nazi Radio Broadcasting and Propaganda Swing, New Haven: Yale University Press Biddis, M. (1997) History as Destiny: Gobineau, H.S. Chamberlain and Spengler, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Vol. 7, pp. 73-100 Casella, A. (1939) Problemi e posizione attuale della musica italiana, in: Le Arti, Vol. 1 No. 3, pp. 256-264 Cathart, A. (2006) Music and Politics in Hitler’s Germany, in: Madison Historical Review, Vol. 3, no. 1, retrieved September 2019 from http://commons.lib.jmu.edu/mhr/vol3/iss1/1 Chamberlain S.  H. (1899) Die Grundlagen des Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, München: F. Bruckmann A.-G. Chamberlain S. H. (1905) Arische Weltanschauung, München: F. Bruckmann A.-G. Chamberlain S. H. (1918) Rasse und Nation, in: Deutschlands Erinnerung, 2.Jahrgang, Vol.7 (Juli 1918) - this is a reprint of an earlier article about Rumania (Über die Judenfrage in Roumanien, in: Nova Revista Romana, vol.10, Bukharest: 1900)

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Cloonan, M. & B. Johnson (2002) Killing Me Softly with His Song: An Initial Investigation into the Use of Popular Music as a Tool of Oppression, in: Popular Music, Vol 21, No. 1, pp. 27-39 Cowell, H. (1930) Bericht aus Amerika, in: Melos, pp. 363-365 Cusick S. & B. Joseph (2011) Across an Invisible Line: A Conversation about Music and Torture, in: Grey Room, No. 42, pp. 6-21 De Vries, W. (1996) Sonderstab Musik, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press Deak, I. (1968) Weimar Germany’s Left-Wing Intellectuals, A Political History of the Weltbühne and Its Circle, Berkeley: University of California Press Evans, J. (2003) Stravinsky’s Music in Hitler Germany, in: Journal of the American Musicological Society, Vol. 56, No. 3, pp. 525-594 Fritsch, T. (1935) Handbuch der Judenfrage: die wichtigsten Tatsachen zur Beurteilung des jüdischen Volkes, Leipzig: Hammer-Verlag Goldstein, M. (1912) Deutsch-jüdischer Parnass, in: Der Kunstwart, München, March Hanau, E. (1999) Nationalsozialistische Kulturpolitik in Frankfurt am Main und Carl Orff, in: Archiv für Musikwissenschaft, 56. Jahrgang, H.3, Stuttgart, pp. 245-257 Heister H-W., H-G.  Klein (eds) (1984) Musik und Musikpolitik im faschistischen Deutschland, Frankfurt a/M: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag Hermand, J. (2013) Culture in Dark Times: Nazi Fascism, inner Emigration, and Exile, New York: Berghahn Books James, D. (1989) The Vietnam War and American Music, in: Social Text, No. 23, pp. 122-143 Johnson, P. (1987) A History of the Jews, New York: HarperCollins Publishers Kater, M. (1974) Das “Ahnenerbe” der SS 1935-1945. Ein Beitrag zur Kulturpolitik des Dritten Reichs, München: Walter de Gruyter Kater, M. (1989) Forbidden Fruit? Jazz in the Third Reich, in: The American Historical Review, Vol. 94, No. 1, pp. 11-43 Kater, M. (1992) Different Drummers: Jazz in the Culture of Nazi Germany, New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press Kater, M. (1997) The Twisted Muse. Musicians and Their Music in the Third Reich, New York/ Oxford: Oxford University Press Kater, M. (2000) Composers of the Nazi Era: Eight Portraits, New  York/Oxford: Oxford University Press Kennaway, J. (2012) Bad Vibrations: The History of the Idea of Music as a Cause of Disease, Farnham: Ashgate Koeltzsch, H. (1935) Das Judentum in der Musik, in: Handbuch der Judenfrage: die wichtigsten Tatsachen zur Beurteilung des jüdischen Volkes, Leipzig: pp. 313-327 Kolleritsch, O. (ed.) (1990) Die Wiener Schule und das Hakenkreuz, in: Studien zur Wertungsforschung, Vienna: Universal Edition Levi, E. (1990) The Aryanization of Music in Nazi Germany, in: The Musical Times, Vol. 131, No. 1763, pp. 19-23 Levi, E. (1991) Atonality, 12-Tone Music and the Third Reich, in: Tempo, New Series No. 178, pp. 17-21 Levi, E. (1994) Music in the Third Reich, London: Palgrave - MacMillan Levi, E. (1996) Toward an Aesthetic of Fascist Opera, in: Günter Berghaus (ed.) Fascism and Theatre: Comparative Studies on the Aesthetics and Politics of Performance in Europe, 1925-1945, Oxford: Berghahn Publishers, pp. 260-276 Lombroso C. (1891), The Man of Genius, Londen: Walter Scott (German version: Entartung und Genie, Leipzig: G.H. Wigand, 1894) Mecking, S. & Y. Wasserloos (eds) (2012) Musik – Macht – Staat, Kulturelle, sociale und politische Wandlungsprozesse in der Moderne, Göttingen: V & R unipress Mendes-Flohr, P. (1999) German Jews: A Dual Identity, New Haven: Yale University Press Micheels, P. (1993) Muziek in de schaduw van het Derde Rijk, De Nederlandse symfonie-orkesten, 1933 –1945, Zutphen: De Walburg Pers Mundy, R. (2013) The ‘League of Jewish Composers’ and American Music, in: The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 96, No. 1, pp. 50-99

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Paap, W. (1939) “Ontaarde Muziek” in het Derde Rijk, in: Opwaartsche Wegen, 16e Jaargang, pp. 338-342 Potter, P. (2005) ‘What is “Nazi Music”?, in: The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 66, No. 3, pp. 428-455 Prieberg, F. (1982) Musik im NS-Staat, Frankfurt a/M: Fischer Taschenbuch Prieberg, F. (2004, 2009 2dn ed.) Handbuch Deutsche Musiker 1933-1945, Kiel: CD-Rom, public domain Raruskin, R. (2009) The Danger of Music and Other Anti-Utopian Essays, Berkeley: University of California Press Rosenberg, A. (1934) Der Mythos des 20.Jahrhunderts, München 1930, Berlin: Hoheneichen-Verlag Samama, L. (2006) Nederlandse muziek van de 20ste eeuw, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press Samama, L. (2016) The Meaning of Music, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press Samama, L., B. van Lambalgen & E. Overbeeke (eds) (2004) Entartete Musik. Verboden muziek onder het nazi-bewind, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press Schopenhauer A. (1819), Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Leipzig: F.A. Brockhaus Sieb, R. (2007) Der Zugriff der NSDAP auf die Musik. Zum Aufbau von Organsiationsstrukturen für die Musikarbeit in den Gliederungen der Patei (diss), Osnabrück. Retrieved September 2019 from https://repositorium.ub.uni-osnabrueck.de/bitstream/urn:nbn:de:gbv:700-2007091013/2/ E-Diss699_Thesis.pdf Spengler O. (1918) Der Untergang des Abendlandes, Wien: Braumüller Stengel, T. & H.  Gergk (eds) (1940) Lexikon der Juden in der Musik, Berlin: Bernhard Hahnefeld Verlag Stresemann, W. (1987) Wie konnte es geschehen. Hitlers Aufstieg in der Erinnerung eines Zeitzeugen, Frankfurt a/M: Ullstein Verlag Weissmann A (1922) Musik in der Weltkrise, Stuttgart und Berlin: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt Wolfskehl K. (1912) Über den Geist der Musik, in: Jahrbuch für die geistige Bewegung, 3. Jahrgang, Berlin, p.22–32 Wouters C.A.T.M. (1999) Ongewenschte Muziek. De bestrijding van jazz en moderne amusementsmuziek in Duitsland en Nederland 1920-1945, Amsterdam: PhD Thesis University of Amsterdam - Downloadable from UvA-DARE, the institutional repository of the University of Amsterdam (UvA) - http://dare.uva.nl/document/475200 Ziegler H.S. (1938) Entartete Musik. Eine Abrechnung, Düsseldorf: Völkischer Verlag G.m.b.H.

Marginalizing the Muslim Ustad: Hindu Nationalism and Music in Modern North India Bob van der Linden

1  Introduction In modern states around the world, the imagination, canonization and institutionalization of national music by members of a social majority group repeatedly led to the stigmatization and marginalization of music created by social minorities. Gypsy music in Hungary (Brown 2000) and Turkey (Bates 2011), Bukharan Jewish art music in Uzbekistan (Levin 1996), Uyghur art music (Harris 2008) and Naxi music (Rees 2000) in China and Jewish popular music in Tunisia (Davis 2009) are only a few examples. Central to this process were hierarchical, if not evolutionary, ideas about music, whereby the imagined national music—by and large, either in the European idiom, as in China, or in that of a modern ‘classicized’ local tradition of art music, as in the cases of shashmaqam in Uzbekistan and ma’luf in Tunisia—was seen as more ‘progressive’ than other, often folk/popular, music (van der Linden 2015). The making of North Indian art music, known as Hindustani music, into national music fits in this context, but is very different at the same time because, besides a growing demarcation between ‘high’ art music and ‘low’ folk/popular music, it concerned a transfer from Muslim ‘minority’ to Hindu ‘majority’ in terms of musicians, patronage and audiences within one art music tradition.1 For, indeed, since the seventeenth century, due to Mughal rule and Muslim patronage in general,

 In India, a distinction is made between North Indian ‘Hindustani’ art music and South Indian ‘Karnatak’ art music. Although there is a great overlap between the two traditions, especially in music theory, Hindustani music mainly developed in a different manner because of the far more dominant interaction between Indic and Persian-Central Asian music in the North. During the colonial period, however, the two traditions underwent similar processes of musical standardization and institutionalization in the context of Indian nationalism and wider processes of state formation. 1

B. van der Linden (*) University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_3

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the Hindustani music scene was numerically and professionally dominated by Muslim hereditary musicians, commonly known as ustads, yet this supremacy by a social minority was gradually dismantled into the twentieth century through a process of ‘Hinduization’. Without any doubt, this exceptional event in global history highlights the significance of the institutional and structural forms of Hindu discrimination and oppression, if not violence, against Muslims that took place under the banner of Hindu nationalism in India. This chapter investigates some of the intricate ways in which the status and authority of Muslim musicians was marginalized, willed or accidental, due to Hindu nationalism and overall processes of modernization, both in music and society. To begin with, Hindu national music reformers since the late nineteenth century stigmatized the ustads’ knowledge and teaching of music for being ‘unscientific’.2 In doing so, their ideas to a great extent overlapped with the ‘moral languages’ of modern Indian socioreligious reformers and, indeed, the British civilizing mission at large (van der Linden 2008). Following the rise of political Hindu nationalism, which eventually led to the Partition of British India into India and Pakistan in 1947, then, Muslim musicians were increasingly marginalized in modern music institutions and generally experienced an overall union of anti-Muslim chauvinism and music in society that sometimes led to direct violence. Obviously, Hindu and Muslim identities existed among musicians in pre-colonial India as well. For different reasons, for instance, numerous Hindu musicians converted to Islam (Manuel 1996: 122–123; Scarimbolo 2014: 432–451; Subramanian 2006: 4649). Likewise it cannot be accidental that at the courts of Hindu rulers the majority of the musicians were Hindus, such as in Gwalior during the century before Indian Independence and in Benares, with its Hindu maharaja and numerous temples. Even so, these Hindu and Muslim identities definitely were more fuzzy in comparison to those of modern times. Decisive to this transformation were the modern national music reforms by elitist, mostly Hindu Brahmin and English-educated, reformers, first in Calcutta (now Kolkata) and West India (today’s Mumbai and Maharashtra). These were the immediate consequence of the fast societal and intellectual transformations that Indians experienced during the imperial encounter. In the context of an emergent North Indian modern public sphere, Indian music reformers began to ask new questions about their own music culture. In what ways did Indian music differ from Western music and to what extent was it scientific? How to change Indian music in order to make it modern? In relation to the latter, for instance, music notation gained much attention. Typical too remains the fact that the Western harmonium, in well-­tempered tuning, was widely adopted by musicians and by the first decade of twentieth century had replaced the sarangi (a bowed, short-necked string instrument) as the main accompanying instrument.  For my discussion of the transferral from ‘Muslim’ to ‘Hindu’ dominance in modern Hindustani music, I use the terms ‘stigmatization’ and ‘marginalization’ rather than ‘criminalization’. This mainly because I find the latter’s association with the idea of law and justice too direct for the narration of a very intricate socio-intellectual historical process that to a great extent happened unplanned and often had accidental results. 2

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On the whole, Hindu music reformers imagined and defined Indian national music in view of European music (history) and texts on Indian music. Most significantly, they located the origins of Indian music in a pre-Muslim golden age of ‘Hindu music’. At the same time, moreover, they unjustly argued that the state of Hindustani music had declined, because it had fallen in the hands of the ‘illiterate’ Muslim hereditary musicians, who ‘secretly’ kept their knowledge among themselves, away from Hindus. Quite the reverse, however, the nineteenth century was an important and creative period of transition for North Indian art music, with new instruments like the sitar, sarod (a fretless, plucked lute) and tabla (a pair of tuneable Indian hand played drums), and relatively new genres like khayal and a modernized thumri, replacing the instruments and styles associated with the Mughal court. All the same, Hindu national music reformers construed and institutionalized a ‘classical’ North Indian music on a par with the Western classical music tradition, among other things, through music schools, music conferences, canonical repertoire, concert arrangements, (staff) notation and theoretical elaborations. In this way, Hindustani music was made respectable for the emergent Hindu middle class, especially for its women, and a commercial market for music education and performance was created at the same time. Into the twentieth century, then, the Hindu community became the mainstay of Hindustani music in terms of students, resulting into an ever-increasing number of professional musicians, and audiences. Through this ‘Hinduization’ of North Indian art music, moreover, music reformers took away music from the private world of princely courts and hereditary musicians, of whom the great majority were Muslim, to the modern concert hall and the public sphere at large. To be clear, North Indian art music is an oral tradition and to a great extent based upon the ‘improvisation’ of formerly studied, and often strictly defined, patterns that are specific to a certain raga (tonal framework for composition and improvisation). Hence, rather than of composers, as common to European classical music, one speaks of specific performers and their musical lineages. Also it should be noted that Hindustani music does not  know Western music concepts such as harmony, counterpoint, chords or modulation. In its place, highly individual soloists and their accompanists ‘improvise’ solely with melody and rhythm, whereby the microtonal ‘ornamentations’ around the notes are as important as the actual notes or semitones, the smallest difference between two pitches in Western music. Actually, one of my key arguments in this specific musical context is that because of Hindu national music reforms and the subsequent ‘Hinduization’ of North Indian art music, which led to a process of musical standardization, the divergent knowledge of the Muslim ustads was increasingly undermined. In general, this chapter builds upon some publications that were partially triggered by Janaki Bakhle’s Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition (2005), being the first monograph that straightforwardly discussed the Hindu nationalism underlying the making of modern Hindustani music, and which afterwards created much scholarly debate. In particular, Bakhle was criticized for her ‘rather simplistic picture’ of ‘Muslim loss and Hindu gain as the raga tradition was classicized throughout the twentieth century’ (Slawek 2007:

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507). In what follows, therefore, I will repeatedly emphasize that the stigmatization and subsequent marginalization of the Muslim ustad was anything but a linear process and, as so often in history, to a considerable extent the outcome of unintended consequences of human initiatives. In reality, for instance, many Hindu and Muslim musicians continued to work together. A great number of Hindus studied with Muslim musicians who themselves sometimes played important roles in modern music reforms. A few well known examples are: Maula Baksh, Abdul Karim Khan and his daughter Hirabai Barodekar, and Karamatullah Khan (Bakhle 2005; Katz 2017).3 On the other hand, singers like Abdul Karim Khan were famous for their interpretations of Krishnaite devotional songs (bhajans) and numerous Muslim musicians, among whom India’s most famous shehnai (Indian hoboe) player Bismillah Khan in Benares, kept on performing in Hindu temples. Be that as it may, however, the legendary Allauddin Khan was compelled ‘to take on a Hindu name at least twice during his life in order to avoid “anti-Muslim ostracism”’ (Scarimbolo 2014: 449).4

2  S  tigmatization: Hindu National Music Reforms and the Ustads In his classic Indian Music and the West (1997), Gerry Farrell argued that the roots of Hindu national music reforms predominantly lay in the British colonial imagination: When India was discovered as a cultural entity by Orientalists in the late eighteenth century, the study of music, like language, had to suit their project of discovering and reconstructing a pristine Hindu past, free from Muslim influences. Hence the ‘dead’ music of Sanskrit texts was more revered than the living Indo-Muslim tradition (Farrell 1997: 1–2).

In particular, the works of William Jones and N. Augustus Willard were crucial to the Indian reception of the idea of ‘Hindu music’ and its degradation under Muslim rule. In On the Musical Modes of the Hindus (1792), Jones not only portrayed the myth of Indian music being on the verge of extinction but, like other Orientalists glorifying Sanskrit sources, directly combined it also with the loss of the ‘Hindu music’ of a supposedly golden age. Although he had a great affection for Persian literature, Jones solely trusted the Sanskrit music treatises for the study of Indian music, while arguing that Muslim writers had mystified the tradition through their poor translations of these texts.

 To mention two famous Hindu students of Abdul Karim Khan only: Sawai Gandharva (who later taught Bhimsen Joshi and Gangubai Hangal) and Kesarbai Kerkar, although the latter studied only for 8 months with him during her youth and eventually became a disciple of Alladiya Khan. 4  Allauddin Khan was the guru of Ravi Shankar and father of another two celebrated North Indian art musicians, Ali Akbar Khan and Roshanara Khan, who later became a Hindu to marry Shankar and renamed herself Annapurna Devi. 3

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In his Treatise on the Music of Hindoostan: Comprising a Detail of the Ancient Theory and Modern Practice (1834), N.  Augustus Willard emphasized that the study of books alone was not enough for the revival of ‘Hindu music’. One equally had to gather information from performing musicians, even if they generally were ‘ignorant of the theory of music’ and ‘the most immoral set of men on earth’ (Willard 1834: 3, 29, 122). Moreover, although Jones was ambiguous about the role of the Muslim period to the decline of ‘Hindu music’, Willard openly blamed the Muslim rulers for what had supposedly happened. Having failed to properly patronize music’s theoretical tradition, he argued, the former had brought about a ‘defection’ of its theory from its practice and caused music to fall into the hands of ‘illiterates’ (Ibid.: 2–3). Still, whereas he thus made a division between musicians and music theorists, Willard never specifically identified the musicians he was so critical of as Muslim. On the contrary, for example, he wrote: I have not confined myself to the details in books, but have also consulted the most famous performers, both Hindoos and Mussulmans, the first Veenkars5 in India, the more expert musicians of Lucknow, and Hukeem Salamut Ulee Khan of Benares, who has written a treatise on music (Ibid.: 12).

Hence, the stigmatization of the ustads, which became so dominant later, cannot be unambiguously attributed to Jones or Willard. The decisive step to anti-Muslimness was taken up only by later British colonial writers and, especially, Hindu national music reformers.6 The role of India’s first modern musicologist Sourindro Mohun Tagore (1840–1914) was crucial. In Calcutta, he founded the Bengal Music School in 1871 and, a decade later, the Bengal Music Academy for the teaching of ‘Hindu music’ on scientific principles. These institutions offered systematic music education on the basis of courses, syllabi and degrees devised by Tagore himself. He saw music notation as an essential component of any advanced musical system and, accordingly, he endorsed a Bengali letter notation system. Between 1872 and 1896, he published numerous books and articles on Indian music for the expanding market of amateur musicians, including manuals on how to play sitar and harmonium. At his own costs, moreover, Tagore distributed these, and collections of Indian musical instruments to learned institutions, museums and heads of state in many countries. For him, music became a central means to propagate the greatness of Hindu civilization to the West and, accordingly, he corresponded with numerous scholars around the world. More immediately, Tagore seized the latent criticism of the ustads from the British colonial writings of Jones, Willard and others, and brought it to an explicit anti-Muslim argument. In his editorial of the 1872 volume of Sangit Samalochani (The Music Review), he was among the first modern Hindu music

 Players of the rudra vina, a large plucked string instrument originating from the Indian subcontinent. 6  The narrative of the deterioration of Indian music and the ‘illiteracy’ of its performers also can be found in pre-colonial Persian sources, yet British colonial writers and Hindu national music reformers specifically gave it an anti-Muslim significance. 5

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reformers to specifically name Muslim musicians as unwilling and ‘illiterate’ teachers—although ironically Tagore himself had been taught by a number of Muslim teachers (Scarimbolo 2014: 351)—, and he therefore implicitly labelled them as being responsible for the decline of ‘Hindu music’: Within this royal lineage of invaders there have been born one or two knowledge-loving emperors who, understanding the exquisiteness of Hindu music, contributed their enthusiasm towards its advancement. But be it through chicanery or might, they started converting exponents of Hindu music to their own religion. We think this is the outstanding reason why cultivation of music is so rare among Hindus, and it is due to this that one sees more music-­ exponents among Muslims […] What is a matter of even greater sorrow is that Muslims are not easily inclined to teach music to Hindus. Even if they are favorably inclined, they are ignorant regarding how to teach in a simple way. Therefore, learning music from Muslims is not easily forthcoming (as cited in Basu 2011: 336).

Earlier, in fact, Tagore’s guru and the chief instructor at the Bengal Music School, Kshetra Mohan Goswami, had argued in his Sangitasara (1869) that the ‘great intellectual tradition of Sanskrit learning in music died out with the usurpation of musical practice by Muslim ustads’ (as cited in Katz 2017: 134). The case of India’s most important modern music reformer, Vishnu Narayan Bhatkhande (1860–1936), best exemplifies the Indian music reformers’ adherence to modern scientific knowledge: the Enlightenment search for origins in music, standardization of music theory and practice, notation, music education, and so on. On the whole, he sought to revive and scientifically redefine Hindustani music as a national music that would be accessible for a wider Indian public. To the point, he claimed that North Indian art music had a history of only ‘a couple of centuries’ and accordingly emphasized  ‘the futility of trying to trace India’s music back to the Vedas or even more recent treatises such as the Natyashastra or the Sangitratnakar’ (Neuman 2014: 288). He based his argument on extensive fieldwork, during which he collected an enormous amount of orally transmitted musical repertoire from contemporary, and mostly Muslim, performers from different lineages. This material resulted in the six volumes of Kramik Pustak Malika (1919–1937), a collection of compositions in Indian sargam notation. Between 1916 and 1926, Bhatkhande convened five All India Music Conferences. At these meetings, scholars (mostly Hindu) and musicians (mostly Muslim) came together from all over India with the goal of regulating the standards and boundaries of a national music. In particular, a national system of notation and a uniform description of ragas were thought necessary. During the 1920s and 1930s, Bhatkhande’s inspiration was a major factor in the founding of music schools in Baroda, Gwalior, Bombay, Nagpur and, above all, Lucknow. Undeniably, his Western education as a lawyer contributed to his systematic approach to music education. Altogether, Bhatkhande propagated his own research findings, system of raga classification and music notation system over what he saw as the ‘unscientific’ knowledge of the hereditary musicians. Yet, unlike many of his contemporaries, he did not believe that Muslim rulers had been bad music patrons or that the ustads had ruined Indian music. On the contrary, he often praised the musicality of the latter, including that of one of his main informers, the legendary Wazir Khan. Likewise, he

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sent his foremost disciple S. N. Ratanjankar to the illustrious singer Faiyaz Khan for further studies and, at the All India Music Conferences, he allowed some Muslim scholars and musicians to elaborate their alternative views on Indian music history. Thus, by challenging the continuity of Indian music since Vedic times and admiring the creativity of Muslim musicians, Bhatkhande softened what by his time had become a clearly defined narrative of Muslim dominance and the decline of ‘Hindu music’. Nevertheless, in his search for a textual foundation for Indian music history, he too was very critical about the ustads, whom he generally described as ignorant of texts and history, as well as bad pedagogues. As argued by Janaki Bakhle, however, Bhatkhande’s irritation ultimately was directed at ‘musicians, singers, and instrumentalists—not because of their religious affiliation, but because as performers they did not pay adequate attention to posterity nor, for that matter, to the future’ (Bakhle 2005: 123). He simply could not accept that ‘musicians were the living archive of music’s theoretical history, even if they were his resource for its performative history’ (Idem.: 109). Eventually, he only believed in the Sanskrit music treatises and Hindu origins of Indian national music. Or as Justin Scarimbolo put it: ‘Bhatkhande excluded Muslim musicians not because they were Muslim, but because they were not Hindus’ (Scarimbolo 2014: 362, emphasis in original). Hence, the reformer’s position was comparable, he continued, with William Jones’ rejection of Persian writings on Indian music, which had nothing to do with anti-­ Muslimness, but with the fact that ‘for him, India was essentially Hindu, and any claim to authenticity on the part of Muslims was therefore seen as illegitimate’ (Ibid.). In contrast to Bhatkhande, the musician and music reformer Vishnu Digambar Paluskar (1872–1931) straightforwardly argued that ancient ‘Hindu music’ had degraded in the hands of the ustads and, accordingly, he made its revival and diffusion among the general public the goal of his life. For this purpose, he propagated an Indian national music on behalf of Hindu devotional music (bhakti). In Paluskar’s hands, and especially in those of his disciples, music education and public performances became channels for Hindu proselytizing. In 1901, he founded the Gandharva Mahavidyalaya music school in Lahore, with the support of two Hindu nationalist organizations, the Arya Samaj and the Sanatan Dharm Sabha. Typically, although Lahore had a large Muslim population and was a prime centre for Hindustani music, the school had no Muslim teachers and only a few Muslim students. The Gandharva Mahavidyalaya was a Hindu music school with prayers in Sanskrit and much attention for Hindu festivals. Paluskar also developed his own notation system and wrote books on music theory and collections with compositions in different ragas. Conversely, he promoted the inclusion of devotional songs (bhajans) in the concert repertoire as well as the singing of nationalist songs, especially ‘Vande Mataram’. In 1911, Paluskar founded another music school in Bombay and it was from here that, after his death in 1931, his disciples under the leadership of Vinayakrao Patwardhan established the Gandharva Mahavidyalaya Mandal, to promote the foundation of affiliated schools with a uniform music curriculum, examinations and degrees governing them all. In 1946, this became the Akhil Bharatiya Gandharva Mahavidyalaya (All India Music University Board), an

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institution that today coordinates the numerous affiliated music schools set up throughout Northern India and which has about 100,000 students appear for examinations every year. Although the use of the term ‘Hindu music’ at the time probably was not meant as sectarian as it would be today, and may have meant then much the same thing as Hindustani music does now, ‘it must nevertheless have alienated Muslims to some degree’ (Kippen 2006: 55). This all the more so because Muslim rule and the ustads were increasingly blamed for its decline. In chorus, Hindu nationalists generally adopted beliefs of superiority about the antiquity, complexity and, indeed, spirituality of ‘Hindu music’. A sideshow of this process, facilitated by modern print culture, was the growing visual dominance in society of musical images of Hindu gods, such as Krishna playing the flute, Saraswati with the vina and Shiva as the ‘Cosmic Dancer’ Nataraj. Above all, however, the agenda of Hindu national music reforms clashed with the ustads’ study and teaching methods. The notated compositions and overall urge towards musical standardization resisted the diversity of the oral versions in circulation, and sometimes preserved in the hereditary musicians’ notebooks. Although the case of Bhatkhande testifies the latent relationship between the quest for modern scientific knowledge and anti-Muslimness, it simultaneously shows that what happened was part of a complicated sociocultural configuration. Hindu reformers principally wanted to be modern and belong to their times, but it was impossible for them to predict the future results of their initiatives. The ascendency of a dominant Hindu identity in Hindustani music, nonetheless, not only led to the retreat of an important domain of shared music and affective experience, but consecutively also to the marginalization of the ustads in modern music institutions.

3  Institutional Marginalization In 1926, Bhatkhande founded, together with Rai Umanath Bali and Thakur Nawab Ali Khan, the Marris College of Music in Lucknow.7 As honorary secretary, Rai Umanath Bali would run the College’s day-to-day affairs for some three decades. He was an ardent nationalist affiliated to the Indian National Congress and from his viewpoint the College was a national effort. Furthermore, when he wrote down its goals, he particularly insisted on freeing the knowledge of Hindustani music from the grip of the ‘illiterate’ hereditary musicians: […] to (1) revive old and ancient art of music and to introduce it to high society, which from the last 60 years has fallen in the hands of illiterates; (2) to arrange for new raga productions on scientific and systematic lines and (3) to collect and preserve the great master pieces of the art now in the possession of illiterates (as cited in Katz 2017: 110).

 It was renamed as the Bhatkhande Music College of Hindustani Music and is presently known as the Bhatkhande Music Institute University. 7

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Thus, from the very beginning, Marris College was imagined as a modern national institution and elements that, in the eyes of its founders, financiers and, over time, its teachers, appeared as ‘unscientific’ had to be removed. One may assume that Bali meant the Muslim hereditary musicians with his use of the term ‘illiterates’. For example, the great majority of the performing musicians at Bhatkhande’s five All India Music Conferences, which preceded and led to the foundation of the Marris College, had been ustads. Although David Trasoff’s argument that they ‘were kept segregated from the “respectable” classes’ (Trasoff 2010: 337) most likely did not account for the most celebrated Muslim musicians, one could nonetheless argue that Bhatkhande and other, mostly Hindu, music reformers to a certain extent used the Conferences to scrutinize the ustads in a ‘respectable’ setting. Likewise, in the first decade of its existence, the College was heavily dependent on Muslim hereditary musicians as teachers,8 who were repeatedly praised for their art, but it eventually did not invest in them. On the contrary, in 1931, while looking back at the College’s first four and a half years in operation, Bali wrote: ‘In short this institution is meeting the keenly felt need of turning out properly and scientifically trained music teachers from amongst the respectable classes’ (Katz 2017: 110). At the same time, the College became increasingly Hindu-centric, for instance by celebrating Hindu holidays in a grand style and, at a later stage, the appointment of Hindu teachers from Benares (Idem: 122–123). By 1940, then, a radical shift in the ratio from Muslim to Hindu teachers had taken place, although as Max Katz recently underlined: The marginalization of Muslim hereditary musicians and the ennobling of middle-class Hindus […] was a nearly inevitable consequence of the ideological base on which the College was founded, and thus should not be ascribed to the bias or prejudice of any specific individual (Idem: 127).

With the Partition of British India in 1947, a great number of Muslim musicians had fled to Pakistan, especially from Punjab and Delhi, and the ones who had decided to stay on in Independent India now increasingly (had to) represent(ed) themselves as ‘secular’ Muslims. More importantly, and predictably perhaps, institutional marginalization of the ustads became more frank, to begin with, at All India Radio (AIR), which for decades was the largest organization for the employment of musicians. Under B. V. Keskar, Minister of Information and Broadcasting (1952–1962), AIR hired thousands of musicians, regularly or part time. Keskar, nonetheless, was a convinced Hindu nationalist and a resolute follower of the reforms of Bhatkhande and Paluskar. By and large, he sought to reassert Hindu cultural influence in Hindustani music by purging the ‘Islamic influences’ which he argued had led to its ‘eroticisation’ and drift from its ‘spiritual’ core. While he believed that the state of Indian music had been waning under both Muslim and British rule, he particularly blamed Muslim musicians for this. In his view, the ustads had ‘appropriated and

 Unsurprisingly so, of course, because Lucknow for a long time, and especially under Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, was the cosmopolitan Islamic cultural capital of North India and a hub for music and dance. 8

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distorted the ancient art, turning it into the secret craft of exclusive lineages, the gharanas, and, ignorant of Sanskrit, divorced it from the religious context of Hindu civilization’ (Lelyveld 1996: 55). In Muslim hands, he continued, music was no longer ‘spiritual’ and had become the special preserve of ‘dancing girls, prostitutes and their circle of pimps’, and unsurprisingly therefore respectable Hindus had turned away from it with disgust (Ibid.). As to be expected in this ideological context, Keskar mainly wanted to employ musicians at AIR with a qualification from one of the modern music institutions. With the help of Paluskar’s student Vinayakrao Patwardhan and Bhatkhande’s disciple S. N. Ratanjankar, he developed an elaborate audition and selection system, whereby musicians were graded as A, B or C on the basis of a brief performance and their knowledge of music theory. Only some of the most famous musicians, both Muslims and Hindus, did not have to go through this. As a matter of fact, in congruence with their overall civilizing mission, the British had partially established AIR in 1936 to cultivate good taste among Indian audiences and the efforts of Keskar, Patwardhan and Ratanjankar undeniably should be seen as a continuation of this moral ideology. Although many ustads obviously made their way into AIR, the point is that in result they had to adapt themselves to the changing times. Among other things, they had to perform in a disciplined manner in a recording studio and to some extent adept their ways of music making to those propagated by Hindu music reformers. While ustads were thus more or less marginalized at Lucknow’s Marris College, All India Radio and Paluskar’s schools, they were completely discarded at Benares Hindu University (BHU), although this was to be expected, of course, because this institution, formerly known as Central Hindu College, had been a centre for the dissemination of Hindu nationalist ideas since its foundation in 1916. The Theosophist Annie Besant, who actually was the President of Indian National Congress in 1917–1918, had established Central Hindu College in 1898, and for a long time it was closely linked with the Theosophical movement. As is commonly known, Theosophists generally played an important role in the making of Indian nationalism, especially because they propagated the ‘spirituality’ of the Hindu (and Buddhist) traditions as superior to Western ‘materialistic’ civilization (van der Linden 2013: 16, 18–20). BHU’s College of Music and Arts was founded in 1950, and headed until 1957 by Paluskar’s disciple Omkarnath Thakur (1897–1967). Besides being an influential teacher (earlier at the Gandharva Mahavidyala in Lahore and his own music school in Bombay), the latter was a celebrated singer and performed widely in India and Europe. As a steadfast Hindu nationalist, however, he urged his Indian audiences to shout ‘Jai Shri Ram’ (Victory to Lord Rama) after his recitals (Dasgupta 2006: 3862). Thakur generally scorned the work of Bhatkhande, and his system of raga classification in particular. Hence, between 1938 and 1963, he himself published six influential textbooks titled Sangitanjali, which dealt with the theory and practice of ragas. On the whole, Thakur believed in a golden age of ‘Hindu music’ and propagated that Hindustani music practice had to reflect the ancient Sanskrit music treatises. His student Prem Lata Sharma, who from 1966 onward led India’s first Department of Musicology at BHU, did the same (Powers

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1992: 19, 49). That said, like Paluskar, Thakur continued to teach and sing compositions of Muslim hereditary musicians (Dasgupta 2006: 3862). To different degrees, the Marris College, Paluskar’s schools, BHU and other modern music institutions aired a ‘Hindu cultural sphere’ (see about BHU, Slawek 2007: 507). Almost all students and, eventually, teachers were Hindus and, over time, these institutes also delivered an ever-growing number of Hindu professional musicians, teachers and informed listeners, of whom many were women. Indeed, in contrast to what has been repeatedly argued (Bakhle 2005: 253; Neuman 2014: 288; Slawek 2007: 508), institutional music education was successful in producing Hindu professional musicians. A number of Paluskar’s students became celebrated singers, including his own son Dattatreya Vishnu Paluskar, Vinayakrao Patwardhan, Omkarnath Thakur, Narayanrao Vyas and B. R. Dheodar. Likewise, under the principalship of S. N. Ratanjankar between 1928 and 1957, Marris College produced Balasaheb Poochwale, D.  T. Joshi, Chinmoy Lahiri, Dinkar Kaikini, Sumati Mutatkar, V. G. Jog, K. G. Ginde and S. C. R. Bhat. Some may argue that these musicians do not belong to the very best performing artists and that those who do, on the contrary, were trained in the long term personal teacher–disciple relationship, known as ustad-shagird or guru-shishya, away from modern institutions. Yet, it simultaneously should be emphasized that, in the twentieth century and especially since Indian Independence, it became increasingly difficult to learn in this traditional way and that only a few of those who did eventually also succeeded as concert musicians. To a great extent, therefore, post-1947 references to the traditional teacher-disciple relationship belong to the realm of ‘romantic’ recollection. Moreover, the comparison remains generally out of place because, as in the instance of Western conservatories, institutional music education in India only aims to provide the basis for further musical development. Regardless, in the context of processes of modernization and state formation, Hindustani music making was professionalized during the twentieth century, and to a great extent equally so within the traditional way of learning and performing. This especially because Bhatkhande and Paluskar, and their disciples in particular, created a network that led to a remarkable historical continuity in music institutions, a canon of compositions, teaching methods and so on. The curriculum developed by Bhatkhande and Ratanjankar was adopted by all the universities with Hindustani music departments and at numerous music colleges and schools. Truly, there is no doubt that through his writings, system of raga classification and music notation system, which generally replaced all other existing systems, Bhatkhande had a definite influence on modern Hindustani music teaching and practice. As emphasized by Daniel Neuman, although ustads generally ‘would be loath to acknowledge much of anything from Bhatkhande’, they nonetheless occasionally appeal to him as an authority ‘when they feel the need to look learned or corroborate a claim’ (Neuman 2014: 289; cf. Dasgupta 2006: 3862). In addition, among other things, music recordings, radio performances, the modern concert format and music tours to the West, led to greater professionalization and standardization in Hindustani music. Conversely, the ‘Hinduization’ of the oldest extant festival of Hindustani music in India, the Harballabh Festival (since 1875) in Jallandhar, Punjab, may be

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mentioned in relation to the marginalization of Muslim musicians. The festival’s origins are associated with the death of Swami Harballabh, whose guru had taken over the site, which originally was a Muslim Sufi shrine. Although it is not clear whether the festival was merely a continuation of the earlier celebrations of the Sufi saint, the majority of the performing musicians initially were Muslims. Yet, partially due to Paluskar’s involvement during the beginning of the last century, what originally was a music fair and an impromptu gathering changed into a modern annual music conference and concert event with admission charges. In addition, Paluskar himself not only popularized the khayal singing style over that of dhrupad, which originally was the dominant genre at Harballabh, but generally also made it into a festival of Hindu devotional songs (bhajans), with his own disciples, among whom Omkarnath Thakur, Vinayakrao Patwardhan and Narayanrao Vyas, as main performers over time (Kapuria 2018: 27). Needless to say, fewer Muslim and Sikh musicians and audiences attended the festival over time, and especially so since Indian Independence. Yet, as I already remarked, many Hindu musicians, including most of those mentioned so far, continued to study with Muslim musicians, although often only temporarily. While in this way musical knowledge from different lineages more or less was maintained, one could simultaneously argue that it was partially—and, once again, largely unintendedly—‘Hinduized’, in the sense of being taken away from the ustads and appropriated into a reformist musical idiom and/or in a modern institutional setting. One most significant result of this process was the emergence of a whole new generation of ‘respectable’ female singers from a Hindu middle class, and generally upper caste, background, especially in Maharashtra. For example, two of the greatest female singers of the first half of the twentieth century, Kesarbai Kekar and Mogubai Kurdikar (the mother of the eminent singer Kishori Amonkar), studied with Alladiya Khan. Together with Hirabai Barodekar (the daughter of Abdul Karim Khan), Gangubai Hangal and others, they subsequently paved the way for Dhondutai Kulkani, Manik Bhide, Veena Sahasrabuddhe, Padmavati Shaligram, Ashwini Bhide-Deshpande and so on, away from singing at private gatherings (mehfils), as was common for women of previous generations, to public concerts. The point of course is that the great majority of the female singers, and often dancers, at these mehfils were unacceptable as role models for middle class Hindu women, because they belonged to the courtesan class and were Muslim. Thus, due to Hindu national music reforms and an overall moral ‘civilizing’ attitude among elitist Hindus, these courtesans, known as tawaifs and baijis, and indeed their male accompanists on the sarangi, of whom the great majority were Muslim too, were stigmatized and marginalized during the early twentieth century. In fact, one of the first policies of AIR after Indian Independence was to ban singers and musicians associated with courtesan culture, anyone ‘whose private life was a public scandal’ (as cited in Lelyveld 1996: 57).

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4  The ‘Secular’ Ustad in Times of Hindu Nationalist Majority Politics and Violence From the final decades of the nineteenth century onward, Hindu majority politics became progressively dominant in the North Indian public sphere in the context of processes of modern state formation. Among other things, the growing use of essentialized census categories of religious communities and the foundation of religious nationalist political parties, such as the Muslim League and Rashtriya Swayamsevek Sangh, not only led to the assertion of antagonistic Hindu and Muslim identities, but recurrently also to Hindu violence against Muslims. In fact, Muslims were confronted with the pairing of anti-Muslim chauvinism and music in society as well. Best known are the ‘music before mosque riots’, which generally occurred in the major cities after ‘the deliberate display of a musical procession, usually accompanying a Hindu festival, in front of a Muslim place of worship, causing offence and, very often, violence’ (Lynch 2012). The following commentary from The Times of India of 10 October 1924, about a riot during the celebration of the Hindu Durga Puja festival in the greater Calcutta area, is illustrative of the way in which music had attained an antagonistic kind of power. After a group of Hindus had gathered outside a mosque, one anonymous journalist wrote, ‘stone-throwing was indulged by the Mahomedans within the mosque… [and the] Hindus retaliated by playing band and music’ (as cited in Ibid., emphasis in original). Similarly, the use of music during the Ganapati festival in Maharashtra led to confrontations between Hindus and Muslims. The Hindu nationalist Bal Gangadhar Tilak (1853–1920) almost single-handedly reinvented the Ganapati festival, from a devotional one celebrated within families in honour of the popular elephant-headed god Ganesh (or Ganapati), Shiva’s son, into a political one, rejoicing Hindu nationalist glory. Music was not only central to the reinvented festival, but also included songs with anti-Muslim lyrics. One for example asked of participants: ‘What boon has Allah conferred upon you, that you have become Mussalmans today? Do not be friendly to a religion which is alien, do not give up your religion and be fallen’ (as cited in Ibid.). Another one straightforwardly asked for action: ‘Disturbances have taken place in several places, and Hindus have been beaten. Let all of us with one accord exert ourselves to demand justice’ (as cited in Ibid.). On the whole, Tilak’s Ganapati festival was a direct attack on syncretic religious practices. While Hindus earlier used to participate in Muharram celebrations, he now asked them to boycott the Muslim festival, ‘offering Ganapati as a new, and divisive, alternative’ (Ibid.). No doubt, all this changed the way in which Hindus and Muslims saw each other. In pre-colonial times, Muslims hardly worried about music near mosques and the standing of Sufism in South Asia undeniably was important here. Yet, Muslim socioreligious reformers of the Deobandi Movement (founded in 1867) and the closely related Tablighi Jama’at Movement (founded in 1926) explicitly came to denounce music and dance, as well as Muslim participation in Hindu festivals, and in doing so they too undermined syncretism in North Indian music.

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The coupling of Hindu violence and music against Muslims continues until today. Peter Manuel has described the importance of anti-Muslim songs in the Ram Janmabhoomi (literally, Ram’s birthplace) campaign. In 1992, the latter led to the demolition of the Babri Majjid (mosque built by Mughal Emperor Babar) in Ayodhya by Hindu nationalists and was followed by widespread Hindu-Muslim violence in North India (Manuel 1996: 131–133). Likewise, the tomb of the earlier mentioned Faiyaz Khan in Baroda was heavily desecrated during the Gujarat anti-­ Muslim riots of 2002. Most recently, North Indian DJs became very popular for their mixing of music and anti-Muslim/Pakistan texts, mainly from movie dialogues and political speeches. The music is often played near to Muslim neighbourhoods and mosques to hurt members of the community, and contains passages such as: [in relation to Ayodhya] ‘Child Ram, we’ll go and build the temple there itself… Scram, men of Allah! The birthplace has been surrounded. Make your mosque somewhere else, this is Ram Lalla’s establishment’ or [in relation to Pakistan] ‘The saffron flag will fly in Pakistan too, you and your father will scream the name of Ram’ (Anshuman 2018). The craze can be traced to Pankaj Kushwaj, better known as DJ Lucky, who has a channel on YouTube with over 830,000 subscribers. He took the internet by storm with millions of views, especially of his ‘Modi’ and ‘Yogi’ mixes with explicit anti-Muslim/Pakistan texts (i.e. Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Yogi Adityanath, the current Chief Minister of the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, who both are Hindu nationalists).9 In general, Hindu anti-Muslim riots were/are accompanied by rallying cries such as ‘Vande Mataram’ (Glory to the Mother[land]) and ‘Hindu Dharm ki Jai’ (Glory to the Hindu Religion). The first of these was actually sung by Paluskar and Omkarnath Thakur, amongst others, at nationalist gatherings and anti-colonial rallies, and it deserves further attention because of its controversial history as India’s ‘national song’. Originally ‘Vande Mataram’ was part of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Anandamath (1881), India’s first and celebrated, but allegedly anti-Muslim, novel. Ever since, many Muslims and ‘secular’ Indians objected to the song’s anti-Muslimness, particularly because they saw some of its verses as idolatrous in addressing Mother India as a Hindu goddess. Eventually, just the first two verses of ‘Vande Mataram’ were declared as India’s ‘national song’, distinct from the national anthem ‘Jana Gana Mana’. The remaining two verses only refer abstractly to one’s mother and motherland; they do not mention any Hindu deity by name, unlike later verses, in which comparisons are made between one’s country/ mother and the goddesses Durga and Lakshmi. From the very beginning, nonetheless, the attempt to secularize ‘Vande Mataram’ was resisted by Hindu chauvinists, especially of the Rashtriya Swayamsevek Sangh. They not only coined the slogan ‘If you want to live in this country, you will have to sing “Vande Mataram”’, but also attempted to mandate the song in public schools as a measure of loyalty to the Indian nation. Since the rise of the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Parishad (the

 ‘Modi’ mix: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTs7qb1Xfso; ‘Yogi’ mix: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-PlDCQs9jU. 9

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political party of Narendra Modi) in the 1990s, new productions of ‘Vande Mataram’ have become immensely popular. One 1998-clip sung by India’s most famous Bollywood playback singer Late Mangeshkar achieved cult success. It is rather belligerent, full of marching, horseback riding and hosting of the flag in different Indian sceneries. Most interesting are its subtitles, which describe India’s population as ‘700 million below the age of thirty!’, followed by ‘and home to 150 million peaceful Muslims’. In this way, then, Muslims are excluded from their rightful Indian citizenship and instead categorized as pacified others inhabiting the nation.10 Undeniably, this wider context of the joining up of Hindu nationalism and music influenced the way how Muslim musicians envisaged their position in society, especially in Independent India. In fact, during the 1950s and 1960s, Indian Muslims largely voted for the ‘secular’ Indian National Congress, but afterwards they did so for whichever party that appeared to cater to their interests. As a minority community that sometimes, and since the 1990s increasingly, is perceived to have religious sympathies with India’s frequent military and political enemy, Pakistan, Indian Muslims obviously could not go for confrontative politics. Unlike Hindus, moreover, they were not in the position to couple music with identity politics and this especially also because the ustads soon realized that the musical possibilities for them were even worse in Pakistan. For this reason, the famous singer Bade Ghulam Ali Khan returned to India in 1957. On the whole, the Congress party, which ruled India continually between 1947 and 1977, and for some periods thereafter, propagated secularism and harmony between Hindus and Muslims, and the idea of a syncretic Hindustani music tradition (see particularly: Manuel 1996) undoubtedly suited this context. In any case, the government supported leading Muslim musicians by sponsoring concerts, Festival of India tours abroad, scholarships, awards and so on. Over time, actually, concerts in the West became an important, if not the main, source of income for leading ustads, as well Hindu musicians, and overall this global relationship had a great impact on the Hindustani music scene. The dhrupad-­ genre, for instance, had fallen from popularity in India until Western interest from the mid-1960s onward provided support and audiences. Since the early twentieth century and over the last 50  years in particular, Hindustani music was increasingly performed in a ‘Hindu cultural sphere’, both in India and abroad. Hence, when ustads in Independent India chose to publicly invoke Hindu deities (being a devotee of Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of learning, in particular) or religious practices, as they often did when talking about the music performed, they now regularly did so on a stage ‘with the accoutrements of Hindu ritualism, such as incense holders, marigold garlands, and oil lamps’ (Bakhle 2005: 261). At present, typically, the sarod master Amjad Ali Khan welcomes his audiences with the Hindu greeting namaskar, clarifies the significance of the teacher– disciple relationship by using the Sanskrit guru-shishya instead of the Urdu ustad-shagird, and explains the alap or slow introduction to a raga as similar to

 ‘Vande Mataram’, sung by Late Mangeshkar (music: Ranjit barot/directors: Bala and Kanika), 1998: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6PHJg9D_Sk. 10

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Hindu yoga meditation. The point is that all these obligatory celebrations of a ‘Hindu cultural sphere’ acknowledge that the ustad’s ‘personal faith was a matter of no consequence’ (Subramanian 2006: 4649). On the contrary, as if the social meaning of the terms ‘Hindu’ and ‘Muslim’ had not changed since the imperial encounter, numerous Muslim musicians began to speak openly about their alleged ‘Hindu’ ancestry. Members of the Dagar family, who are leaders in the dhrupad-genre, repeatedly emphasized their Brahmanical status (Ibid.: 4650) and Aminuddin Dagar specifically described his art as ‘an offering to the feet of bhagwan [God]’ and comparing the earlier mentioned alap to ‘the ritual decoration (sringar) of a Hindu deity’s image’ (as cited in Manuel 1996: 126). Of course, syncretic remarks like this have a long history among Muslim musicians, but one cannot deny that their meaning became more politicized in modern times. In fact, Muslim musicians occasionally also adopted secular surnames, as in the case of the renowned sitar player Jamaluddin Bharatiya. Then again, even if high-profile ustads such as Ali Akbar Khan, Bismillah Khan, Vilayat Khan and Amjad Ali Khan found their way as ‘good secular Muslims’ (Subramanian 2006: 4649) to stages in India and around the world, the Indian Muslim community at large constitutes a poor, backward and relatively uneducated minority of around 200 million today. Unquestionably, other Muslim musicians not only had far less opportunities, but also more direct experiences of Hindu discrimination and oppression. I already mentioned the instances of the Muslim courtesans and sarangi players, and Max Katz recently showed how something similar happened to ustads in Lucknow (Katz 2017), yet this important topic definitely awaits further research.11

5  Conclusion This chapter underlined that the stigmatization and subsequent marginalization of the Muslim ustad has a historical genealogy that began, at least, in the late nineteenth century. It discussed how Hindu national music reforms in the context of processes of modernization and state formation led to the ‘Hinduization’ of North Indian art music and that this undermined the social position and authority of the Muslim hereditary musicians in different ways. Although this was anything but a straightforward trajectory, at least three developments were decisive. Firstly, in the wake of the work of British Orientalists like William Jones, Hindu reformers

 Actually, the relationship between Hindus and Muslims in the context of the ‘Hinduization’ of Hindustani music is to some extent comparable to what happened between Sikhs and Muslims in North India. Since its foundation by Guru Nanak (1469–1539), the Sikh tradition had a great number of Muslim musicians (rababis) performing devotional music (kirtan) from the Sikh Holy Scripture, the Guru Granth Sahib. Yet, due to the Singh Sabha socioreligious reforms that led to the ‘classicization’ of kirtan and the idea of ‘Sikhism’ at large, these rababis were discarded during the early twentieth century (van der Linden 2013: Chapter 5). 11

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reclaimed a golden age of ‘Hindu music’ that had supposedly declined under Muslim rule and, moreover, prejudicially blamed the ‘illiterate’ ustads for what had happened. Secondly, as part of this very same process of reviving ‘Hindu music’, reformers of the Paluskar variety in particular pointed out the—again allegedly pre-­ Muslim—devotional function of North Indian music. Hence, musical performance, regardless of the genre (dhrupad, khayal and so on), essentially came to be understood as a form of Hindu religious practice, with students for example worshipping their teachers as spiritual gurus in a manner characteristic of bhakti (i.e. emotional devotionalism). To some extent, no doubt, European Orientalist thought, including in its Theosophical incarnation, played a role in this nationalist endeavour to recover the ‘spirituality’ of ‘Hindu music’. Thirdly, and probably most significant, Hindu national music reforms, and especially those introduced by Bhatkhande, directly challenged the ‘unscientific’ knowledge and teaching practices of the ustads. This, above all, because processes of professionalization over time generally led to standardization in the theory, performance and teaching of Hindustani music. Major results of this complex sociocultural configuration were the marginalization of Muslims in modern music institutions and the fact that Hindustani music was increasingly studied and performed in a ‘Hindu cultural sphere’, and largely so for Hindu middle class audiences. In addition, Muslims experienced a growing linking up between Hindu chauvinism and music in society and this surely also affected the lives and public appearances of the ustads. In sum, modern alterations in Hindustani music, as well as its patronage, performance context and reception, were directly connected to wider societal and intellectual transformations. Obviously, Hindu nationalist majority politics were crucial to the marginalization of the ustads in all its subtle and complex manifestations. That said, however, the latter to a great extent also was the result of an urge among Hindu national music reformers to be modern and, in result, their thinking, deliberately or not, was not only much along the lines of the British civilizing mission, but largely also alike that of many non-Western national music reformers.

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Illustration 1  Group photo of the First Music Conference after India’s Independence, 1948. Following musicians are mentioned in the text: Front row: 6. Omkarnath Thakur (vocal) 8. Kesarbai Kerkar (vocal) 9. Allauddin Khan (sarod). Second row: 7. Bismillah Khan (shehnai) 10. Ravi Shankar (sitar) 11. Ali Akbar Khan (sarod) 12. Vilayat Khan (sitar) 13. Narayanrao Vyas (vocal) 14. Vinayakrao Patwardhan (vocal) 15. Dattatreya Vishnu Paluskar (vocal). Third row: 6. B.  R. Deodhar (vocal). Source: http://www.oldindianphotos.in/2009/01/music-masters-in-1948. html (author unknown)

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Kapuria, Radha (2018). “Music and its Many Memories: Complicating 1947 for the Punjab”, in Churnjeet Mahn and Anne Murphy, eds., Partition and the Practice of Memory, New York: Palgrave Macmillan: 17-42. Katz, Max (2017). Lineages of Loss: Counternarratives of North Indian Music, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University. Kippen, James (2006). Gurudev’s Drumming Legacy: Music, Theory and Nationalism in the Mrdang aur Tabla Vadanpaddhati of Gurudev Patwardhan, Aldershot: Ashgate. Lelyveld, David (1996). “Upon the Subdominant: Administering Music on All India Radio”, in Carol A.  Breckenridge, ed., Consuming Modernity: Public Culture in Contemporary India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press: 49-65. Levin, Theodore (1996). The Hundred Thousand Fools of God: Musical Travels in Central Asia (and Queens, New York), Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Linden, Bob van der (2008). Moral Languages from Colonial Punjab: The Singh Sabha, Arya Samaj and Ahmadiyahs, New Delhi: Manohar. Linden, Bob van der (2013). Music and Empire in Britain and India: Identity, Internationalism, and Cross-Cultural Communication, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Linden, Bob van der (2015), “Non-Western National Music and Empire in Global History: Interactions, Uniformities, and Comparisons”, Journal of Global History, 10, 3: 431-456. Lynch, Julian Anthony (2012). “Music and Communal Violence in India”, Ethnomusicological Review, 17: https://ethnomusicologyreview.ucla.edu/journal/volume/17/piece/603. Manuel, Peter (1996). “Music, the Media, and Communal Relations in North India, Past and Present”, in David Ludden, ed., Contesting the Nation: Religion, Community, and the Politics of Democracy in India, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania: 119-139. Neuman, Daniel (2014). “A Tale of Two Sensibilities: Hindustani Music and its Histories”, in Jonathan McCollum and David G.  Hebert, eds., Theory and Method in Historical Ethnomusicology, Lanham: Lexington Books: 279-308. Powers, Harold (1992). “Reinterpretation of Tradition in Hindustani Music: Omkarnath Thakur contra Vishnu Narayan Bhatkhande”, in Jonathan Katz, ed., The Traditional Indian Theory and Practice of Music and Dance, Leiden: Brill: 9-51. Rees, Helen (2000). Echoes of History: Naxi Music in Modern China, New  York: Oxford University Press. Scarimbolo, Justin (2014). “Brahmins beyond Nationalism, Muslims beyond Dominance: A Hidden History of North India’s Classical Music’s Hinduization”, Unpublished PhD Dissertation: University of California, Santa Barbara. Slawek, Stephen (2007). “Review of Janaki Bakhle, Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition (2007)”, Ethnomusicology, 51, 3: 506-512. Subramanian, Lakshmi (2006). “Faith and the Musician: ‘Ustads’ in Modern India”, Economic and Political Weekly, 11, 45: 4648-4650. Trasoff, David (2010). “The All-India Conferences of 1916-1925: Cultural Transformation and Colonial Ideology”, in Joep Bor, Françoise ‘Nalini’ Delvoye, Jane Harvey and Emmie te Nijenhuis, eds., Hindustani Music: Thirteenth to Twentieth Centuries, New Delhi: Manohar: 331-356. Willard, N. Augustus (1834). “A Treatise on the Music of Hindoostan: Comprising a Detail of the Ancient Theory and Modern Practice”, in Sourindro Mohun Tagore, ed., Hindu Music from Various Authors, Calcutta: I. C. Bose & Co, 1882: i-ix, 1-122.

Part II

Music and Violence

Castrati: Child Abuse and the Search for Musical Perfection Dina Siegel

1  Introduction In the summer of 2001, human rights groups, historians and journalists urged the Vatican to apologize for the barbaric, centuries-long tradition of castrating young boys in order to preserve their ‘angelic’ voices. ‘Pope John Paul II, a singer himself, should beg forgiveness for former pontiffs who approved the mutilation of castrati singers’ (The New  York Post 17 August 2001); ‘New research suggests that the employment of castrati was tolerated by the Vatican as late as 1959, long after other states had banned it as barbaric’ (The Guardian 14 August 2001). Until the 1980s, abuse in the Catholic Church, sexual or otherwise, was kept secret, both inside the church and in society at large. Offending priests were protected by their superiors, while their victims were either blamed, disbelieved or ignored. Neutralization techniques were used to play down the scale of the phenomenon and promises were made to implement ‘healing’ policies (Robertson 2005). Accusations regarding the practice of castration were neutralized by two arguments: firstly, that the Church did not itself perform castrations; and secondly, that the practice had been abandoned long ago and there was no evidence of it in our times. Reports based on the testimonies of Dutch boys who had been castrated by the Roman Catholic Church in the 1950s (The Telegraph 19 March 2012) were parried by statements to the effect that these castrations were not for the sake of music, but as a punishment for homosexuality. Castration for the sake of music remains a marginal and understudied phenomenon in criminology. Why and by whom was the widespread practice of castrating boys to preserve their high voices—something that would now be considered as severe child abuse—tolerated in previous centuries? Who were the offenders and D. Siegel (*) Willem Pompe Institute, Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_4

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what was the role of the boys’ families and religious and musical institutions? In this chapter, I will analyze the link between music and this form of violence as well as its legitimation and criminalization throughout history from a criminological perspective. Castrati, eunuchs or evirate—these terms were used interchangeably to describe males who had been mutilated for the purpose of creating a special high voice. In France, castrati were popularly known as ‘artificial men’, ‘cripples’, ‘capons’, while the Italians used more positive terms, such as ‘musico’, ‘virtuoso’ or ‘primo uomo’. Although castrati appeared to be most common in Italy, they were admired, feared or ridiculed all over the world. The Roman Catholic Church’s refusal to allow women to sing sacred music in church choirs, based on Saint Paul’s injunction ‘mulier taceat in ecclesia’ (Let your women keep silent in the churches, for it is not permitted for them to speak—1 Corinthians, chapter 14, verse 34), created a demand for young boys with high voices. In 1625, Pope Clement VIII proclaimed that the creation of castrati for church choirs was to be considered ad honorem Dei (to the honour of God) (Rogers 1919: 414; Brodnitz 1975). Castrati sang in church choirs all over Italy until well into the twentieth century (Milner 1973; Sherr 1980). Young boys underwent painful surgery which terminated their physical masculine development, leaving their child’s soprano intact. This sound was in high demand, first for church choral music and later for opera. In opera, castrati either performed as singing angels or gods or took female roles. The most successful of them became widely adored, highly paid celebrities. The musical and social achievements of famous castrati are well documented in the literature (Bouvier 1943; Costa Clavell 1995; Giovine 1969; Toffano 1999). The fate of the less successful remains largely unknown, although historical sources claim that most of them seemed to have remained in the clergy, albeit not as singers, as they lacked the perfection required for pure and sacred music. Barbier described castrati as ‘angels for some, monsters for others’ (2001: 1)—a social phenomenon without precedent anywhere in the world. The question which runs throughout this chapter is whether parents subjected their sons to physical mutilation and suffering solely for the sake of ‘pure music’, with its intense emotional value. In some periods of history, castrati were superstars who enjoyed fame and privilege, which could explain the willingness of many poor parents to sacrifice their child’s health and masculinity. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, however, the role of the castrati was to create sacred music and scale the pinnacle of musical expression. In this context, the question is why such perfection was considered necessary and by whom. Was it the clergy, who wanted to ‘come closer to the angels’ in order to convince the public of the necessity of the Church as an institution? Or were boys castrated for the pleasure of music lovers in thrall to the idea of musical perfection? How far were people willing to go to achieve this goal? What was the significance of sacrificing sex for the sake of music and a musical career? Ethical questions regarding interference with the human body for the sake of perfection have been examined by a range of scholars (e.g. Piotrowska 2014; Rosselli 1988), but the aspect of castration as a form of child abuse has never been raised

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before. We know a great deal about the socioeconomic, musical and personal history of famous castrati, but until now there has been no criminological study on castration for music as a form of violence against children. Doing research on castrati is not an easy task, as the phenomenon appears to have become extinct long ago. The usual ethnographic research methods cannot be applied here as there is not much to observe and it is not possible to interview witnesses or persons directly involved. Research is handicapped by the fact there are no castrati left to express their emotions or share their personal story. Our knowledge of the phenomenon is based solely on written historical data and second-hand interpretations. I have focussed on various written sources, in which interpretations of emotions and symbols related to the phenomenon play an important role in revealing the socioeconomic context and the power relationship between the Church and society. When depending on second-hand information or information about historical events, music may also provide additional data. However, the only solo recordings of a castrato (Alessandro Moreschi) to have survived are of very poor quality. Within this context, combining historical, medical, sociological and musicological sources with the modern interpretation of the phenomenon in films and opera performances seems to be an appropriate methodology.

2  Castrati: A Historical Phenomenon Throughout history, castration has been performed for many different reasons: to humiliate captured enemies, for instance, or as a punishment for crimes such as rape or adultery. The Assyrian queen Semiramis is considered to have been the first ruler to castrate young boys (Scholz 2001: 70). Young prisoners of war were castrated and then sent to male brothels in Greece. Castration was also performed on slaves (Hopkins 1978: 192). Eunuchs served at Oriental courts, and as Muslim law forbids castration, these men were mostly imported from Christian countries. Castrati were perceived as men who could not be seduced sexually and castration was used to create loyal servants and ‘guardians of the bed’ whose task was to ensure that the women in the sultan’s harem remained chaste. In medieval Europe, castration was sometimes performed to treat or prevent diseases such as leprosy, epilepsy, gout and hernia (Barbier 2001: 8). Castration was also a part of ecstatic rituals in the ancient cult of Attis and a Phrygian goddess, ‘Great Mother’ Cybele around the sixth century B.C. Cybele’s priests (the galli) castrated themselves on the Dies Sanguinis (Day of Blood), a festival in Ancient Rome (Turcan 1996). In Dionysian cults, castration was sometimes performed by the maenads, the female followers of Dionysus, who tore apart the bodies of animals and men (Tulpe and Torchinov 2000). Cults involving ritual castration were popular in the ancient world, especially in the Middle East. The essence of these rituals was the glorification of suffering and death (Tortchinov 1998).

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Castration also has a long tradition in Asia. During the Shang Dynasty in China (1765–1222 BCE), castration was used to punish prisoners of war and proclaim victory (Abbott 1999: 318), while under the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) it was a ‘shortcut to position and power’ (Tsai 1996: 1). The Ming rulers employed around one million eunuchs, many of whom rose to influential positions. At the end of the fifteenth century there were about 10,000 eunuchs in the Forbidden City and other Ming institutions. Palace eunuchs were known as huanguang, an official title introduced during the Shang dynasty. ‘Among the powerful castrati were many laudable generals and admirals, skilful diplomats and explorers, talented architects and hydraulic engineers, noteworthy financiers and exemplary administrators’ (idem: 7). In early Christian sources, the eunuch was portrayed as a symbol of extreme chastity, which emphasized the contrast between Christians and pagans (Caner 1997: 399). The New Testament passage of Matthew, 19:12, ‘There are eunuchs, that were so born from their mothers’ womb; and there are eunuchs, that were made so by men; and there are eunuchs that have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’ was interpreted in such a way that some Christians, such as the prominent early theologian Origen (c. 185–254) castrated themselves ‘for the kingdom of heaven’ (idem: 404). Self-castration was, however, condemned by the Council of Nicaea (ca. 325) and Origen and Leonce of Antioch were openly persecuted by the Church. Some Gnostic sects, such as the Valentinian movement, founded in the second century A.D., viewed castration as a remedy for sin (Piotrowska 2014: 127), as righteous punishment, ‘a legitimate and even logical anatomical extension of the biblical injunction “If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away”’ (Berry 2011: 18). In medieval Europe it was a punishment for seducing women. Though asceticism and sexual celibacy in early Christianity led to castration (or self-castration), various forms of the Castrati sects around the world were considered dangerous and heretical by the Church. In Russia, the leader of the Skoptzy sect saw the castration of men (and mastectomy for women) as an expression of sexual chastity (Engelstein 1997: 2). In 1807, the Holy Synod of the Orthodox Church proclaimed that the castrati sects were a blasphemous heresy, and in 1835 the Senate condemned them as ‘enemies of humankind, destroyers of morality, criminals’ (Varadinov 1863: 84). The publication of Cesare Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene in 1764 sparked widespread public condemnation of the practice of castration. In line with the spirit of the Enlightenment, the people blamed the clergy. In the 1780s, the Bolognese marquis Francesco Capacelli denounced castrati, whom he described as ‘these wretched victims’, in a liberal cry against cruelty and barbarity (Feldman 2016). Napoleon was also a fierce opponent of castration and even suggested executing anyone who castrated young boys. Despite such protestations, castration continued to be used as a form of punishment. In 1778, Thomas Jefferson issued a law in Virginia that included castration as punishment for sodomy, polygamy or rape. Up until the twentieth century, castration was used as a punishment for rape, paedophilia and homosexuality in Germany,

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the Netherlands and the Baltic countries. In the Netherlands in the 1950s a number of boys were castrated in Catholic institutions as a punishment for alleged homosexuality (Reinders 2012: 14, 15). Paradoxically, whereas the castration of boys used to be a popular and accepted phenomenon in the past, it is now used as a punishment for child abuse. Paedophiles and child rapists in Russia, Argentina, Poland, Turkey, South Korea, Indonesia and eight US states are punished by chemical castration. In 1997, George Bush signed a law permitting chemical or surgical castration as a punishment for sex crimes. The public debate on the use of castration to reduce recidivism in sexual offenders is an issue in many European countries. In UK prisons, paedophiles can volunteer to be castrated as part of their treatment. Castration is still regularly performed for medical reasons, for example, to treat prostate cancer.

3  Castrati in Music: Operation and Education Records reveal that boys were castrated to preserve their voices in the Byzantine Empire, especially in Constantinople, where eunuchs sang in the churches. The Greek castrato Manuel even went to Russia, where he founded a choir school in the city of Smolensk (Barbier 2001: 8). Eunuchs played important roles in Byzantium and enjoyed great respect. According to some authors this could explain why they sang psalms in Church, as their chanting was believed to emanate directly from God and the angels (Moran 2002: 102). In the twelfth century, castrati were not only performing in the Orthodox Church, but in all oriental Catholic churches, especially under the Eastern Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch (Mamy 1998: 14). In China, some young men volunteered to undergo castration, even though it was a risky operation. ‘Before the specialist performed the operation, he ritually asked the young volunteer if he would regret it or not. If the answer was negative and firm, the specialist would immediately flash his blade and, in a few minutes, the castration was completed’ (Tsai 1996: 4). According to some researchers, the technique of surgical castration was introduced to Europe sometime in the 1540s or 1550s, possibly under Moorish or Muslim influence (Sherr 1980: 46). In Italy, castration was performed everywhere. Although these operations were carried out in secret, as they were forbidden under canon law, several travellers reported seeing advertisements for castration, such as ‘aqui si castrano ragazzi a uno prezzo benevole’ in various Italian cities, even though others denied seeing any such signs (Reinders 2012; Barbier 2001). Because of the ‘omerta’ surrounding castration, no recorded data are available on the number of castrations performed or the number of deaths as a result of the operation. The Kingdom of Naples is often mentioned in the literature as the centre for castrati, but according to some authors this was never the case, as castrati were spread all over Italy (Rosselli 1988: 156; Barbier 2001; Koutsiaris et  al. 2014). Bologna, Lecce and Norcia became centres for castration and their surgeons were

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well-known around Europe (Koutsiaris et  al. 2014: 108). Norcia, a little town in Umbria, is also frequently mentioned in the literature. ‘So-called “Norcinis”, who were virtually unskilled village “quacks” specializing in castration, practiced this procedure’ (Hatzinger et al. 2012: 2233). Sometimes, the ‘surgeons’ were unskilled barbers who performed the operation in primitive conditions without any disinfectant, using instruments called castratori. This is said to have caused many deaths either during or after the operation (ibid). According to Rosselli, however, the operation was a routine procedure that did not lead to any fatalities (Rosselli 1988: 152). It was performed with little or no anaesthesia (Giles 1982: 75), but drinks containing opium, icy baths or compression of the arteries were used to alleviate the pain. There are no detailed documents describing the operation and its consequences dating from the seventeenth and eighteenth century. According to some estimates, approximately 4000 boys were castrated annually at the height of the trend’s popularity in the eighteenth century (Pleasants 1981: 38). The most commonly used technique was ‘to sever the spermatic cords, so that the testes simply atrophied, or to crush the testes with the fingers… Later, in 1910, the Italian surgeon Napoleone Burdizzo invented a clamp, consisting of a pair of pincers with a strong compound leverage action to crush the spermatic cord’ (Koutsiaris et al. 2014: 108). It was important to perform castration between the ages of seven and ten, before the boy’s voice could start breaking and becoming deeper. In the pre-pubertal period, ‘removal of the testes results in the absence of male-type growth of the larynx’ (Jenkins 1998: 1877). The effect was that castrati sang with ‘the lung power of an adult and the larynx of a child’ (Brodnitz 1975: 292). However, because the larynx stopped growing and important hormones were not produced, many castrati grew very tall, with long arms and legs, a rounded chest, infantile penis and diminished libido. There is an abundance of caricatures depicting castrati as being gigantic, crippled, exaggeratedly fat or otherwise out of proportion. After the operation and a period of convalescence, the young castrato underwent intensive training that included vocal and breathing exercises. During the sixteenth century, conservatoria, a kind of ‘orphanage’ financed by wealthy benefactors, where poor children and foundlings could receive shelter and an education, were established in Italy, in particular in Naples, Venice and Bologna. Naples alone had four large conservatoria: Sant Onofrio, Pietà dei Turchini and Santa Maria di Loreto, which were financed by the nobles and I poveri de Gesu Cristo, subsidized by the Archbishop (Reinders 2012). Their curriculum included music and famous teachers, including Tosi and Pistocchi in Bologna and Porpora in Venice and Naples, taught boys, some of whom, such as Farinelli and Caffarelli, would go on to become ‘superstar’ castrati. In 1807, the conservatoria were closed by Joseph Bonaparte. In Naples, they were replaced by the Collegio di San Petro Majella, a music institute which is still open to this day (idem: 144). Castrati attending these conservatoria lived an isolated life in a group of other castrated boys. Although they were subject to strict rules and discipline, they were allowed some comfort and privileges, such as extra food and heating, to keep them healthy.

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Very few of the thousands of boys who were trained at the conservatoria became opera singers (Koutsiaris et al. 2014: 109). It was a ‘lottery from which very few emerged victorious’ (Barbier 2001: 29).

4  Motives for Castration for Music There is no consensus about the prevailing motives that persuaded boys or their parents to sacrifice their masculinity for a singing career. Although many individual stories reveal a combination of aspects that prompted this painful decision, it is possible to distinguish three main reasons. The most commonly assumed explanation is economic necessity. Rosselli studied notarial contracts found in official archives between parents and Italian music teachers, agreeing to payment terms which included ‘a condition that the boy should be castrated’ (1988: 152). In other sources, castration is referred to as a guarantee of economic stability, a strategy to ensure a family’s future. In times of financial difficulty many parents chose to send a son into the clergy. The Church provided security for impoverished families (mainly peasants) in the form of food, lodging and musical training, first in Spain and Portugal and later in southern Italy. In return, these families agreed to allow one of their (often numerous) sons to be castrated (Brodnitz 1975). Whether these parents decided to castrate their sons for the sake of a musical career or were only trying to secure an income and a comfortable life for them is a matter of speculation. Not many of these children developed voices that were good enough for the church choirs (ibid). Boys who were not talented enough to become singers usually became priests (Peschel and Peschel 1992: 24) or were sent to a remote church where their lack of talent would not be noticed. Some authors claim that the church simply washed their hands of these boys, abandoning them to a life of prostitution or begging (Ginsburgh and Leruth 2017: 8). There is no historical evidence, however, that this was indeed the case. Economic motives as the main factor in the practice of castration become more plausible when we examine the reasons for its decline: as the agricultural areas in the south of Italy became more developed and wages rose in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, poor farmers no longer felt the need to subject their sons to castration. Another possible motive was not strictly economic, but had to do with the pursuit of fame. The families of castrated boys may have hoped that their child would grow up to become a rich and famous singer who would perform at royal courts and the Vatican and reap admiration throughout Europe. In this context, Barbier raises the following pertinent question: ‘How could a father fail to be influenced when he saw the excited public literally assail the doors of the church where Loretto Vittori, one of the earliest sacred monsters, was singing?’ (Barbier 2001: 20). Boys from poor families were castrated with their parents’ permission (or on their insistence) in the hope that the family would also benefit from the wealth and fame that they would acquire in the future (Jenkins 1998: 1879). In reality, only a few of these boys ever

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made it as far as the great opera houses: many ended up singing in ordinary church choirs and ‘there were probably many whose mutilation was to no purpose’ (ibid). The idea that parents were willing to mutilate their sons to make them superstars is therefore not convincing, as only a few castrati made it to the top, while the rest spent their lives as priests or marginal choir singers. One counterargument against the idea that castration for music was born solely of economic need is strengthened by the individual cases of some of the most famous castrati. Farinelli, for instance, came from a noble family, his father had been the governor of Maratea and Cisternino at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Several other castrati came from musical families: Pistocchi’s father was a violinist in the Bologna cathedral, Marchesi’s father was a trumpeter and Aprile’s father was a church singer and a notary. Luigi Marchesi insisted on being castrated, against his father’s wishes, because he had developed a passion for music (Barbier 2001: 25). Other castrati came from ‘bourgeois’ families of traders and merchants (Rosselli 1988: 156). Castration for music may also be explained by religious motives. The role of the Church in this regard is both significant and ambiguous, as will be shown later. In the twelfth century, Theophylactus of Ohrid wrote that castration could be compared to the ‘pruning of the growing vine’ and that it was in no way an offence against God (Moran 2002: 100). Parents were told that their son had a unique, unearthly voice, a sign of the connection between God and humanity, and that it was his duty to use this special gift ad honorem Dei. Castrated boys entered conservatoria as if they were going through a rite de passage into the religious life: ‘the music he was going to study would be a vocation entirely dedicated to the glory of God’ (Barbier 2001: 41). When the maestro di musica (the choir master or the church organist) noticed special musical abilities in a boy, it usually didn’t take much to convince his family—most often his father—of the benefits of castration for both the boy and his family. In some cases, boys were approached personally, and played an important role in the negotiations with their parents. Most parents did not want to admit that they had consented to have this operation performed on their sons. ‘This was a further form of hypocrisy in a world that sought and lived with castration without wishing to take total responsibility for it’ (Barbier 2001: 25). The religious motive could assuage guilty consciences and enable parents to rest assured that their castrated child was singing for the glory of God. Castrated boys dressed as cherubines would often sing at funerals, especially if the deceased was a child. The intended effect was to create a divinely pure and harmonious sound that evoked associations with angels. The religious motive is closely connected to the principle of sacrifice. Denying a child the possibility to live a normal sexual life for the sake of liturgical music is what Feldman called an ‘indirect symbolic imitation of Christ’s passion’ (Feldman 2016: 7). Castration was often presented as a sacred donation to God and the Church. This argument neutralized canonical prohibitions, which only permitted castration if it was a medical necessity. ‘In Italy then, a critical context for ritualizing the bloodshed of humans as a form of sacrifice was the passion of Christ, which human bloodshed symbolically imitated’ (idem: xiv). Bloodshed is a sacred symbol in

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Christianity, whereby blood has both positive and negative connotations: as a reminder of salvation on the one hand, and of the terrible suffering of the crucifixion on the other (idem: xiii). The idea of sacrifice did not stop with the operation. Following their castration, the boys were subjected to other severe trials. Castrated boys were often isolated from their families. In Italy they were sponsored by the Church, patrons or teachers of a conservatory, who drew up contracts that gave them legal guardianship of the boys (Feldman 2016: 28). Feldman describes in detail how the ritual of sacrifice continued after their castration: ‘A boy who entered the Conservatorio della Pietà dei Turchini, for example, was subjected to an intense entry ritual. It began with confession followed by communion, during which he knelt at the altar beside the rector while carrying over his arm a cassock and surplice, which were later to become his permanent garments. Alongside the other boys there was a short prayer, a blessing of his clothes, and a Veni creator spiritus chanted. Like all sacrificial sequences, these ritual elements prepared the initiate for his transformation as a sacrificial victim by stripping him of his former identity’ (idem: 28).

5  The Demand for Castrati There has been a lot of speculation about why castrati were in such high demand in previous centuries. One answer lies in the value of the soprano voice, which is associated with youth, purity and even superiority. ‘“Soprano” means “higher”, a notion not taken lightly by a society that was at once intensely hierarchical-minded and accustomed to displaying hierarchical order in forms readily perceived by the senses’ (Rosselli 1988: 148). A higher voice meant a higher salary. There was also another aspect to the growing demand for castrato voices, as ‘a response to the changing style of secular music with its increased emphasis on the solo singer’ (Sherr 1980: 46), not only in opera but also in oratoria and cantata, which demanded a high level of professionalism. Due to their long, intense training, castrati were consummate professionals who were able to sing the most difficult virtuoso arias. The Church’s motives for requiring castrati differed from those of the opera houses and noble courts: castration was justified by the former in order to create a divine voice in the service of God, while the latter institutions were driven by a desire for virtuosity and excellence.

5.1  The Position of the Church The earliest depiction of what seems to be a castrato appears on page 142 of the tenth-century menologion of Basil II (Vatican Library, cod. Gr. 1613), where beardless singers are shown taking part in a procession. From this we may infer that castrati were depicted in manuscript illustrations (Moran 2002: 100). In 1589, Pope

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Sixtus V authorized the recruitment of castrati for the Cappella Giulia in an official document (Rosselli 1988: 146), even though he had issued a dictate prohibiting castration and forbidding eunuchs to marry only 2 years earlier. This prohibition, however, applied as state law (Roman law), but did not extend to ecclesiastical law (Rosselli 1988: 151). Pope Clement VIII (1592–1605) had all soprano falsettos replaced by castrati, as the falsetto voice was considered ‘artificial’ in comparison to the ‘natural’ voice of a castrato. The first Pope to distance himself from castration was Benedict XIV (1740–1758), who considered castrated boys as victims of ‘an unnatural crime’ (Barbier 2001: 124). Despite this, he did not introduce any laws against castration (in 1748 he prohibited amputating body parts for any other than medical reasons, but did not explicitly mention castration). It was Pope Clement XIV (1769–1775) who officially prohibited castration to produce singers. However, he did not ban castrati from his chapel, neither did he close the conservatoria that trained them. It was not until 1902 that Pope Leo XIII allegedly banished castrati from the Sistine Chapel. The Church’s position was ‘absurdly inconsistent and unreasonable…: anyone known to have been connected with such an operation was punishable with excommunication, yet, no attempt was made to discourage the use of evrati’ (Heriot 1975: 25). The greatest hypocrisy was that the Church required that castration be performed with the child’s consent and only if it was medically necessary in order to save the child’s life. Consequently, there seem to have been huge numbers of boys around the age of ten requiring urgent surgery after being bitten by wild beasts or involved in some other kind of ‘accident’. According to Rosselli, by the mid nineteenth century, ‘the surviving castrati of the Sistine Chapel had apparently all fallen victim to pigs’ (1988: 135). Although there may have been valid medical reasons for castration in some cases, such as tuberculosis of the testicles or trauma, ‘it is obvious that most if not all of the medical reasons that castrati and their families used were merely stories fabricated to save face and/or to save them from the threat of excommunication’ (Peschel and Peschel 1992: 24). Canon law forbade bodily mutilation unless it was a medical necessity. The Church, however, had developed a taste for high male voices to praise God, in part due to the development of polyphonic music, which required voices in the higher register. It was therefore necessary to rationalize the existence of castrati (Feldman 2016: xiii). The Church tolerated and even encouraged castration on the premise that the sound produced by castrati honoured God (Jenkins 1998: 1878). The prevailing opinion is that the use of castrati in music was an Italian invention, but the fact is that these singers usually came to Italy from other countries, in particular Spain, France and Flanders (Sherr 1980: 40). Although castrati had lived in Spain and Portugal for many generations, they only arrived in Italy in the second half of the sixteenth century. In all these countries they occupied well-paid positions at court and in the church and were widely admired in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. ‘The Spanish castrati, it seems, used their position in the chapel to acquire benefices in Spain on which to retire, and so would serve the chapel only as long as

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their voices lasted, then returning to Spain. The Italians, on the other hand, stayed on long after they had lost their voices, and were even forced to hire substitutes to sing for them on occasion’ (Sherr 1980: 44, footnote 20). In 1599, two young castrati, Pietro Folignato and Girolamo Rossini, were the first castrati to sing in the Sistine Chapel Choir (Heriot 1975). Castrati sang in Rome’s Sistine Chapel until the end of the nineteenth century, when Leo XIII officially condemned their employment in the Vatican (Brodnitz 1975: 291). The last famous castrato singer was perhaps Alessandro Moreschi, ‘L’Angelo di Roma’, who performed in all the churches of Rome and in many other Italian and European cities. He was also musical director of the Sistine Choir in the 1900s, despite criticism from some Vatican officials.

5.2  The Popularity of Opera While the Church justified the use of castrati for ‘divine purposes’, it was the rise of opera, especially in Italy, with its special effects, sensational plots and virtuoso performances, that created demand for the almost unearthly voice of the castrato (Jenkins 1998: 1878). In the eighteenth century, it is estimated that more than 70% of male opera singers in Italy were castrati (Heriot 1975: 31). Italy developed as a cultural centre of opera and theatre, and no Italian city neglected to devote resources to art and music in order to manifest the wealth and influence of its ruling families (Barbier 2001: 65). The opera house was the place to ‘see and be seen’: it was a place to socialize, visit other music lovers in their boxes, exchange gossip and even to eat, drink and play cards. There was only silence when a famous aria or ballet was performed, followed by loud, enthusiastic applause and jubilation. Many seventeenth and eighteenth century operas included arias for castrati. The male roles in Monteverdi’s Incoronazeione di Poppea were sung by castrati, Gluck composed his opera Orfeo for a castrato, and Mozart’s Idomeneo contains parts for castrato, as do operas by Scarlatti, Handel and Hasse. Castrati were often cast as mythical figures, and the ‘role of the heroic, martial, larger-than-­ life character in baroque opera was almost always cast with a castrato’ (DeMarco 2002: 174). Castrati were popular in Italy, Germany, Austria, Spain and Russia, in fact any country where Italian opera was admired (Peschel and Peschel 1992: 23). Castrati usually sang the role of gods, saints or women. The primo uomo was similar to the prima donna, and the leading role in an opera was sung by a castrato. The emphasis lay on the purity of his voice and his virtuoso technique. Although there was not one single castrato voice (their voices varied from soprano to contralto), the audience admired their virtuoso singing in the upper registers. Virtuosismo was the core of baroque art, characterized by ‘nightingale-like’ clarity, extremely long passages and rhythmic trills (in a single breath). All this vocal ornamentation, emotional power and rich imagination was a form of ‘vocal exhibition’ (Barbier 2001: 99). When describing the singing of the castrato Francischello, Alessandro Scarlatti wrote that it was unbelievable that a ‘mortal could sing so divinely’ and

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wondered if it was not ‘an angel who had assumed the shape of Francischello’ (quoted in Barbier 2001: 90). This fascination with musical virtuosity in seventeenth and eighteenth century Europe extended beyond singing. But whereas castrati’s singing was considered angelic, other virtuoso musicians were feared for possessing satanic powers. Niccolò Paganini’s virtuosity drove his audience into hysterics. His appearance and reputation as a seducer, gambler and murderer inspired comparisons with the devil. There were rumours that he had seduced Napoleon’s sister and been in prison for murder. ‘It was said that the fourth string on his fiddle was made from the intestine of a mistress he had killed’ (Liebrecht 1997: 33). The Bishop of Nice even refused Paganini a Christian burial, claiming that the famous musician had practiced demonism and it was 5 years before the Grand Duchess of Parma transferred his coffin from a cellar to the cemetery in his native town. Franz Liszt was called ‘the Paganini of the piano’ (Liebrecht 1997: 34). Women in the thralls of the phenomenon known as ‘Lisztomania’ would cry, tear their hair, pick up his cigar stubs and secrete them between their breasts (ibid). The same ‘demonization’ took place in the 1920s–1930s, when some jazz and blues musicians were said to have ‘sold their souls to the devil in exchange for musical virtuosity’ (Marvin 1996: 587). The audience were driven crazy by both the ‘supernatural’ music and the musicians themselves with their aura of sexual conquest. For many castrati, the opera houses must have been a much more attractive proposition than the Church: the pay was better and a career as an opera singer could pave the way to generous gifts and high distinctions. By the late seventeenth century, castrati were considered as an elite group of vocalists in Italy, England and Russia.

5.3  Noble Courts In Italy, the interest in castrati singers dates back to the 1550s, and later it became an almost exclusively Italian practice, even though the phenomenon originated in Spain, northern France and Flanders (Sherr 1980: 37, 40). These countries supplied castrati to Italy for more than a century (idem: 45). There was fierce competition between the courts of Italy, from Turin and Modena to Milan and Florence, in their search for young talented castrati who could be transformed into ‘the finest treasures of their bedchamber or their chapel’ (Barbier 2001: 29, 30). Foreign courts in Bavaria, Saxony and Russia regularly recruited castrati singers from Italy. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, castrati were singing in Wurttemberg, Vienna and Dresden (Rosselli 1988: 147). There was a clandestine trade through brokers, who searched for young talent, promising them and their families huge amounts of money if they were prepared to leave Italy and travel abroad with them. Noble courts used castrati earlier than the church. Sherr refers to documents about Guglielmo Gonzaga, the third Duke of Mantua (1550–1587), who looked for castrati, seeking to be entertained by their ‘high virtuoso solo voices’, not for the

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purpose of sacred music, but as a matter of fashion, following the increasing emphasis on solo singers (ibid: 46). Even earlier, the duke of Ferrara had hired two Spanish castrati to sing in his chapel in the 1550s (Rosselli 1988: 146). Some castrati also functioned as doctors, or psychotherapists, using their voice for therapeutic effect. Brodintz recalls a story which strongly resembles the biblical tale of David playing the harp for King Saul, in which the extremely popular opera singer Farinelli (Carlo Broschi), was summoned to Madrid to treat Philip V of Spain, who was suffering from melancholia (or perhaps schizophrenia). Farinelli remained at the royal court for 20 years, singing opera arias exclusively for the king, who claimed that his music had a calming effect on his mind (Brodnitz 1975: 295). Although this image of a divine angel contrasts sharply against the image of the castrato as a ‘diva’ or ‘superstar’ in opera houses and royal courts, it does not contradict the fact that ‘the ideal voice’ was in demand by all institutions, which emphasized ‘a lustrous surface, potentially powerful, potentially majestic, potentially brilliant, potentially silvery or metallic, potentially liquid, yet never necessarily any and certainly not all of those things’ (Feldman 2016: xxi).

6  Conclusion: Child Abuse and Child Trafficking? In Gerard Corbiau’s 1994 film of the same name, the famous castrato Farinelli is a romantic victim who is ‘created’ and misled by his brother, a manipulative figure who used Farinelli to further his own musical and sexual ambitions. This seems a very modern take on the situation, which unfolded within a completely different context, in which sex and eroticism were mysterious, shameful and secret. In the film, Farinelli is presented as a human being with emotions and sentiments, but this is not how castrati were always perceived in the past. They were seen as strange beings, angels or monsters, half-man, half-woman, half-god, but never simply as human beings of flesh and blood. Parents who took the decision to castrate their child for a singing career either sold him to a teacher (or mediator), who took further care of his training, or were paid by the conservatoria into which their son had been accepted. In some cases, parents invested their own money to have the castration performed to ensure their entitlement to a share of their child’s future earnings (Heriot 1975: 38) or a slice of their fame and fortune if they became a famous opera singer. Today selling a child would be considered a severe violation of his or her rights, or as human trafficking. As castration also involved physical violence it would now be seen as an extremely serious criminal offence. The victimization of these boys did not end with their castration. The stereotype of the castrato as an ‘immoral creature’, trouble-maker, impotent but with sexual appetite, meant further victimization. Not only had they been physically abused by their fathers (or brother, as in Farinelli’s case), but after the operation they were also psychologically abused, and kept isolated and excluded from society. Castrati were both ridiculed, (called cappone (capon), castrone (gelding), coglione (testicle and

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fool) or ‘singing elephants’) and pitied, as their ‘humanity’ had been violated (Piotrowska 2014: 133). They were seen as an embarrassment and a deep shame (Rosselli 1988: 143). They were also accused of debauchery and lechery, as they were considered unable to form a family (ibid), and, what was even worse in the previous centuries, to become fathers (Finucci 2003). Belonging to neither gender group, they were either feared or mocked. Most of the hostility towards castrati came from critics and satirists: opera lovers, on the contrary, were fascinated by them. For example, admirers of Farinelli from all over Europe wrote poems in his praise (both private and published) (Cervantes 1998: 11). For many generations, there were people, mainly intellectuals, who called for an end to the practice of castration for singing. ‘I long ago gave up these miserable performances (of castrati) which today constitute the glory of Italy and are paid so dearly by sovereigns’ (Voltaire, Candide, quoted in Barbier 2001: 224). According to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, ‘If it is possible, let us allow the voice of shame and humanity to be heard, the voice that cries out against this infamous custom’ (Rousseau, Dictionnaires de Musique/Castrato). He further attacked castrati as monsters, evil, the worst possible men. Most of this opposition came from France, where castration was considered shocking and unacceptable, ‘…the vocal results, with a few exceptions, left the listener unmoved or made them laugh’ (Barbier 2001: 186). The French extended this negative attitude towards castrati, who represented Italian opera, to everything to do with Italian music, which was different from the French style of opera. Critics denounced the castrati’s unnatural voices, cruel parents and ‘eunuch Italian society’ in general. They demanded morality and condemned castration. Intellectual disputes took place in France throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even though people who publicly opposed castration were sometimes involved in the shady business of bringing castrati to the courts of Louis XIII, Louis XIV and Louis XV, all of whom hosted famous singers and paid huge amounts of money to hear them sing (idem: 200, 201). In this, the hypocrisy of the French court was similar to that of the Vatican, which condemned and forbade castration in public, while tolerating the practice for centuries. One can say that the creation of castrati as ‘artificial’ human beings by parents, priests, physicians, teachers and benefactors deprived these boys of the opportunity to choose their own lifestyle and career. This argument, however, is based on the modern assumption that human beings are entitled to sexual fulfilment. In the early seventeenth century, the renunciation of sexual life was an ideal course and celibacy was ‘a means to birth control’ (Rosselli 1988: 150) and a widely accepted idea. The phenomenon of castrati became obsolete as a result of changing socio-­ cultural norms and values and musical preferences. Italy’s changing social context, which saw smaller families, an economic revival around the 1730s, and the gradual decline of Christian asceticism led to the decline of the phenomenon. This does not mean, however, that castrati disappeared altogether. Although castration for music was considered a barbarous custom by the nineteenth century, hundreds of music lovers continued to flock to the Sistine Chapel to hear the famous choir, which included castrati.

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In the twentieth century castrati became a taboo. It is generally accepted that the last castrato was Alessandro Moreschi, but in 2001, historians voiced suspicions that Domenico Mancini, a student of Moreschi and probably also a castrato, had performed in the Vatican as late as 1959. A newspaper article with the headline ‘Pope urged to apologize for Vatican castration’ (The Guardian 14 August 2001) mentioned the call for a papal apology due to revelations that the Vatican had encouraged the castration of choirboys, despite officially condemning the practice. This adds another example to the list of child abuse scandals that have hit the Roman Catholic Church in the past few decades, all of which were covered up, with the complicity of recent popes. In our time, the revived interest in baroque music of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is accompanied by a desire to reproduce the sound of the castrato. According to critics, modern countertenors cannot fully achieve the quality of the eighteenth century castrati. However, it seems that there is renewed interest in half male-half female voices. Famous singers like the Greek Aris Christofellis, the Chilean Rodrigo de Pozo and the Moldovan Radu Marian have been compared with the castrati of the previous centuries due to their powerful performances of baroque, Renaissance and church music. Some authors still argue, however, that contemporary singers with exceptionally high registers as the result of a natural anomaly cannot be equated to castrati, as they did not undergo the same intense training as their predecessors (Barbier 2001: 241). The rise and fall of castrati in Europe remains one of the mysteries of human behaviour, especially as it links crime and music. What can criminologists learn from this episode in human history? In what way does the phenomenon of castrati singers contribute to our understanding of crime? Castration for music was an example of the hypocrisy of the Roman Catholic Church, which condemned the phenomenon, while doing everything it could to keep the tradition alive for generations for the sake of creating ‘divine music’. Like sexual abuse, homosexuality, misogyny and paedophilia, the castration of young boys was clouded in secrecy and covered up by the clergy. Recent revelations about the Catholic Church have opened a Pandora’s Box that has released a multitude of sins, one of which is the almost forgotten phenomenon of the castrati. Castration for music is not only a topic of interest for musicologists and physicians: the wide range of publications on the castrati bear evidence to a revived interest in this topic in general. Castrati are more than just one more mystery of human history and yet another example of our hypocrisy. They force us to consider how far human beings are willing to go to achieve perfection in art, music, sport. In an age when toxic substances are used to obtain sensational effects on both body and mind, castration to achieve a perfect voice is not entirely unthinkable. However, committing a violent crime against children to preserve their angelic voices remains an absolute taboo. This phenomenon, which lasted for more than three centuries, is a lesson in the flexible character of morality, the cruelty inflicted by the powerful and our ongoing fascination with both music and crime.

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References Abbott, E. (1999) A History of Celibacy. New York: Scribner Press. Barbier, P. (2001) The World of the Castrati. The History of an Extraordinary Operatic Phenomenon. London: Souvenir Press. Berry, H. (2011) The castrato and his wife. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Bouvier, R. (1943) Farinelli, le chanteur des rois. Paris: Michel. Brodnitz, F. (1975) The Age of the Castrato Voice, in: Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders 40, pp. 291-295. Caner, D. (1997) The Practice and Prohibition of Self-Castration in Early Christianity, in: Vigiliae Christianae, 15(4), pp. 396:415. Cervantes, X. (1998) “Tuneful Monsters”: The Castrati and the London Operatic Public 1667-­ 1737, in: Restoration and 18th Century Research, 13 (1), pp. 1-24. Costa Clavell, X. (1995) Farinelli, el cantante castrado. Barcelona: Ultramar. DeMarco, L. E., (2002) The Fact of the Castrato and the Myth of the Countertenor, in: The Musical Quarterly, 86 (1), pp. 174–185. Engelstein, L. (1997) From heresy to harm: Self -castrators in the civic discourse of late Tsarist Russia, in: Teruyuki, H. & M. Kimitaka (Eds.) Empire and Society. New Approaches to Russian History. Sapporo: Hokkaido University Slavic Research Center. Feldman, M. (2016) The Castrato: Reflections on Nature and Kinds. Oakland, California: University of California Press. Finucci, V. (2003) The Manly Masquerade: Masculinity, Paternity, and Castration in the Italian Renaissance. Durham & London: Duke University Press. Giles, P. (1982) The Counter Tenor. London: Frederock Muller Limited. Ginsburgh, V. & L. Leruth (2017) The Rise and Fall of Castrati. ECARES working paper 2017-15. Brussels: ECARES. Giovine, A. (1969) Il musico Gaetano Maiorano detto Caffarelli non era barese ma bitontino, Bari. Jenkins, J. (1998) The voice of the castrato, in: The Lancet, 351(9119). pp. 1877–1880 Hatzinger, M., Vöge, D., Stastny, M., Moll, F., & Sohn, M. (2012). Castrati singers—All for fame. The journal of sexual medicine, 9(9), pp. 2233-2237. Heriot, A. (1975) The Castrati in Opera. New York: De Capo Press. Hopkins, K. (1978) Conquerors and Slaves (Sociological Studies in Roman History I), Cambridge. Koutsiaris, E., C. Alamanis, A.Eftychiadis, A. Zervas (2014) Castrati singers: surgery for religion and art. In: Italian Journal of Anatomy and Embryology, vol. 119 (2), pp. 106-110. Liebrecht, N. ( 1997) Who Killed Classical Music, Secaucus,N.J.: Carol Publishing Group. Mamy, S. (1998) Les castrats, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France Marvin, T. F. (1996) Children of Legba: Musicians at the Crossroads in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, in: American Literature, 68( 3), pp. 587–608. Milner, A. (1973) The sacred capons. The musical times, 114(1561), pp. 250-252. Moran, N. (2002) Byzantine castrati, in: Plainsong and Medieval Music, 11(2), pp. 99-112. Peschel, E. & R. Peschel, 1992, Medicine and Music. The Castrati in Opera, in: Opera Quarterly, 44, pp. 21-38. Piotrowska, A. (2014) Singing Better by Sacrificing Sex, in: Eilers, M., Grüber, K., & Rehmann-­ Sutter, C. (Eds.). (2014). The human enhancement debate and disability: new bodies for a better life. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 125-143. Pleasants, H. (1981) The Great Singers: from Jenny Lind and Caruso to Callas and Pavarotti, New York: Simon and Schuster. Reinders, A. (2012) Castraten. Hun oorsprong, glorie en ondergang. Delft: Eburon. Robertson, K. R. (2005). Dark days for the Church: Canon law and the response of the Roman Catholic Church to the sex abuse scandals. Washington University Global Studies Law Review, 4, pp. 161 - 185. Rogers, F. (1919) The Male Soprano, in: The Musical Quarterly, 5, no. 3, July.

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Rosselli, J. (1988) The castrati as a professional group and a social phenomenon, 1550-1850. Acta Musicologica, 60 (Fasc. 2), pp. 143-179. Scholz, P. (2001) Eunuchs and Castrati: A Cultural History. Princeton: Markus Weiner Publishers. Sherr, R. (1980) Gugliemo Gonzaga and the castrati. Renaissance Quarterly, 33 (1), pp. 33-56. Toffano, G. (1999) Gaspare Pacchierotti (Fabriano 1740  - Padova 1821): il crepuscolo di un musico al tramonto della Serenissima, Padova: Edizioni Armelin Musica. Tortchinov, E. (1998) Cybelle, Attis, and the Mysteries of the “Suffering Gods”. A Transpersonal Interpretation, in: International Journal of Transpersonal Studies, 17 (2): 149-159. Tsai, S. (1996) The Eunuchs in the Ming Dynasty. New York: State University of New York Press. Tulpe, I. & and E. Torchinov (2000), The Castrati (“Skoptsy”) sect in Russia: History, Teaching and Religious Practice, in: The International Journal for transpersonal Studies, vol. 19, pp. 77-87. Turcan, R. (1996) The Cults of the Roman Empire. The Great Mother and her Eunuchs. Wiley-Blackwell. Varadinov, N. (1863), Iistoriya ministerstva vnutrennich del. 8 dopolnitelnaya kniga. Istoriya rasporyazheniyi po raskolu (History of the Ministry of the Interior. 8th additional book. History of decrees on the schism). St. Petersburg: Typography of the 2nd department of the Councilor of His Imperial Majesty.

Media: The Guardian, August 14, 2001, Pope urged to apologize for Vatican castrations, on: https://www. theguardian.com/world/2001/aug/14/humanities.highereducation (retrieved on April 17, 2019) The New York Post, August 17, 2001, Vatican Castration Apology Demanded, on: https://nypost. com/2001/08/17/vatican-castration-apology-demanded/ (retrieved on June 2, 2019) The Telegraph, March 19, 2012, Dutch Roman Catholic Church ‘castrated at least 10 boys’, on: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/netherlands/9153676/Dutch-RomanCatholic-Church-castrated-at-least-10-boys.html (retrieved on 18 December, 2018)

Crime at the Opera House Lodewijk Brunt

1  Death and Love According to Peter Conrad, opera critic and linguist, opera’s “perpetual subject” is the reunion of the opposites love and death. It is also opera’s “profoundest mystery”; music and mysticism are “natural allies.” Opera heroes and heroines are constantly courting danger, which injects the theatrical performances with energy and dynamism. Conrad argues that this aspect of opera is best exemplified by Bizet’s Carmen and Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Carmen honors the invitation of José for a rendezvous, despite the warnings of her friends; she gets stabbed to death by her admirer. Don Giovanni dares the Statue of the Commander he has killed and tells him he’s not afraid; he disappears into the ground and gets burned in hell. All women in opera are reincarnations of Carmen, Conrad stipulates, although there may be some differences in specific operatic traditions. He cites Richard Wagner who pointed out the national differences in the demeanor of operatic heroines. In French opera you’ll find the “coldly smiling coquette,” whereas in Italian music she is “a whore, brazen and lurid”. In German opera women are stripped of any playfulness, writes Conrad, “the fatal woman turns literally homicidal” (Conrad 1987: 52). Richard Strauss’s Salomé might be considered a perfect illustration of Conrad’s argument. At the beginning of the opera we are at the palace of the tetrarch Herod. Festive sounds. John is being held captive in a subterranean dungeon, John the Baptist that is. The ruler is drunk and can’t keep his eyes off Salomé, his beautiful stepdaughter. I would like to thank Sheila Gogol for the translation and Frank Bovenkerk for his editorial advice. I wrote about this subject before and my contribution is partly based on the article Wat ik liefheb, moet ik doden. Misdaad in het muziektheater in the Dutch Tijdschrift over Cultuur & Criminaliteit, 2013 (3) 3. Lodewijk Brunt prematurely passed away just shortly before this book was published. L. Brunt (), (1942–2020) Amsterdam, The Netherlands © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_5

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He begs her to dance for him and she does the exciting Dance of the Seven Veils. Now she can ask whatever she wants of Herod, even half his kingdom. But there is only one thing she wants, John’s head. So in the end, Herod really has no other choice. Salomé is love and death incorporated. Is there an opera character with a more powerful obsession than hers? Strauss underlines her character with agitated music, sometimes with almost hysterical crescendos so you can barely hear the singer. From the very start, her theme rings out, an ascending arpeggio and a tune on the clarinet. It is repeated again and again and is more and more menacing and penetrating. After her dance, Salomé refuses the offer of half the kingdom and insists on John the Baptist’s severed head. Much to the dismay of her stepfather, who is concerned about unrest among the Jews in his empire. “Ich verlange von dir den Kopf des Jochanaan” (I want John’s head from you), Salomé sings, insistent like an unreasonable child. Herod conjures up a lovely emerald for her and suggests they have a glass of wine together as good friends. “Ich ford’re den Kopf des Jochanaan” (I demand John’s head). Herod describes his dozens of gorgeous white peacocks no other monarch in the world can boast of. “All for you,” he says. “Gib mir den Kopf des Jochanaan” (Give me John’s head), she replies. Be careful what you ask for. John is a man of God and who knows what one might bring down upon oneself. “Ich will den Kopf des Jochanaan” (I want John’s head). A necklace of the finest topaz gemstones, yellow like the eyes of a tiger, red like the eyes of a wood pigeon, green like the eyes of a cat, sparking like ice. “Den Kopf des Jochanaan” (John’s head). Six times she screams for her reward. Herod’s objections are useless. The executioner gets to work. Salomé leans over the well to listen for the sound of the head falling to the bottom. But a little later, the executioner serves her the prize on a silver platter. To Herod’s horror, she caresses the severed head and kisses the lifeless mouth. The tetrarch commands his soldiers to kill “the monster.” Salomé is squashed under their shields. Composed by Richard Strauss in 1905, the opera Salomé caused quite a scandal. The censors banned it from Vienna and after one performance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New  York, the Board of Directors nixed all the following ones. “The most satanic show ever on stage at the German opera,” a reviewer wrote. A performance with incest, necrophilia, two homicides and one suicide, all packed into one act. The opera is an encyclopedia of perversities wrapped in music. Salomé is not the mother of all operas and there are opera buffs who are anything but fond of Strauss, but it does feature all the basic elements of the genre, as defined by Peter Conrad.

2  Perversities Is this emphasis on love and death and all the corresponding perversities indeed characteristic of opera? It certainly is for some operas, but the answer is not so simple. Although the “iron repertory” of opera, the number of operas that are staged at the opera houses all over the world, is relatively limited, the total number of operas must be several tens of thousands. It is certain that nobody could have taken the trouble of studying all of them, let alone that every single one of them can be said to be based on the interplay of love and death. Unless one specifies what the

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exact meaning is of love and death, we could also argue that the perpetual subject of opera is music, or words, or movement. From a criminologist’s point of view it might be of interest to get a better understanding of how the theme of love and death is elaborated in opera. That’s what I intend to do in this contribution. It goes without saying that I have concentrated on only a handful of operas. Although we don’t really know how many operas are indeed about love and death in whatever form, anyone who googles a combination of opera, murder, and/ or manslaughter is sure to get a good half a million hits on Internet. That is very similar to other cultural products. Of the total paperback production, for instance, about one-third falls in the category of “thrillers” and it has been estimated that one-­ fifth of all films are about crime. The same holds for a large percentage of TV series in the USA and Great Britain (Reiner 2007: 311, 312). But however the situation of opera may be, for much of the audience opera, especially serious opera, is indeed synonymous with misery and death and destruction. The link seems to be obvious, and perhaps even more so than in other art forms. The same holds true for love, and to many people opera is indeed the ultimate combination of death and love. As far as I know, crime in opera has never been used by social scientists as a serious source of information about human behavior, let alone crime. I don’t know of any “opera criminology.” Perhaps because unlike drama, serious literature or painting, this art form is not taken all that seriously. Siegfried, who is stabbed in the back by Hagen’s spear at the end of Richard Wagner’s Twilight of the Gods (Gotterdämmerung) and then serenades his holy bride Brunhilde with glassy eyes before he passes away is no exception to the rule. But not all opera crimes are just more of the same, there are murders and there are murders. In my contribution I confine myself mainly to Giuseppe Verdi and Richard Wagner, despite the vast differences between them perhaps the greatest crime composers in history (Conrad 2011), but I have to confess that I don’t know how representative they are for the whole genre. Furthermore I am talking about serious opera because there is barely any mention of crime in opera buffo or comic opera, where it is more a matter of role switching, misunderstandings, mild social criticism, and making fun of the authorities. Based on the libretto, I examine the background of the opera story. The personalities of the main characters and how they interact, and more specifically, the crimes that are committed. What is the place and significance of criminal conduct? What are the opera characters after and how and why do they kill each other and sometimes even themselves? I do not test hypotheses, I just explore in an effort to reveal and perhaps problematize the relation between opera and crime. All in the hope that an expedition of this kind will offer points of departure for further research.

3  Forms of Death My inventory includes a widely varied list, murder, theft, trafficking in women, kidnapping, rape, forced suicide, severe physical injury, molestation, attempted murder, incest, treason, abuse of power, robbery, fraud, and manslaughter. These are my own categories; officially speaking we have no way of knowing how to label the

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actions which are being presented in an opera. It is all fiction and opera composers are not interested in judicial analyses. Moreover, we have to take into account that the actions of a homicidal woman in the nineteenth century and before were interpreted completely different than today. “Degeneration was built into the very nature of women”, according to the criminologists Lombroso and Ferrero in their study about The Female Offender (Dijkstra 1986: 289). Unmarried women without children get transformed into criminals more terrible than any man, they say. In this light Dijkstra remarks that “the operatic stage became one of the major stalking grounds of such headhuntresses, as well as of temptresses of every comparable sort” (Dijkstra 1986: 376). Salomé is just one of Richard Strauss’s operas in which the world is warned of the madness of women. Crime in opera comes in multifarious sizes and shapes, an endless source of inspiration for a criminologist. People are getting murdered in any number of ways, they can be drowned, poisoned, burned, or strangled, with a wide range of weapons, pistols, swords, knives, guillotines or axes; fathers, mothers, and other relatives, friends, coworkers, political opponents, or rivals in the game of love can be shot or stabbed for a wide range of reasons, sexual jealousy, revenge, or pure hatred. Plenty of people are shot by guns for hire on the orders of diabolical bosses who would not stoop to do the dirty work themselves. Sometimes it can lead to a tragic misunderstanding. In Verdi’s opera of the same name, Rigoletto orders a hired killer to murder the man who raped his daughter. The body is presented to him in a burlap bag. Rigoletto goes off to get rid of the body, but just as he is about to toss it into the river, the victim turns out to be still alive! And … it is not the rapist but his victim, Rigoletto’s beloved daughter Gilda. Here again, a drawn out struggle between love and death with the father and daughter falling into each other’s arms to the sound of swirling music. Gilda sings that she is going to heaven to meet her deceased mother and Rigoletto shouts, “Don’t die!” When she finally heaves her last breath, he laments, “Gilda! Mia Gilda! è morta! Ah! La maledizione!” (Gilda! My Gilda! She is dead! Oh! The curse!). The final curtain falls.

4  Accessibility In opera, the stories and the things people do often fail to obey the common rules of probability and logic. This makes it difficult and sometimes impossible to get a sharp picture of the contours of a crime. How do you analyze something incomprehensible? This certainly holds true for an opera audience in a darkened theater listening to a libretto in a foreign language. Some composers like Richard Wagner transport their audience into a world populated by gods, mere mortals, dragons, dwarves, flying horses, swans, and giants. As a simple spectator, before you know it you have no idea what is going on. Other composers take you to Ancient Greece, sometimes to a royal court or an imaginary spot at an indefinable point in time. Crimes occur in all these different contexts, but it requires a superhuman capacity for abstract thinking to find that one common denominator. “Opera has a reputation for inaccessibility,” Conrad

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comments dryly (1987: 235). Perhaps the inability to comprehend what is happening on the opera stage has been reduced in recent years by the surtitles introduced in large concert halls and opera houses all across the globe. This innovation shows the translated text of the libretto so the audience can read it simultaneously with the performance. But this still does not always solve the incomprehensibility issue because some librettos are mysterious in themselves and barely contain any clues as to what the audience sees happening on stage. In Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, Isolde is about to stab the wounded Tristan with a sword. She has discovered that he murdered her fiancé Morold. But then they look each other in the eye and she drops the sword. No explanation, no clarification. “From his sickbed, he looked me in the eye,” Isolde tells her bosom friend Brangäne. Opera and theater directors sometimes bend over backward to make an opera more accessible. The audience apparently needs to be convinced the opera has something clear to say about modern-day life. Long forgotten operas are dusted off and new versions are presented of the well-known ones. Don Giovanni by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, situated in Spain around 1600, is now performed in a setting of drug wars, urinals and subway stations. Presumably under the assumption that the well-to-do and cultured opera audience is more apt to identify with this world than with the romantic adventures of Spanish aristocrats at the start of the seventeenth century (Littlejohn 1992: Chapter 6). At the opera, no one lifts an eyebrow at something like Siegfried’s death scene with the spear in his back, which would surely classify as overkill in a play. Everything seems greater than life. Lindenberger (1984: 48) notes that opera conveys the audience to mythical heights. It can however sometimes provoke members of an audience to burst out laughing.

5  Making a Choice The inaccessible nature of some opera librettos is not solely due to the poor comprehensibility of the lines or the exotic worlds that are presented. Like a film director, the opera composer or libretto writer has choices to make. There simply isn’t time to film an entire book and there are elements that don’t lend themselves to filming. The same holds true for opera. Stretching time is essential there. In a play, actors tell each other what is going on in a situation. This is generally done in a way we perceive as realistic. In our own lives, we do it virtually the same way. But in an opera, the rules are different. Even a lightning fast composer like Mozart takes his time. In the first scene of Don Giovanni, Leporello is standing guard at night while his adulterous employer is reclining in the arms of Donna Anna. The servant is whining and complaining, he isn’t getting enough to eat, has to work all hours of the night and can’t get a good night’s sleep. In short, he has had enough of life as a servant. You can read the aria and say it out loud in 15 seconds, but Leporello needs a good 2 minutes for his complaint. In the first scene of Wagner’s The Valkyrie (Die Walküre), Siegmund is wounded as he arrives at Sieglinde’s home. He asks for fresh water and says he is being followed. She invites him to come in and rest and inspects his wounds. On paper, a matter of about a minute. But in Wagner’s version, almost a

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quarter of an hour. Wagner tended to abide by his own standards. He wrote his librettos himself and felt The Ring of the Nibelung (Der Ring des Nibelungen) had to be listened to without stopping and in the right sequence, in other words about 15 hours of opera. Normally speaking, however, an opera libretto is the result of rigorous cutting and pasting. When Verdi, a great admirer of William Shakespeare, was reproached for mutilating the original play for his libretto of Macbeth, he was deeply shocked. He collaborated with his brilliant libretto writer Francesco Maria Piave on the first version in 1847 and carefully revised it almost 20 years later. His version of Macbeth does nonetheless differ from the original and is unmistakably characterized by emphases of its own (Conrad 2011: 149; Wills 2011: Chapter 3). And they are specifically related to the place and significance of the crimes committed in the opera. It is precisely by slowing down the action or moving to another setting and lengthening the scenes that composers are able to sharply highlight their dramatic climaxes such as a murder or a curse. Verdi’s Macbeth is a good example of how a composer can handle a pre-existing work like an accordion. First the play. After Macbeth confers with the witches for the second time, Shakespeare immediately cuts to Lady Macduff (who does not appear in Verdi’s version). She is visited by two hired killers and there is a slaughter at her castle. “Your castle has been attacked, your wife and children have been cruelly murdered,” Lord Macduff is later informed by Ross. “My children too?” Macduff asks. Ross confirms, “Wife, children, servants, everyone they could find” (Bate and Rasmussen 2009a:78–88). In Verdi’s version, all this is skipped. You don’t hear about the slaughter until later in Macduff’s mourning lamentations. In the background, an influx of refugees from Scotland who have just sang an elegy about the sad fate of the orphans, old mothers and young brides who may never live to see the light of morning. “Patria oppressa!” (Our oppressed fatherland!). Macduff tells the story of the murder in his own words, “The cruel tyrant murdered my children and their mother too, they were ripped apart by the nails of a furious tiger!” The aria ends rebelliously and menacingly, the music leaves no ifs or buts about it, Macduff is asking God for the power to avenge his wife and children. In the opera, Macbeth goes back home after hearing the predictions of the witches. As was the case at earlier occasions, he is overcome by doubt. He consults his wife, who wants to know exactly what happened. Lady Macbeth is more clearly center stage here than in the play. “What did the witches say?” she wants to know. When Macbeth gets all worked up about his opponents and shouts that all of them shall have to die by his sword, Lady Macbeth cheers him on. “Good for you! Now I recognize the bravery from days of yore!” She encourages him like a mother encouraging her child. The couple is looking forward to the revenge that is sure to come, they are lifted by the orchestra to a tough, crude climax. “The hour of revenge has arrived,” they sing together. “The pillars of heaven will tremble. Revenge will rage like a storm blowing asunder. Kill the enemy, those wretched creatures. Do what fate commands, it cannot be turned back. You started and you will have to finish. Blood yearns for blood and more blood!” This alteration by Verdi increases the importance of the notorious sleepwalking scene that is to follow, because if Lady Macbeth is not the initiator of the

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murders, she is surely an accessory. She really does have blood on her hands and sleepwalks at night through the castle, observed by a lady-in-waiting and a physician as she tries to rub the blood stains off her hands. A dramatic climax, no matter how tranquil and subdued the scene might sound. Verdi had the singer who was to portray Lady Macbeth rehearse endlessly until she final managed to sing “without moving her lips and distorting her face” (Conati 1984: 24). In the original Shakespeare text it is Lady MacBeth who is the evil genius: Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up th’access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visiting of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers. (....) Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry ‘Hold, hold!’

MacBeth’s spouse is being transformed into a murdering, frightening witch. In the early years of the seventeenth century, these words were uttered by the young and handsome actor John Price, no women were allowed on stage. The sharp contrast between the angelic face of the actor and his criminal thoughts may have led to some perverted excitement in the audience, but Verdi was not willing to allow such frivolous expressions on his stage. His performers should not be attractive at all, they didn’t even need to sing properly. For his Lady MacBeth he choose Marianne Barbieri-Nini, who was considered to have an ugly face. “I need a Lady with a sharp, empty voice, I don’t want an angel, I want a devil”, he wrote to his impresario (Wills 2011: 31–33).

6  Rocket The “distortion” reprimand is based on a failure to comprehend the nature of opera as an art form. It is not just about a story or a precious text. Opera is a Gesamtkunstwerk, an interplay of drama, literature, architecture, design, make-up, including the making of costumes, technology of light, and … music. A spoken version of a libretto would only confuse the audience, and in essence it is the music that covers and smoothes out the incongruence. It might seem as if Verdi did a hatchet job on the text of Macbeth, but his music not only makes the transitions more supple, it holds the parts together in one coherent whole. Verdi introduces the sorrowful refugees to serve as backdrop for Macduff in mourning. The entire scene serves as a connecting link between the exhilarating duet of the homicidal Mr. and Mrs. Macbeth and the sleepwalking scene. The story has been adjusted to fit the requirements of the opera

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and the music provides the continuity. The opera is not the same as the play but the manipulation of time and action (such as the introduction of Lady Macbeth as accessory or perhaps initiator) makes it possible to depict the murders more dramatically than in the play. Musical drama at its best. Verdi was always on the lookout for librettos that could serve as “ignition mechanisms” (Conrad 2011: 193). Opera is fireworks, the sparks splash all over the place. The composer demanded “incendiary words” from the authors of his librettos. The duet in Macbeth is cracking with them, “ora di morte en di vendetta, tuona, rimbomba per l’orbe intero, come assordante l’atro pensiero—del cor le fibre tutte intronò” (in the hour of death and revenge, there is lightning all across the globe, astonishing like the sinister forces making our hearts tremble). In an opera like Nabucco, smoldering words are also used like fulmine (lightning) and furore (rage). The music is composed to sound like a thunderstorm. Emotionally charged words like these stimulate the cast and stir up tension and excitement (Conrad 2011: 194). Music is the conductor of passion. Composers can make the singers and orchestra vibrant with emotions. Rossini was called Signor Crescendo because his music could blast off like un colpo di cannone, the launching of a rocket! As if the world is running amok.

7  Contrast Music enables composers to arouse a wide range of emotions, which is why you can sense a catastrophe approaching in so many opera overtures. Music can link events that cannot occur simultaneously on the same stage in a play, and have to follow in a proper sequence of time and space. A recurrent menacing motif makes the tension rise by swelling up. This can make it seem as if the characters are marionettes propelled to their fates by the higher power of the music. Lady Macbeth has a premonition of disaster in her sleepwalking scene. The calm before the storm. And it is not long before Macbeth meets his maker in a din of saber rattling and shrieking. His wife has already passed away by that time. This apparent contrast between soft and hard, subdued and expressive, perhaps one might say between love and death, can be heard in any number of operas. In Puccini’s Tosca, the Roman police chief Baron Scarpia is determined to conquer the singer Floria Tosca. She wants absolutely nothing to do with him, but finds herself in a tricky position when the baron imprisons her lover, the painter Mario Cavaradossi. He is suspected of knowing where the escaped political prisoner Cesare Angelotti is hiding. The crucial events unfold in Scarpia’s chambers. Tosca is forced to witness and listen to her beloved being tortured by the executioner while the baron invites her to his table to have a bite to eat and a glass of wine. She can no longer bear Cavaradossi’s tormented screams and reveals Angelotti’s hiding place, though Cavaradossi is the one enduring the torture. Merely a short respite, for he is sentenced to death. He can only be saved if Tosca gives herself to Scarpia. Facing the prospect of this cruel fate, she sings the aria this opera is famous for, Visi d’arte, visi d’amare, “I have solely lived for art and for love. With the best intentions, I have always helped people. I attended church

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faithfully and I made the world more beautiful with my voice. Why am I being punished this way?” Once again a calm before the storm. She agrees with Scarpia that though Cavaradossi is to come before the firing squad, they are not going to fire real bullets. After acquiring a safe passage permit for herself and her lover, she grabs a knife from the table and stabs the baron to death. The contrast between the song of total innocence and the fatal stabbing characterize the drama. It is striking that the lily-­white Tosca should be capable of killing someone. A higher motive? Yes of course! She does it for love of her beloved Cavaradossi. That cannot lead to a happy ending. And indeed, things go very wrong for the lovers. Scarpia appears to have been cheating on Tosca; the firing squad does shoot with real bullets. Our lady singer commits suicide by leaping off the town wall. Love and death all over again. Verdi’s Otello also features a sharp contrast between love and death, in this case innocence and manslaughter. Iago informs Otello that his wife Desdemona is having an affair with Cassio and Otello wants to see blood. When all the evidence is presented, which takes up a good part of the opera, he humiliates his wife in public. He sends her away and announces he will visit her later. In the bedroom, Desdemona discusses the state of affairs with her friend Emilia, who is Iago’s wife. Desdemona sings the melancholy song of the weeping willows she used to hear one of the servant girls sing after she was abandoned by her lover. “I shall wear a weeping willow as a wreath.” In tears, she asks Emilia to leave her alone, and kneels before a portrait of the Madonna and solemnly sings Ave Maria. Verdi added the song to mark the transition between the bitter farewell and the arrival of Otello. The almost perfect tranquility of the song of the weeping willow and the prayer—another calm before the storm and once again a good example of stretching time—is interrupted by the sound of the orchestra slowly but surely culminating in a Verdi rocket as Otello strangles his wife. The contrast between innocence and outright murder is not only expressed in the music but also in the text. “Think of your sins,” Otello shouts as the orchestra plays louder and louder. “My sin is love,” Desdemona answers. “That is why you are dying,” Otello decides. The composer focused far more intensively on this conflict than Shakespeare in his play, not only via the introduction of the prayer and the song of the weeping willow but also by placing the strangling scene at the end (André 2012: 14–15). Once Desdemona is dead, Emilia speaks about Iago’s tricks and ruses. For Shakespeare, they involve all kinds of deliberations (Bate and Rasmussen 2009b: 121–128), but Verdi has Otello almost immediately commit suicide and toss himself onto his wife’s corpse. Curtain.

8  Rage and Lamentations Notwithstanding style periods and national musical traditions, you can still distinguish the expressive potentials of opera that recur throughout the centuries. Outbursts of rage and maledictions are part and parcel of opera, as are lamentations and exaltation, and don’t forget violating taboos, failing to obey rules, committing crimes, lying and cheating. One of the most popular arias in the history of opera is

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La donna e mobile (The woman is capricious) from Verdi’s Rigoletto. We can all whistle the melody but the text is not something to quote in cultured circles, “Women are capricious like feathers in the wind and anyone who trusts them is in for a rude awakening.” Music can sweeten the most bitter pill. If you think about it, it is quite alarming to see the twins Siegmund and Sieglinde embrace, madly in love, in The Valkyrie. Sieglinde is expecting a child, but no one in the oh so respectable opera audience would think of leaving the theater to protest this clear case of incest. At the opera, even the worst perversities are glossed over by the music. When Verdi first considered transforming Shakespeare’s Othello into an opera, he was particularly fascinated by the treacherous Iago, “A cad who ridicules everything and everyone and commits the most awful crimes with total indifference” (Rose 2013: 258–259). Puccini had the same preference, although he was at least as interested in love, especially tragic love, as he was in crime. “I already told you,” he wrote to Luigi Illica, the author of his librettos, “I want to have people in tears, that is what it is all about.” He wrote to Giuseppe Adami, another libretto writer, in much the same spirit, “Wring your heart and soul and write something for me that will have the world weeping. They say sensitivity is a sign of weakness. If that is true, let me be weak!” (Rose 2013: 344–345). Passion is dominant at the opera and is linked to love, death, revenge, or ambition. Motives and moral issues, good or evil, are secondary. What Rose observes about Monteverdi also holds true for the whole genre. In a musical drama, human weaknesses, aspirations, and instincts are highlighted in all their consequences, with all their unfortunate aspects (Rose 2013: 23). And in Wagner’s works of course the same pertains to gods, giants, and dwarves.

9  Unreasonable Due to the emphasis on emotions, the characters in an opera cannot help but be one-­ sided. The story of an opera can be summed up as the tenor courts the soprano, but the baritone gets in the way. Like every joke, this has a sizable grain of truth to it. Verdi used specific voices for certain kinds of characters, a bass for bad guys and murderers like Sparafucile in Rigoletto, Ramfis in Aida or Silva in Ernani, a baritone for father figures and a mezzo soprano for women whose virtues are in question (Lady MacBeth). The one-dimensional character is thus in clear alignment, and characters with greater depth and subtlety belong in novels. If they are good they are very very good, and if they are bad they are horrid. Lindenberger notes that composers are sometimes praised for the complex personalities they have created, such as Verdi’s Falstaff, Wagner’s Hans Sachs or Strauss’ Marschallin. “But,” he says, “these examples demonstrate that subtle personalities are not the norm in opera” (Lindenberger 1984: 43). Comic operas, particularly by Mozart or Rossini, are sometimes the exception. In the large-scale, serious operas, the main characters exhibit one single emotion, an obsession, emphasized by the composer with themes the audience can recognize. The typical ingredients of crime as a grand gesture. Crime clings to certain characters.

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10  Mystery The audience might be interested in a murder or the circumstances a crime was committed under, but also wants to know what the motive was. In any way, the criminologist needs to know. What made someone do this awful thing? Unfortunately the people who wrote the libretto or composed the music often fail to give much of an explanation. It sometimes seems as if they don’t want to waste their time on something so banal. Lots of people die in Wagner’s operas simply because that is how the higher powers have arranged and decided things. It is apparently convenient for them. So it is not a matter of psychological depth or the conditions in society, it is just pure opportunism. This is especially true of The Valkyrie. Siegmund is initially protected by his father Wotan, but his wife Fricka demands the young warrior be put to death. Why? His incestuous sexual intercourse with Sieglinde is also adultery because she is married to Hundling! It is Fricka’s mission to save their marriage, that is her motive. A strikingly prudish and moralistic moment in a libertine context. Wotan himself is an avid ladies’ man. In the end, Siegmund is murdered by Hundling, not by Fricka. He is driven to seek vengeance, not so much for fathering Sieglinde’s child, but for squabbling with Hundling’s family. A more complicated situation is hard to imagine. Motives sometimes remain shrouded in mystery. And what motivates Macbeth and his wife? A thirst for power? Jealousy? Paranoia? A folie à deux? Blind ambition? Perhaps something can be said for each of these motives and it is often pretty much that way in real life too. Is it only sexual jealousy that leads Otello to strangle Desdemona? He does not do it in a sudden fit rage as one might expect in a crime of passion. Instead he collects evidence and plans each and every step. To pose a typical late twentieth-century question, is racism involved (André 2012: 15)? Does he feel humiliated because he is black and is that why he is so obsessed? Puccini might give us more of a hint. There are two sides to Floria Tosca’s motive. By stabbing Scarpia, she avoids being raped and saves her lover from death. In his opera Turandot, the princess of the same name indulges in hatred of men. Every young prince who comes to ask for her hand in marriage has to solve a few riddles. Anyone who does not succeed is beheaded and the ice princess sees to it that every potential bridegroom is eliminated and she remains unmarried. Bizarre maybe, but consistent. In G. F. Handel’s Giulio Cesare, Sesto rescues his mother from the claws of a rapist and simultaneously avenges his murdered father. Similarly understandable. Under the influence of realism, verismo, it is the aim of various operas to present everyday life on stage. This can work if it is about motives for murder that are generally familiar to us. In George Bizet’s Carmen, the beautiful seductive factory girl gets a knife in the back from Don José, her jealous lover. In Leoncavallo’s I Pagliacci, the adulteress Nedda and her lover Silvio are both stabbed by her cuckolded husband Canio with the opera’s famous last words la Commedia è finita (the comedy is over)! Jealousy again. In Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana it is the same story. In Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, Crown is murdered by Porgy. Same old same old.

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11  Obsession Some motives though seem to be hidden under layers and layers of Freudian symbolism. Let’s listen to Salomé again. Where is that tyrannical spoiled brat behavior coming from? What does John the Baptist mean to her? She first visits him in his dungeon out of curiosity. “What is he like?” she asks the guards. “Is he old? Young?” Then she hears him yelling about her mother Herodias, who he calls a whore and a lot worse. When he finds out Salomé is her daughter, she gets the full brunt of it as well. But she is fascinated and sings odes to various parts of his anatomy that she is madly enamored with. Love at first sight? First she wants to touch his white body. When he rejects her, it is his black hair she falls for but once again rejection awaits her. She sings a lascivious Song of Songs. Apparently so shamelessly that Narraboth, who is in love with her and has smuggled her into the dungeon, commits suicide. Last it is John’s mouth that catches her eye, his mouth is a pomegranate, a color more glorious than royal purple. She sings that there is not a thing in the whole world as red and as seductive as his mouth, she wants to kiss him. He answers her— “daughter of Babylon, daughter of Sodom”—that this is never going to happen. Seven times no less, she begs to let her kiss him, and each time he rejects her. It is only after he has been beheaded that she finally gets her way. She walks around with the platter and sings to him that now she is going to kiss him and she will dig her teeth into his lips like a piece of ripe fruit, “I told you I was going to kiss you!” It sounds soft, the orchestra is playing her theme in the background, a bit sadly as if she is sincerely lamenting. But the music gets louder and louder as she reprimands the head, saying he should have satisfied her desire. And in the end, she is launched in a turbulent Strauss rocket as she sings that the secret of dying is greater than the secret of love. When Herod shouts for the death of the monster, Strauss almost shatters the music theater with the wind instruments and timpani and all the volume an orchestra can produce. Has John the Baptist fallen prey to the frustrated sexual desires of a beautiful young woman? There is often a tendency to look for the motive in that direction. But still, it sounds like a pretty flimsy reason for the murderous obsession on exhibit here.

12  Fury Elektra features another woman possessed in much the same way. The same composer but the music is even more frenzied at times and the singing little more than shrill shrieks. “Elektra was regarded in many quarters as wantonly, cacophonously noisy,” as Christiansen notes (1988: 106). During the rehearsals, Strauss leaned to the orchestra pit and shouted “Louder! I can still hear Mrs Heink singing.” Mrs Heink was cast as Klytemnestra and complained, “I am never going to sing that role again. It is scary. We sound like a bunch of howling hyenas. Elektra goes way further than anything else. We thought we had reached the limit with Wagner, but

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Strauss takes it further. He destroys his singers, we are done for” (The Earl of Harewood 1987: 811). Elektra is just as controversial as Salomé. As the ultimate revenge, Elektra is determined to kill her mother Klytemnestra and her lover Aegisth because the two of them murdered her father Agamemnon. It is oozing with hatred. The servant girls are gossiping about how awful she looks and how beastly she is behaving. “I am surprised the Queen allows a devil like that into the house.” “It is her own child.” “If it was my child, I would not allow it, my God, I would lock her up.” Elektra cannot bear the fact that Agamemnon’s horses and hounds are still in the house and slaughters them “so their blood will serve him well,” and she can’t wait to also kill off her mother and stepfather. Then Agamemnon’s three children can dance around his grave and everyone who sees Elektra climb over the pile of corpses will say, “A great king is having a splendid celebration prepared for him by his progeny here. Anyone with children who can do a dance of victory like this at his grave piled this high must have been very fortunate.” It is not that far yet, because Elektra is trying in vain to involve her sister Chrysothemis in her revenge, but even salacious sexual advances are no use in this connection. Brother Orest has disappeared and there is a rumor that his mother is also behind his murder, but he turns out to be still alive and returns to his parents’ home. In the middle of the night, he uses a hatchet to split open Klytemnestra and Aegisth’s heads. Elektra dances around in a daze, then falls to the ground and breathes her last breath. The motive is revenge, for sure, but how ironic that in the end it is not Elektra who commits the vengeful deed but her brother. Again: love and death combined.

13  In Closing Blood is not rare on the opera stage and indeed, it flows every which way. Murder and manslaughter and the underlying love and desire assume the dimensions of earthquakes and hurricanes. To an outside observer, it might look as if opera is miles away from everyday life where matters involving disobeying rules and regulations are carefully documented in codes of law and criminology handbooks. But composers of opera are artists, not criminologists, judges, or policemen, they are not interested in patterns of crime, in profiles of murderers or victims. Nor are they interested in white collar crime, environmental crime, or organized crime. In opera, the central stage is occupied by interpersonal violence, other kinds of violence like wars or class struggles are equally being personalized (MacBeth, Gotterdämmerung). You will be swept along by the music and singers and consequently you’ll find yourself in a world of colliding passions and heated emotions. Composers, musical conductors, directors, and singers alike try collectively to present the essence of what might be characterized as “dramatic climaxes.” Opera in that respect has much in common with the so-called “micro-sociological approach” to crime. In opera one is confronted with the acts and emotions of people who are part of violent situations and, as is argued by Collins, these situations “shape the emotions and acts of individuals who step inside them” (Collins 2008: 1). Despite the apparent exaggeration,

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absurdities and urge to entertain, in the end opera still approaches the true emotional connotations of death, terror, and debauchery. Every perpetrator or victim of crime must know this world from the inside. In that sense opera reveals something about crime that cannot be found anywhere else in such a concentrated form. Yet, opera presents so many different manifestations of love and death that Conrad’s “perpetual subject” loses all power of distinction. Both opera and criminology have much to learn from one another.

References André, N. (2012) From Otello to Porgy: Blackness, Masculinity and Morality in Opera. In: Naomi André, Karen M. Bryan & Eric Saylor (eds), Blackness in Opera: Urbana, Chicago, Springfield: University of Illinois Press, pp. 11-32. Bate, J. & E. Rasmussen (eds), (2009a) William Shakespeare. Macbeth, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Bate, J. & E. Rasmussen (eds) (2009b) William Shakespeare. Othello, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Christiansen, R. (ed.) (1988) The Grand Obsession. An Anthology of Opera. London: Collins. Collins, Randell (2008) Violence. A Micro-sociological Theory. Princeton, Oxford: Princeton University Press Conati, M. (ed.) (1984) Interviews and Encounters with Verdi. London: Victor Gollancz. Conrad, P. (1987) A Song of Love and Death. The Meaning of Opera. London: Chatto & Windus. Conrad, P. (2011) Verdi and/or Wagner. Two Men, Two Worlds, Two Centuries. London: Thames & Hudson. Dijkstra, Bram (1986) Idols of Perversity. Fantasies of Feminine Evil in Fin-De-Siecle Culture. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press Lindenberger, H. (1984) Opera. The Extravagant Art. Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press. Littlejohn, D. (1992) The Ultimate Art. Essays Around and About Opera. Berkeley, Los Angeles, Oxford, University of California Press. Reiner, Robert (2007) Media-Made Criminality: The Representation of Crime in the Mass Media. In: The Oxford Handbook of Criminology, eds. Mike Maguire, Rod Morgan, Robert Reiner. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 302 - 341. Rose, M. (2013) The Birth of an Opera. Fifteen Masterpieces from Poppea to Wozzeck. New York, London: W. W. Norton. The Earl of Harewood (ed.) (1987) Kobbé’s Complete Opera Book. London: The Bodley Head. Wills, G. (2011) Verdi’s Shakespeare. New York: Viking.

“Blood-Thirsty Blues”: The Sonic Politics of American Murder Ballads Frank Mehring

The American experience and American popular culture are immersed in the mythology of death and murder. Richard Slotkin established the structuring metaphor of “regeneration through violence” (1973: 5) to identify this phenomenon. Music functions as a kind of antenna to pick up these resonances, mold them into something visceral that unfolds their affective powers to sensitize listeners to issues related to conflicts, injustices, and what I elsewhere called the democratic gap— namely the discrepancy between American ideals and actual practices (Mehring 2014). The intersection of crime, society, justice, and music is particularly important because music can engage the audience via affective, cognitive, and kinesthetic channels. Murder ballads are a revealing case in point to investigate how music can reframe, remediate, and communicate the experience of death, crime, and murder. The use and function of murder ballads in popular music has not been addressed in an interdisciplinary fashion and remains a desiderata to gain insight into the human condition. In the most general sense, murder ballads can be described as narratives about crimes—both real and imagined. In poetic fashion, we learn about a killing in grisly details from the perspective of the perpetrator. With their origins in seventeenth-­century Europe, murder ballads have become part of American folk music pronounced in the hillbilly music, Appalachian and, especially, blues traditions. The pioneering work of cultural anthropologists John and Alan Lomax helped to preserve on record and to systematically map murder ballads. This chapter will approach murder ballads from a three-fold perspective: First, remediating oral history of murder in bluegrass music, second, blues songs about hate crimes and murder as early black feminist statements, and third, murder ballads as political protest

F. Mehring (*) Radboud University Nijmegen, Nijmegen, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_6

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songs for the cause of minorities. While many scholars argue that the genre is closely tied to femicide (see e.g., Russell and Harmes 2001: xi), my analysis of murder ballads in American popular music will complicate this approach. I will argue that the murder ballads with their inherently intermedial powers (Mehring and Redling 2017) penetrate both public and political spheres (Wicke 1990: 11) offering creative and self-reflexive responses to social realities (Kaltmeier and Raussert 2019: 7). In the United States, murder ballads developed from an inherently oral tradition of the hinterland into an integral part of twentieth century music. It is closely tied to the recording industry, particularly in the realm of folk and early blues. From there, it evolved into the protest culture of the 1950s, particularly the genre of rock. Today, we find murder ballads in all musical genres ranging from pop to rap. Therefore, the sonic politics of murder ballads deserve more attention within and beyond the realm of music history.

1  S  tagger Lee: The Romance with Heroes and Outlaws in Murder Ballads Murder ballads emerged in seventeenth-century Scandinavia, England, and lowland Scotland as printed broadsheets reveal. The Ballad Literature and Popular Music of the Olden Times from 1855 opens with a reference to the ballad of the life and adventures of Robin Hood as an early example of ballads that celebrate outlaws. (2) The genre of US murder ballads can be traced to the roots of regional Southern American music. Eighteenth-century English, Irish, and lowland Scots settled in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Cumberland Gap of Appalachia bringing with them their songs, music, and oral traditions. The long period of geographic and cultural isolation until the years of the Civil War (1861–1865) brought about what Kenneth Tunnell calls a the “unique blend of musical style” known as bluegrass music (1995: 80). In general, the symbiosis of narrative verse and melody represents a defining characteristic of ballads. Folkore experts Regina Bendix and Galit Hasan-Rokem explain that Anglo-American ballad singers were particularly skillful and creative in rendering a striking acoustic performance so that over time the musical dimension became more important than the accuracy of the narrative (2012: 468). Themes of bluegrass often refer to close-knit families, loving mothers, a God to fear, highways, graveyards, wayfarers, maidens, or rogues (Tunnell 1992: 166). There is also a particularly striking set of ballads that address the dark side of humanity: violent murder and punishment. As far as the narrative is concerned, we can identify a number of similarities in songs such as the popular British-derived murder ballad on the premediated killing of “Pretty Polly,” the killing of the pregnant woman “Omie Wise” or the shooting of “Ellen Smith” in Winston-Salem, North Carolina (composed allegedly by the killer Peter DeGraff himself while awaiting his punishment): One of the most popular murder ballads is the

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interpretation of the 1886 killing of Laura Foster in North Carolina by “Tom Dooley” by the Kinston Trio which was a number one pop song in 1958 (Billboard and Billboard R&B) and propelled the Trio to the vanguard of the Folk revival of the early 1960. They all tell stories of men killing a woman in often brutal ways such as stabbing a knife in the heart, shootings, beatings, or drowning. The songs are part of oral tradition because they often frame a violent crime that was particularly shocking to a community in aesthetic terms. There is a sensationalist element that later emerged in Gothic fiction and the modern horror film genre. The song about “The Knoxville Girl” (which appears in different guises also as “The Oxford Girl,” “The Wexford Girl,” or the “Lexington Girl” in the United States) is particularly explicit about the gruesome ways the killer humiliates and violates the girl: I picked a stick up off the ground And knocked that fair girl down. She fell down on her bended knees, For mercy she did cry, “Oh Willie, dear, don’t kill me here, I’m unprepared to die.” She never spoke one other word, I only beat her more, Until the ground around me With her blood did flow. I took her by her golden curls, And dragged her round and round Throwing her in the river That flows through Knoxville town (Wernick 1976: 53).

Since almost all of the songs culminate on the imprisonment or death of the killer, the songs affirm a jurisdictional order in which capital crimes will be punished and social order is restored. The murder ballad tradition reinforces the belief of the community in socially approved norms and values (see Tunnell 177). At the same time, these murder ballads offer a space in which a predominantly male audience can fantasize about darker desires that they themselves do not allow to be satisfied in real life (see Menninger 1966; Durkheim 1984). Among other things, the closure of murder ballads mainly functions as a tool to warn communities about the consequences of violating the rules and norms of the society. One of the most iconic murder ballads is the song about Stagger Lee and his feud with Billy Lyons. The song has been covered by so many artists over the last hundred years that it can be considered the archetypical folksong (Trager 1997: 352). Well-known artists such as Ma Rainey, Sidney Bechet, Woody Guthrie, James Brown, Ike and Tina turner, Bob Dylan, and The Grateful Dead are among the 428 musicians who recorded versions and variations of the basic narrative. It had been sung by both black and white people before folksong historians John and Alan Lomax captured a number of renditions in the early 1930s. Like many of the folksongs, there is a core of historical truth that might be traced in the songs. Allegedly, the Lee family from Memphis became wealthy in the mid-­ nineteenth century as proprietors of a well-known Southern steamboat line. One of

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the sons of the family patriarch was Stacker-Lee who was less interested in excelling in the family business than developing a reputation as a womanizer chasing white and black girls. He conceived a son with a black woman who later was remembered as the notorious anti-hero Stagger Lee. He was known for his violent temper, which led to murderous rampages including the shooting of Billy Lyons after—according to the interviews of the Lomax brothers—he had won Stack’s Stetson hat in a wager. As much as the spelling changes from “Stagalee” via “Stacker-lee” or “Stack-o-lee” to “Stagger Lee” the story is complex and diffuse. Another popular version ascribes supernatural abilities to Stagger Lee. In a kind of Faustian pact, he sells his soul to the Devil who, in return, gives him a magical Stetson hat, which allows him to shift shape and size. In some songs, his sexual prowess is exploited in the male bawdy tradition. Music easily transgresses national boundaries and cultural spheres. Australian singer Nick Cave and his band The Bad Seeds offered a remarkably stylized version of Stagger Lee on one of their most successful albums, aptly called Murder Ballads (1996). Hailed as a “masterpiece of cynicism and satire,” the complex reimagining of the genre for popular culture at the end of the twentieth century is ample proof of its continued appeal and potential to engage audiences (see Fernandez 2012). The band reframes the nineteenth century ballad into a funky danceable ode to pop weirdness and cool with supercilious lyric sung with verve and attitude. In this version, Stagger Lee enters a bar introducing himself in braggadocio fashion as “that bad motherfucker called Stagger Lee.” (https://www.nickcave.com/lyric/staggerlee) Only, Stagger Lee really means it. The first thing he does is shooting the bar keeper for badmouthing him. His swagger, style and self-assurance earns him the admiration of the local prostitutes. One of the women offers free sex in her room under the condition that Stagger Lee leaves before her boyfriend Billy returns. Contrary to expectations, the protagonist sees the scenario as yet another opportunity to act out his violent sexual fantasies. Stagger Lee would stay awaiting his victim Billy. “And furthermore I’ll fuck Billy in his motherfucking ass.” Nick Cave pushes the story to its graphic limits to exploit the sensationalist elements. He is proud to identify himself as a “bad motherfucker” who would “crawl over fifty good pussies just to get one fat boy’s asshole” (https://www.nickcave.com/lyric/staggerlee/). The story turns into camp in the sense of Susan Sontag when anti-hero humiliates Billy at the moment he catches them in flagrante with each other. Stagger Lee asks his victim to get on his knees to “suck my dick,” otherwise he would shoot him (https://www.nickcave.com/lyric/stagger-lee). The following statement that Lee filled his victim “full with lead” can, of course, be read as a coded reference the act of murder and having sex. The outlaw-hero first penetrated his victim sexually before killing him off. On the one hand, the song builds on the descriptive mode of murder ballads celebrating the act of violating the male or female body in ecstatic, gruesome, and shocking fashion. At the same time, it moves away from the traditional narrative conventions withholding a sense of closure. The social order is not restored via punishment and death of the perpetrator. The song ends on a kind of sonic phantasmagoria with orgasmic screams mingling

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with a cacophony of dissonant sounds of the band. Nick Cave’s “Stagger Lee” is a double-edged homage to excessive fantasies of violence, sex, and death. The Stagger Lee narrative, and particularly the internationally successful version of Nick Cave on his record Murder Ballads, fits into what cultural critic Winfried Fluck called a romance with American popular culture, namely as an “expression of defiant subcultural values like anti-authoritarianism.” (2009: 90) Such an outlaw-­ and-­defiance romance is channeled in the songs about Stagger Lee unfolds its remarkable appeal not only within but also and foremost outside of the United States. The international interest in the deadly crime spree of the notorious robbery team Bonnie (Parker) and Clyde (Barrow)—remediated in films, novels, and songs—is another striking example of this romance with outlaws.

2  Blood-Thirsty Blues: Early Black Feminist Performances Spooky tales of murder, sex, and disease form an essential part of American blues. While murder ballads in nineteenth and early twentieth century bluegrass music have been written and performed by men objectifying women in gruesome tales of killings, the early history of twentieth century blues recordings offer a different perspective through the shift of gender in the performance. Particularly, singers such as Victoria “Queen” Spivey, Ida Cox, Alberta Hunter, Sara Martin, Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Sippie Wallace, and Ethel Waters forged careers in recording and performance by turning the American black experience of hardship and violence into a sonic experience. Susan McClary offers a revealing connection between harmonic developments in music with gendered narratives when she argues: “[…] chromaticism, which enriches tonal music but which must finally be resolved to the triad for the sake of closure, takes on the cultural cast of ‘femininity.’ The ‘feminine’ never gets the last word within this context: in the world of traditional narrative, there are no feminine endings” (1991: 16). The theoretician and philosopher Cornel West identified the black underclass as a “kind of walking nihilism of pervasive drug addiction, pervasive alcoholism, pervasive homicide, and an exponential rise in suicide” (2009: 383). These elements that have become part and parcel of American blues deserve more attention than has been offered in the past considering that in the 1920s and 30s. A valuabl resource is the record label Okeh Records which gave preference to women blues singers over male performers” (Davis 1998: xii). In general, the 1920s are cherished as the “golden era of the black female blues singers,” as the expert in black American music Eileen Southern explains (1987:  371). The experience of death and murder were part of black culture and consciousness that, in the words of Lawrence Levine was “worth taking note of and sharing in songs.” (1977: 269) By both offering individual expression and providing group coherence, blues were deeply personal thereby giving meaning to black lives. One of the most important and complex blues singers of the early twentieth century

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was Victoria Spivey. Her work on the intersection of drugs death and murder is part of a sonic politics that forges links between the lived social experience and a specific musical tradition going back to the sorrow songs. During the age of slavery, African Americans confronted torturous, inhumane labor and living conditions. The experience of dislocation and dehumanization found an outlet in the blues as a way of understanding one’s life, “its pain and possibility” (Pinn 2003: 2). The violent, shocking, and sometimes sensationalist elements of black women’s blues emerged as a commodified vehicle that became an essential part of commercial music culture in the so-called “roaring twenties.” Songs such as Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues” sold 75,000 copies in the first few months of its release and continued to be a success nationally. The murder ballads of Spivey are a revealing case in point. While grossly exaggerating racial stereotypes by singing about murderous vengeance, addictions to drugs or masochistic sex, her performances provided a counterpoint to open up a door into repressed social realities of lower class black women. Considering the success in sales, one might ask to what degree are blues performances of murder ballads subversive texts that offer a mirror to the blood-thirsty market of American popular culture? The topic was part of legend and real life. Blues singers such as Robert Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson were poisoned by their lovers, Bessie Smith and Nina Simone confessed that they attempted to shoot their former lovers. Murder ballads functioned as a musical outlet to carve out a role that was far from the stereotype of the passive female victim. Women blues singers turned to razors and guns thereby daring men to transgress the very lines that women drew. “While acknowledging the physical mistreatment they have received at the hands of their male lovers, they do not perceive or define themselves as powerless in the face of such violence” as Davis rightfully claims (1998: 34). Let us take a closer look at a paradigmatic murder story presented by Victoria Spivey who, in contrast to many other blues singers at the time, wrote her own songs (Southern 1997: 374). The example is a particularly revealing one since we have a remarkable media situation to help us frame the song in a larger cultural context. “Blood-Thirsty Blues” is about a woman who kills her lover because he has mistreated her in more ways than one. The song was recorded by the OKeh label as part of the “race record” boom in the early 1920s. The song was marketed by the gramophone company as “Record No. 8531” with an extensive advertisement distributed among US newspapers. Hundreds of lavishly illustrated ads appeared for example in the African American Chicago Defender during the 1920s. The advertisements had the goal to appeal to African Americans, enticing them to buy the record, rather to offend them, despite the stereotypical visual codes. Let us first look at the commercial framing of the song in intermedial terms regarding lyrics, images and sounds. The newspaper ad in the Chicago Defender from 28 Jan. 1928 “I Have Killed My Man” for Spivey’ “Blood-Thirsty Blues” offers revealing insights into the multivalent functions of murder ballads in the 1920 blues world of the United States. The top of the ad features an eye-popping media

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combination: a text in bold letters that frames the song as an authentic confession of an African American woman and a drawing of a fist-clenched, crazy looking woman about to hammer the head of a helpless man into a bloody mass of pulp. Her wild hair resembles a devil’s horn protruding from her forehead. The drawing moves away from cartoonish versions of minstrel stereotypes which showed African Americans in silhouetted forms, often with wild hair, exaggerated eyes, thick protruding lips, with explicit references to deformity and primitivism. Instead, the ad offers other stereotypes and techniques: the brutal strangling of the victim, the display of the murder weapon, and vampire fangs. In response to the visual depiction of murder, the headline spells in sensationalist fashion “BLOODTHIRSTY WOMAN CONFESSES!” The next headline continues to allure the audience with promises of outrageous violence. “Never Seen So Much Blood”—a creative reference to the first line of the blues song “Blood, blood, blood! Look at all that blood.” Like many similar ads, the combination of text and image function like a cliffhanger. The audience is enticed to buy the record in order to hear the entire confession and to find out what happened next. The framing of a new “race record” release resembles tabloid newspapers drawing attention to an extraneous recent crime. “EXTRA! The story with all its horrors” is a promise for satisfying the curious and less refined desires of the masses. The transfer from print to music suggested by “is sung by Victoria Spivey” grants the performer agency to reclaim the narrative beyond the commodified packaging of the product to offer an alternative reading in sounds. The OKeh advertisement paints a horrific image of a woman driven to create a bloodbath. The text produces a surplus of meaning by drawing on a combination of news reports on sensationalist murder cases and poster ads of early horror films in the vein of Dracula’s Daughter, Cat Women, Vampyr, or The Devil’s Daughter. "I’ve never seen so much blood! Blood—blood! Don’t you see all that blood!” Oh you are filled with pity for this blood-thirsty woman whose soul is in such TORMENT! There comes before her vision the horrible sight of the man she loved There he is—dead upon the floor—and he welters in his blood. The red fangs of vengeance drove her into a mad passion. But when the toll was taken there came to her tortured mind—NO RECOMPENSE!

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Illustration 1  “I have Killed My Man” ad by Okeh Race Records, 1928

The sonic experience of Spivey giving voice to the feeling of revenge, hatred, and longing for redemption offers a less sensationalist reading. The first line picks up the reference to blood.

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Blood, blood, blood! Look at all that blood Blood, blood! look at all that blood.

Compared to the aggressive tone of sensationalism, Spivey’s sonic rendition moves away from such superficial levels giving way to a sense of desperation. The singer performs the story of a murder as a form of confession that is brining to light a shameful event in the past. “Yes I killed my man, a low down good for nothing cur.” At the same time, the blues is an effort to regain control over the deplorable story. The first-person narrative unfolds as a confession. Soon, the tone shifts to justify the murder: I told him blood was in my eye, And still he wouldn’t listen none at me.

The confession turns into a bold statement about resistance to a system that has consistently put black women in a vulnerable position—a position, in which women became victimized, brutalized, or even killed. “Yes, instead of givin’ him sugar, I put glass in his tea.” The narrator refuses to be victimized and turns to action. Another thing, folks, you can put me down, and let me walk. Another thing folds, you can put me down, and let me walk. You know I’m a mighty mean women, and I won’t stand for no back talk.

The singer does not turn transform herself into a demonic, heartless killer. Rather, the blues ends on an emotional reference to love, loss, and sadness. The only man I ever loved, I done sent him to his ruin. The only man I ever loved, I done sent him to his ruin. Yes, I know I’m blood-thirsty, from wonderin’ what my poor man’s doin.

Ultimately, the singer confesses her crime, justifies her action, but remains a sensitive, self-reflective human being that acknowledges her deed. In Spivey’s performance, the narrator makes herself heard as a representative of a frustrated group of underprivileged back women whose rage is expressed in the murder ballad blues. Spivey frames her action within a patriarchic black milieu in which women have no choice other than to conform or turn to violence. Spivey’s performance of “Blood-Thirsty Blues” is marked by a sense of self-­ empowerment of a strong, independent woman who refuses to be mistreated and embraces a new kind of emotional freedom. A similar approach can be found in her recording of “Blood Hound Blues” 2 years later where she confesses to have “poisoned my man/I put it in his drinking cup.” However, the singer refuses to go to jail for killing a man who “kicked me and blacked my eye.” The singer takes action and, in a gesture that would later be immortalized by the glamorized story of Bonnie and Clyde, is on the run. Well it’s easy to go to jail but lord they done set me up Well I broke out of my cell When the jailer turned his back/ […] Bloodhounds, bloodhounds are on my trail They wanna take me back to that cold, cold lonesome jail.

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At a time, when suffragettes were claiming women’s rights, African-American women continued to be excluded from these claims. It was not before the civil rights movement gained momentum and intellectuals such as Angela Davis, Bell Hooks, Audre Lorde, Patricia Hill Collins, and Alice Walker shed light on the double disenfranchisement of African American women. Hence, blues songs about death, murder and crime by women such as Victoria Spivey represent an early performative example of resistance and a coded call for female self-empowerment.

3  “It Ain’t Him to Blame”: Murder and Sonic Protest After hearing gun shots, Patty Valentine takes a good look at the shocking crime scene in a bar. The bartender lies dead in a pool of blood. Patty Valentine cries out “My God, they killed them all!” After this classic opening of a murder ballad, we get to hear the full “story of the Hurricane” in all its details and political repercussion over 8 min and 33 s. The story of the black American middleweight boxing champion Rubin Carter, known as “Hurricane” is a deplorable example of arresting, indicting and sentencing an African American for life imprisonment by an all-white jury for the murder despite the lack of clear evidence. The song was co-written, recorded and performed in 1975 by Bob Dylan, a mythical figure of pop culture, a moral guide, cultural reference point, iconic protest singer and winner of the Nobel Prize in literature. The work of Dylan on killings as expressed in songs such as “Ballad of Hollis Brown” (1963), “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” (1964), “John Wesley Harding” (1967), “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” (1973) “The Barroom Man” (1976), “Joey” (1976), “Brownsville Girl” (1986), or “Spirit on the Water” (2006)—to name but a few—often refers to the tradition of murder ballads. In his musical narratives and performances, Dylan offers a political commentary on the American fascination with violence, outlaws, and the history of violence against minorities. Dylan’s conflicting role as a prominent performer during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in Washington, DC, on August 29, 1963, to advocate for the civil and economic rights of African Americans is a remarkable example to understand the intersection of murder ballads and sonic protest. Protest music, as Denton, Smith and Stewart argue, emerges from a perceived state of “relative deprivation” (2001: 42). Others connect protest songs with the glue for a social movement to identify and solve a problem (see Knupp 1981: 383). Playing and listening to music can signify political action as scholars of the civil rights movement and the post-war popular left in the United States have documented (Denning 1996; Denisoff 1971; Grossberg 2004; Peddie 2006; Saul 2003; Ward 1998). What is lacking from this approach is the cultural contextualization of the performance of the songs, as well as the acoustic dimension, processes of mediation and remediation in synchronic and diachronic fashion. The function of protest and music in the context of one of the crucial events of the civil rights movement is a remarkable example. It is important to understand that protest songs are performed within a network of medial

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connections and interactions of media. We need to understand that protest music of the 1960s was perceived in a synaesthetic environment, be it in concerts, political rallies, on mediated frameworks. Bob Dylan was one of the iconic figures who emerged from this musical spirit and became a leading voice in the 1960s. With his nasal, thin, and sometimes broken voice accompanying his sharp poetical compositions on acoustic guitar, he clearly evoked the spirit of Woody Guthrie’s folk songs and political messages of the preceding generation. For white folk music performers, the 1963 Newport Folk Festival from July 26th–25th functioned as a kind of warm-up for the March on Washington. Attracting about 40.000 visitors, the line-up at the final concert featured Theodore Bikel, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Pete, Paul, and Mary, Pete Seeger as well as Ruth Mae Harris, Charles Neblett, Cordell Reagon, Bernice Johnson, who joined together in singing “We Shall Overcome” (see Cohen 2005: 237). Another crucial performance, which connected the early protest songs of Dylan with the cause of the March on Washington, was his appearance at a voter registration rally in Greenwood, Mississippi, organized by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) on July 6, 1963. In Greenwood, Dylan performed one of the songs, which he also deemed most appropriate for his appearance in front of the Lincoln Memorial to join the cause of the marchers: “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” Here, Dylan critically remediates the assassination of civil rights activist Medgar Evers on June 12, 1963 in Jackson, Mississippi. Interestingly, it was the well-known folk singer Pete Seeger, who requested the song from Dylan. The song is an appropriate selection due to the timely tragedy of the killing of Evers. The performance creates an intertextual link with the March’s program with speeches on the main stage. Following the opening remarks by A. Philip Randolph and remarks by Dr. Eugene Carson Blake (Vice chairman, Commission on Race Relations of the National Council of Churches of Christ in America), the “tribute to Negro Women Fighters for Freedom” was presented by no other than Mrs. Medgar Evers to honor Daisy Bates, Gloria Richardson, and Rosa Parks among others. In the lyrics, Dylan talks about the killing of the civil rights activist Medgar Evers in an unusual fashion compared to other murder ballads. He refrains from describing the murder in detail, explicitly condemning the racist dimension of the event, or putting the blame exclusively on the white Southerner. We hear about a bullet, a hand with a finger on the trigger, eyes observing the victim. The verse ends with the reference “But he can’t be blamed” (http://bobdylan.com). Dylan identifies the real criminals behind the deed in the political and social milieu responsible for propagating racial hatred and violence. Apart from the Ku Klux Clan, Dylan refers to political rulers: Deputy sheriffs, soldiers, governors, marshals, and policemen. While they are often well-off with good paying jobs, Dylan argues that “the poor white man” is merely a tool in their workshop. The assassin resembles a wheel in a large machine that continues to run on the fuel of slavery, racial segregation, and class boundaries. In a surprising twist, Dylan takes away part of the blame from the perpetrator in order to address larger political and philosophical issues that remained unresolved in the United States. In clear words, the lyrics introduce the listener to

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the social milieu of people who live in poverty shacks, how they learn to “walk in a pack,” become used to shooting people in the back, to accept the practice of lynching and hanging without showing any sign of emotion. However, this anonymous person, as Dylan explains, is not to blame: “He’s only a pawn in their game” (http:// bobdylan.com). The critical approach to southern racialism, the suppression of both African Americans and “poor white men,” and what Shelton called the “confusion of victim with victimizers” (2011: 153), complicated the binary opposition of “whites” versus “blacks” caused by racial hatred. After the March on Washington, Dylan became suspicious of his involvement in larger protest movements and rebelled against his classification as protest singer. On 15 March 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson made a speech to Congress featuring the headline “We Shall Overcome” to comment on the march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama to register African Americans to vote. In an interview in his Biograph, Dylan critically commented on the use of the song title, which Jim Forman dismissed as an “empty symbol” (quoted in Marqusee 2005: 132). “It’s like Lyndon Johnson saying we shall overcome to a nationwide audience, ridiculous … there’s an old saying, “if you want to defeat your enemy, sing his song” and that’s pretty much still true” (2004: 132). In Chronicles Dylan commented that Lyndon B. Johnson had “interpreted the idea [behind “We Shall Overcome”] to suit himself, rather than to eradicate it” (90). In other interviews, Dylan explained that protest songs were problematic for various reasons. In addition to his conviction that people did not listen closely enough, Dylan recognized that “songs aren’t going to save the world” (Shelton 201). Even more explicit, he felt that he had been used by the protest movement to a certain degree losing control over his performances. The civil rights and protest songs, I wrote when nobody else was writing them. Now, everyone is. But I’ve found out some things. The groups promoting these things, the movement, would try to get me involved with them, be their singing spokesman—and inside these groups, with all their president-vice-president-secretary stuff, it’s politics. Inside their own pettinesses they’re as bad as the hate groups (Shelton 2011: 201).

Another moment of disillusionment for Dylan might have been the film footage of his performance at the March on Washington. After the announcement of his performance of “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” the organizers on the main stage turn their backs on Dylan, standing behind him, talking and expressing no interest in what he is going to communicate about the killing of Medgar Evers through his performance. This footage offers another clue for Dylan’s growing disenchantment with his status as a protest singer who could be hired and exploited for a variety of agendas and events. Dylan went electric after his realization that he had become “a pawn” in other people’s game. Hence, the electrification of his music is also a sounding signifier for a change of his musical politics.

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4  Conclusion In this chapter, I approached murder ballads from a three-fold perspective: (a) asking about the function of remediating oral history of murder in bluegrass music, (b) reframing murder as early black feminist statements in the genre of blues, and (c) investigating to what degree murder ballads engage political protest for the cause of minorities. The sociopsychological and cultural negotiations of murder ballads in different musical genres and sociopolitical contexts opens up a rich field of research which I have only been able to roughly sketch in this short overview of select case studies. The gendered narratives in the genres of folk, bluegrass, blues, or rock reveals how the romance with charismatic anti-heroes or heroines can offer moments of self-empowerment within and outside the United States. No doubt, more work needs to be done to better understand the multivalent function and sonic politics of murder ballads in both national and transnational contexts. In the words of Nick Cave covering a famous song by Bob Dylan at the end of his album Murder Ballads: “Death Is Not the End.”

References Bendix, Regina F. and Galit Hasan-Rokem (eds.). A Companion to Folklore. Malden, MA: Wiley-­ Blackwell, 2012. Cohen, Norm. Folk Music: A Regional Exploration. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2005. Davis, Angela Y. Blues Legacies and Black Feminism. New York: Random House, 1998. Denisoff, R. Serge. Great Day Coming: Folk Music and the American Left. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1971. Denning, Michael. The Cultural Front: The Laboring of American Culture. New York: Verso, 1996. Denton, R.E.J., C.A. Smith, and C.J. Stewart. Persuasion and Social Movements. 4th ed. Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, 2001. Durkheim, Emile. The Division of Labor in Society. New York: Free, 1984. Fernandez, I. “Brides’ Tales: Visions of Feminine Virtue and Degradation in Nick Cave’s Murder Ballads.” Radical Musicology, 6 (2012). http://www.radical-musicology.org.uk/2012/ Fernandez.htm#_ednref11 (accessed 01 Nov. 2019) Fluck, Winfried. “American Studies and the Romance with America: Approaching America through Its Ideals.” Romance with America? Essays on Culture, Literature, and American Studies. Laura Bieger and Johannes Voelz (eds.). Heidelberg: Winter, 2009. (87-104). Grossberg, Lawrence. “Another boring day in paradise: Rock and roll and the empowerment of everyday life.” Popular Music. Critical Concepts in Media and Cultural Studies. Simon Frith (ed.). Vol. 2. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. (311-342). Kaltmeier, Olaf and Wilfried Raussert (eds.). “Introduction: Sonic Politics: Music and the Narration of the Social in the Americas from the 1960s to the Present.” Sonic Politics. Music and Social Movements in the Americas. Routledge, 2019. (1-18). Knupp, Ralph E. “A Time for Every Purpose Under Heaven: Rhetorical Dimensions of Protest Music.” Southern Speech Communication Journal. 46:4 (1981): 377-389. Levine, Lawrence. Black Culture and Consciousness. Afro-American Folk Thought from Slavery to Freedom. New York: Oxford University Press, 1977. Marqusee, Mike. Wicked Messenger: Bob Dylan and the 1960s. Chimes of Freedom. Revised and Expanded. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2005.

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McClary, Susan. Feminine Endings: Music, Gender, & Sexuality. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991. Mehring, Frank. The Democratic Gap: Transcultural Confrontations of German Immigrants and the Promise of American Democracy. Heidelberg: Winter, 2014. Mehring, Frank. “Only a Pawn in their Game? Civil Rights Sounding Signatures in the Summer of 1963.” Sonic Politics: Music and Social Movements in the Americas. Olaf Kaltmeier and Wilfried Raussert (eds.). New York: Routledge, 2019. (51-72). Mehring, Frank and Erik Redling (eds.). “Sound & Vision: Intermediality and American Music. Introduction.” Sound and Vision: Intermediality and American Music. Special guest-edited issue of European Journal of American Studies 12.4 (Winter 2017). https://journals.openedition.org/ejas/12384 Menninger, Karl. The Crime of Punishment. New York: Viking, 1966. Peddie, Ian (ed.) The Resisting Muse: Popular Music and Social Protest. Burlington: Ashgate, 2006. Pinn, Anthony B. (ed.). Noise and Spirit. The Religious and Spiritual Sensibilities or Rap Music. New York: New York University, 2003. Russell, Diane and Roberta Harmes (eds). Femicide in Global Perspective. New York: Teachers College Press, 2001. Saul, S. Freedom is, Freedom Ain’t: Jazz and the Making of the Sixties. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003. Shelton, Robert. No Direction Home. The Life and Music of Bob Dylan. Revised and updated edition. London: Omnibus Press, 2011. Slotkin, Richard. Regeneration through Violence. The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1973. Southern, Eileen. The Music of Black Americans. A History. 3rd Edition. New York and London: Norton & Company, 1997. Trager, Oliver. The American Book of the Dead. The Definitive Grateful Dead Encyclopedia. New York: Fireside, 1997. Tunnell, Kenneth D. “99 Years is Almost For Life: Punishment for Violent Crime in Bluegrass Music.” Journal of Popular Culture. 26.3 (Winter 1992): 165-181. Tunnell, Kenneth D. “A Cultural Approach to Crime and Punishment, Bluegrass Style.” Cultural Criminology. Jeff Ferrell and Clinton Sanders (eds.). Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1995 (80-105). Ward, Brian. Just my Soul Responding: Rhythm and Blues, Black Consciousness and Race Relations. London: University of California Press, 1998. Wernick, Peter. Bluegrass Songbook. New York: Oak Publications, 1976. West, Cornel. “Black Postmodernist Practices.” Cultural Theory and Popular Culture. A Reader. John Storey (ed.). 4th Ed. Edinburgh: Pearson Educational Ltd., 2009. (383-387). Wicke, Peter. Rock Music: Culture, Aesthetics, and Sociology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990; Winik, Stephen D. “Folklore and/in Music.” A Companion to Folklore. Bendix, Regina F. and Galit Hasan-Rokem (eds.). Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012. (464-482).

Part III

Organised Crime and Music

Praise the Drug Lord: Narcocorridos in Mexico Klaas Wellinga

Within a week, at the beginning of December 2007, three Mexican musicians were brutally murdered. The singer Zayra Peña, who had survived an attack the day before, was finished off in a hospital bed on the first of December. The next day, the cruelly tortured body of Sergio Gómez, the lead singer of the famous band K-Paz de la Sierra was found in a ditch. Three days later José Luis Aquino Lavariega, of the group Los Conde, was murdered. The reports on these killings in newspapers and on television all over the world, almost always linked them with the narcocorridos these artists would have had on their repertoire, the ballads that celebrate, according to their detractors, the drug business and the use of drugs. The journalists also mentioned, of course, previous murders of artists involved in the scene of música norteña, the music from the Northern states of Mexico, a wide range of musical styles, mostly based on polka or waltz rhythms and performed by small groups that use pieces like the 12-string guitar, bass, drums, and accordion, or by big brass bands. Earlier in 2007 nine interpreters of the música norteña had already been slain: the four members of the Tecnobanda Fugaz, the four musicians of Los Padrinos de la Sierra, and Ramón Berumen Rivas of the band Los Vizárraga, none of them very well-known artists, and for that reason their death went largely unnoticed in the media. Not at all unnoticed had gone a year before, in November 2006, the execution-style killing of the popular narcocorrido singer Valentín Elizalde who was gunned down, with his manager and driver, in front of dozens of people after a concert in Reynosa. Nor went unnoticed, a couple of weeks later, the murder of Javier Morales of the band Los Implacables del Norte. And the killings did not stop: nine musicians were assassinated in 2008, the most spectacular being the attack on the group Brisas del Mar on the 18th of March. Gunfire was opened on them while With thanks to Francisco Lasarte. K. Wellinga (*) Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_7

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on stage, killing the lead singer and injuring three members of the band. In Que me entierren con narcocorridos (Play narcocorridos at my burial), a book published in 2012, investigative journalist Edmundo Pérez records the killing of some 50 musicians. By now (2019) the total number has probably risen to some 90 singers and musicians. Probably, because the killing of unknown or less-known singers and musicians most of the time goes unnoticed in the media. That is, of course, not the case of spectacular killings, the trademark of the murders committed by the sicarios (hitmen) of the drug cartels. Some examples. On December 4th 2012, in the city of Chihuahua, in the nightclub Far West—what’s in a name?—a group of hitmen opened fire upon La 5a Banda, the band on stage, killing 5 members and the manager and severely wounding 2 members of the group; among the public 4 persons were killed and 11 wounded. A month later, on January first 2013, after performing in a small town near Monterrey, the band Kombo Kolombia was abducted, tortured, killed and thrown into a well: 14 musicians and 3 technicians died. One member of the group escaped, or better: the killers let him escape so he could tell the world what had happened. And all over the world the massacre made headlines. Remarkable, however, is that more than half of the murdered artists never had anything to do, though the media did make that link, with narcocorridos. The three victims of December 2007, whose death was widely covered in the media, never sang narcocorridos, making it hard to link their murders with their repertoire. Nor did the group Kombo Kolombia. And since none of the killers has been caught—98% of the crimes in Mexico are never solved—, the motives for their assassination will never be known. On the other hand, all the murdered artists were active in the field of música norteña, a subculture the narcos also belong to. And it is well known that the narcos1 invest in music groups and, in exchange, make demands or ask for favors that cannot be refused. Besides, the musicians are hired to perform at the parties of the narcos and in bars and nightclubs visited, or even owned, by narcos. So the narcos and the artists move in the same scene and in that (violent) scene a death sentence is easily pronounced. For fooling around with the “wrong” woman, as was the case of the singer Alfredito Olivas, who, on February 28th 2015, received seven bullets for flirting, while singing on stage, with a woman in the public: her friends, obviously, were not amused.2 For not paying debts, for not paying extortion, for refusing to perform, for offending a narco, or for “treason,” as was probably the case of Kombo Kolombia who at the beginning of their career were financed by the Zetas Cartel, played at parties and in clubs of the cartel but also performed later on for the Gulf cartel the Zetas were at war with. All of these motives have nothing to do with the narcocorridos many of the murdered musicians sang, as the media do suggest. But in some cases there is a direct link between de narcocorridos the musicians sing and the reason they got murdered. And that cannot be disconnected from the development  The term narcos refers to everybody involved in the drug business, from the big bosses to the mules. Remarkable is that narco also is used as a prefix, a rare phenomenon in the Spanish language, but telling for the impact of the “business”. 2  Olivas was lucky, he survived. 1

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of the drug business and the bloody war between the drug cartels in Mexico and its impact on the evolution of the narcocorridos, on the characteristics of the genre and on the attitude of the authorities toward songs that, in their opinion, glorify crime.

1  Evolution and Characteristics Corridos go way back to the end of the eighteenth century, telling stories, like the actual yellow press, about disasters, murders, accidents, criminals, (social) bandits and dramatic (mostly sensational) events, sometimes even events that occur in other countries like, to mention a recent example, the attack on the Twin Towers. Their golden age was during the Mexican Revolution (1910–1917), with songs about battles and revolutionary heroes like Zapata and Villa, but also about common people and criminals. After the Revolution the genre became less popular but the tradition of telling in songs what happened in the country (and the rest of the world) never died. During the Prohibition years (1920–1933) there were corridos about liquor smuggling into the United States like the famous song Los tequileros (The Tequila Smugglers), and, shortly after, even corridos about drug smuggling: the first narcocorridos date from 1934, but no more than a couple are known, probably because only a few were recorded. But that changes in the sixties and seventies, due to the big demand for marihuana in the USA, leading to an enormous rise in the production and smuggling from Mexico. And the corridos, of course, reflect these new developments. Generally, it is assumed that—apart from some predecessors—the genre of narcocorridos began in 1972 with the big hit Contrabando y traición (Smuggling and Betrayal), by Los Tigres del Norte, a song that recounts the (fictional) story of a successful drug running and a tragic love. This song has been adapted for the screen, there are follow-up songs, and the characters of the song have become emblematic. From then on, the Tigres, because of the commercial success of this type of corridos, began to extend their repertoire of narcocorridos and their example (and success) was followed by thousands of bands and singers. In the beginning the lyrics of these songs were fictional, but since about 1980 these corridos began to mention the exploits of real, mostly still living (and wanted), narcos and real events, though they haven’t stopped making fictional corridos. Some bands, like the famous Grupo Exterminador, never sing about real narcos or real events, and the reasons are simple, as singer/composer Francisco Quintero points out: “I don’t mess with those people, messing with them is dangerous. [Our songs] are about persons that don’t exist” (Wald 2001: 126). Narcocorridos can be defined as “the ideological discourse of the traffickers who can express their vision through the corridos for the first time since the seventies, against the official discourse that had been hegemonical and had them stigmatized” (Astorga 1996). No wonder the Mexican authorities have tried to ban the genre, but they have only been successful in “voluntary” bans by radio stations. Besides, these bans have only sparked the popularity of the genre: it’s everywhere available on

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CDs and cassettes, blares out of car radios—though in some parts of the country you get fined for playing narcocorridos in your car—and can be heard at the concerts of the groups and on radio stations that don’t ban them, particularly in the Southern parts of the United States;3 and, of course on the web: most of all on the YouTube website. This “ideological discourse” of the narcos has lately become more explicit and harsher. In the beginning the songs were mostly, as Ramírez-Pimienta (2004) calls them, corridos del narcotráfico: ballads about the dangers of smuggling, the clashes and shootouts with the cops, the military, the Border Patrol or the DEA and, above all, about the courage of the traffickers. The product they smuggled did not really matter, it could have been anything. What mattered was the action, the adventure, the courage of the smugglers, as was also the case in the corridos about liquor-­ smugglers during Prohibition. In the beginning there were also songs about (honest) policemen and military, and most of the songs condemned, as Herrera-Sobek (1979) signals, drug trafficking. About 1990 all of this changes: only since then the real “ideological discourse” of the narcos comes to the fore, coincidentally with the rise of the Mexican cartels, which in the nineties displaced the Colombians more and more. Musically this change coincides with the appearance of the group Los Tucanes de Tijuana. As The New York Times puts it: “But in the 90’s, young musicians like the Tucans have carried the corridos toward overt celebration of the narcotics culture.”4 And these are, if we follow the distinction Ramírez-Pimienta makes, the real narcocorridos, the songs that, as their critics say, glamorize the narcos and drug use. What are, exactly, the characteristics of this “ideological discourse” of the narcos? In general it can be stated that it undermines the basic assumption of the whole US War on Drugs: the idea that the US drug problems can be solved attacking the supply, instead of the demand. For the singers, on the contrary, it all has to do with the insatiable demand for drugs in the US, but they don’t see that as a problem. For them it’s a blessing, as Los Tucanes sing in Clave privado (Private Code): Voy a seguir trabajando mientras tenga compradores. En los Estados Unidos allá existen los mejores Compran cien kilos de polvo como compran unas flores

I’ll go on working as long as I have buyers In the United States they are the best They buy 100 kilos of coke as if it were flowers

Or, as the same group sings in Mis tres animales (My three animals5):

 Los Angeles is the big center of narcocorridos.  Sam Dillon: “San Luis Potosi Journal; Mexico’s Troubadours Turn From Amor to Drugs”, 19.2.1999. 5  The three animals are: the parrot, the goat, and the rooster. Slang for: coke, heroine and marihuana. 3 4

Praise the Drug Lord: Narcocorridos in Mexico En California y en Nevada, en Texas y Arizona y también allá en Chicago, tengo unas cuantas personas que venden mis animales más que hamburguesas en el McDonald’s.

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In California and in Nevada, in Texas and Arizona and also over there in Chicago I have got some people who sell my animals better than hamburgers at McDonald’s

This song, one of the big hits of the genre, also states clearly that it is not the fault of the traffickers (the supply-side), and that everybody is free to use drugs or not (the demand-side): Dicen que mis animales van a acabar con la gente, pero no es obligación que se les pongan enfrente. Mis animales son bravos. Si no saben torear, pues no le entren.

They say my animals will kill the people, but no one is forced to stand up to them. My animals are fierce. If you don’t know how to fight, don’t face them.

Warnings against drug use, of course, don’t abound in the narcocorridos from the 1990s on. One of the few exceptions is the tearjerker El dolor de un padre (A Father’s Grief) by Los Tigres. A spoken fragment from this song: “… porque la droga te hace perder la vida, la familia, la vergüenza y tus facultades mentales. Y sepan que por esa maldita droga, hospitales, cárceles y panteones, es el último final” (… drugs make you lose your life, your family, your shame, and your mental faculties. Beware that because of these damned drugs your will end up in hospital, prison, or the grave). Cautiously—perhaps hypocritically in view of their other corridos—they put the blame on the traffickers in the last strophe of the song: Yo conozco algunas gentes que ahora son traficantes. Sepan que yo perdí un hijo y ustedes son los causantes. Disculpen si los ofendo pero es el dolor de un padre.

I know some people who are now traffickers. I lost a son, you know, and you’re to blame. Please take no offense it’s the grief of a father.

And the song ends with the sound of a kiss and then a child’s voice, saying in English: “I love you Daddy.” This song is, however, an exception. Since the 1990s, thanks most of all to the Tucanes, the songs celebrate the use of drugs (and alcohol), though they never sing about the effects, only about how nice and pleasant it is to use them.

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The narcocorridos also state clearly that the reason why so many Mexicans are involved in the drug business is social exclusion: la maldita pobreza (the goddamn poverty).6 Los Pumas del Norte leave no doubt about it in their song El agricultor (The Farmer): Por ambición al dinero me metí en el contrabando. No soporté la pobreza, las promesas me cansaron. Me estaba muriendo de hambre y todo por ser honrado. Al igual que muchos otros tengo derecho a la vida. Yo sé que el negocio es duro, que traigo en cuello mi vida porque ando contra la ley. Desde que entré lo sabía, pero pa’ salir de pobre ésta es la única salida.

Because I wanted money I got involved in smuggling. I could not bear poverty, promises made me sick. I was dying of hunger and only ’cause I was honest. Like many others I have the right to live. I know the business is hard that I’m risking my life ’cause I don’t abide the law. Since I began, I knew, but to escape poverty that’s the only way out.

And there will never come an end to the drug business, so tells the song Ya la barranca parió (The Ravine Bore Fruit) by the same band, as long as there is poverty: Las leyes buscan la hierba por cielo, mar y por tierra, mas nunca van a acabarla, puedo jugarles apuestas. Lo que deben combatir es la maldita pobreza.

The authorities look for weed in the sky, the sea, and on land, but they will never stop it, I can bet you that. What they have to fight is the goddamn poverty.

All the actors in the narco business figure in the songs: the small producers, the drivers, the pilots, the dealers, the kingpins, the money launderers, the hit men, the traitors… The most popular drug lord of the narcocorridos in recent years is Chapo Guzmán, most of all because of his sensational escapes from prison in 2001 (in a laundry wagon) and in 2014 (through a tunnel dug from the outside of the maximum-­ security prison to his cell). Hundreds of corridos have been made about this leader  More than 40% of Mexicans live in poverty: the drug business and immigration to the USA are options to have a better life. This, of course, does not mean all of the narcos are from humble origins. The business is, because of the enormous sums of money involved, also attractive for other groups—many state governors worked for the cartels—, but narcocorridos center on the maldita pobreza as the reason why many people become narcos. The genre also blames the authorities and their corruption for the poverty a lot of Mexicans live in. 6

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of the Sinaloa cartel. Songs about his escape appeared already a couple of hours afterwards on YouTube! In the past there were lots of songs recounting the exploits of kingpins like Caro Quintero, Amado Carrillo “The Lord of the Skies,” and the Arellano Félix family, and that tradition has never stopped. The stories the corridos tell are about actions, clashes with the law, drug running, shootouts, killings, but there are also songs about the ‘tools of the trade’ (planes, cars, machine guns) and, by the hundreds, about the patron-saint of the narcos, the social bandit Jesús Malverde. The fundamental message the lyrics of the narcocorridos drive home, is that the whole business offers the possibility to escape poverty, to be someone, to enjoy the good things of life: cars, jewelry, drugs, alcohol, weapons, luxury houses and, most of all, women. The risks they run are, however, great, as the songs—in this case Jaime Gonzales, by Los Tucanes—indicate: El negocio de las drogas te deja mucho dinero pero tarde que temprano vas a caer prisionero. Esto si corres con suerte. Si no, vas al agujero.

The drug business leaves you a lot of money but sooner or later they will arrest you. If you’re lucky If not: a hole in the ground.

But a short, good life is far better than a life of misery, as Los Tigres sing in Por ser sinaloense (Because I’m from Sinaloa): Ni modo, soy traficante. Sé que me busca el gobierno. Ya me cansé de ser pobre y andar deseando lo ajeno. Más vale un rato de gloria y no una vida de infierno.

No way, I’m a trafficker. I know the government wants me. but I’m fed up with being poor and wanting someone else’s property. Better a moment of glory than a whole life in hell.

The law is no threat at all for the narcos: the real danger comes from traitors and rivals. In many songs traitors (dedos: fingers) are threatened, for example in El dedo (The Finger) by the Grupo Exterminador: Encerrado en Almoloya hoy me encuentro prisionero porque alguien de mi confianza con la ley me puso el dedo. Que. se cuide ese marica que lo hallen mis pistoleros.

In Almoloya prison I’m now in jail because one I trusted betrayed me to the law. The faggot better watch himself for my gunmen will find him.

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The narcos are not afraid of the law. In most of the corridos—a vision shared by the majority of the Mexicans—the authorities (police, government officials, and the military) are corrupt, as Marcos Puente sings in El cártel de polvo (The coke cartel): Era un cártel influyente porque sabía compartir entre policías y jueces. Nadie podía resistir. Es mejor hacerse rico que arriesgarse a morir.

It was an influential cartel cause they knew how to share with cops and judges. No one could resist them. It’s better to be rich than risking to die.

And when they’re not corrupt, they’re cowards, as Los Tucanes sing in Gerardo el Poderoso (Gerardo the Powerful): Por la espalda le tiraron. They shot him in the back. Fueron trescientos soldados Three hundred soldiers los que el gatillo jalaron. pulled the trigger.

The narcos, on the contrary, are the incarnation of nationwide appreciated values like courage, daring, intelligence, toughness, machismo, generosity, and loyalty. The metaphors used to describe them (lions, tigers, eagles, and, most of all, fighting cocks) also show the admiration people feel for them. Everywhere, as the songs tell us, they are respected, above all because they offer more help to the people than the government. As Pepe Cabrera puts it in Ya mataron a Manuel (They killed Manuel): Cómo lamentan la muerte de Manuel Salcido Uzeta, el amigo de los pobres y el orgullo de la sierra.

Oh, how they mourn the death of Manuel Salcido Uzeta, the friend of the poor, the pride of the sierra.

Better still, as Los Pumas del Norte sing in El agricultor (The Farmer): Y al país traigo divisas I bring currency to the country y empleos estoy generando. and create jobs.

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2  The “Wrong Lyrics” The first narcocorridista killed was Chalino Sánchez.7 He was also one of the first singers to record, since 1989, corridos por encargo (on commission), songs of praise about small-time narcos in Los Angeles. Chalino—a “tough guy” who, as a 15 year old boy, killed the man who had raped his sister, fled to the USA and spent some time in US prisons where he began to write corridos about his fellow inmates—became famous when on the 20th of January 1992 at a concert in Coachella (USA) someone from the audience ran onto the stage and fired a pistol at Chalino who grabbed his own pistol and shot back. Then the public—and this is telling about the norteño music scene—started shooting also: eight people were injured and one was killed. This shooting was on all the television news programs in the USA and as a result Chalino’s fees and record sales rocketed. However, he enjoyed this sudden fame for only a short time because a couple of months later, on the 16th of May, after a concert in Sinaloa, the Mexican drug state par excellence, he was taken away by men in police uniforms and found dead the next morning with two bullets in the back of his head. One of the theories about this murder is that Chalino—who, after his death, became a cult figure—had been killed for a composition about a narco that did not go well with rivals or victims of that narco celebrated in Chalino’s song. Killed, therefore, for the “wrong” lyrics. But 14 years later, in November 2006, when the killing of musicians started to become a common practice and, within a couple of years, dozens of singers were killed, the situation in Mexico was quite different. In the 90s three cartels on the border with the US—Juárez, Tijuana, and The Gulf—controlled—with allies like the Sinaloa cartel in the interior—el negocio, the drug business and trafficking to the USA. There were some conflicts—recounted in corridos—but a “real” war broke out when, in 2003, the Federation (an alliance of the Sinaloa and the Juárez cartels) tried to take over the territories of the other two big cartels (Tijuana and The Gulf). Fighting now began in turfs that, because of the control the cartels had over their territory, usually had not experienced much violence except for some incidents that almost never made innocent victims. In this new context of violence, the government, in December 2006, decided to use the army to control the situation, but launching the military only made it worse. Capos got killed, leading to succession fights, and cartels fragmented: now, in 2019, there are nine cartels—only two of them big, nationwide (and international) organizations: Cártel Jalisco Nueva Generación and Sinaloa—and hundreds of small organizations, some of them independent, others allied to the (big) cartels. Some of the cartels—and all of the smaller criminal organizations—also engaged in other criminal activities like human trafficking, kidnapping, prostitution, extortion, assaults which affected the population, and that was not the case when the cartels limited their criminal activities to 7  For a portrait of Chalino Sánchez, see: Sam Quinones (2001) True Tales from Another Mexico. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. More than a 100 corridos have been made about Chalino.

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drug trafficking. Fighting spread over the whole country and the death toll—apart from a slight decrease in the period 2012–2014, rose every year. During the presidencies of Calderón (2006–2012) and Peña Nieto (2012–2018) 275,000 murders were committed—70% drug related, according to criminologists, but that does not mean that all of the victims are criminals: there are a lot of collateral and innocent victims, but it is unknown how many because more than 95% of all crimes in Mexico remain unsolved. In 2018 the murder rate was 90–100 a day—four an hour—and the first months of 2019 were even worse. And the murders are, in order to make an impact and spread fear, often atrocious: a lot of the bodies—often dumped in public places—have been tortured, beheaded, and dismembered. Apart from that, there are 40,000 (reported) missing persons, 26,000 unidentified bodies, and 1.6 million displaced persons. Thousands of narcofosas (narco graves) have been found all over the country: a headline in the journal La Jornada, on May the 10th 2019, reads: “México es una enorme fosa clandestina,” admiten autoridades (Authorities admit: “Mexico is an enormous clandestine graveyard”) According to surveys from early 2019, 80% of the population feels unsafe in their cities, 60% don’t let their children play on the street, members of one of every three families have been victims of crime. This is the new context of the narcocorridistas, and Valentín Elizalde was, probably, the first singer to suffer the consequences. His killing, in November 2006, in Reynoso, a city controlled by the Gulf Cartel, was immediately linked to the song A mis enemigos (To My Enemies) he sang twice during the concert after which he was executed. Elizalde would have been killed by the Zetas, the gunmen of the Gulf cartel, because of the song, according to many a tribute to Chapo Guzmán and an attack against his arch-enemies, the Zetas. Elizalde would have been a sicario musical—musical hit man—, an expression introduced by the weekly Zeta from Tijuana designating singers at the service of narcos to attack in their songs rival cartels. However, the song A mis enemigos does not mention any name at all. It speaks about enemies, certainly, but those enemies are not necessarily narcos, they could also be jealous rival singers, who, offensively, are compared to culebras (snakes) and perros (dogs) and are threatened: … sigan chillando, culebras, los quitaré del camino (“keep screaming, snakes, I’ll get rid of you”). It is not clear at all to whom the lyrics of the song refer, but on YouTube there appeared a video clip, uploaded by a certain matazetas (Zetas-killer) with photographs of murdered Zetas, threats against them and, at the end, a defiant photograph of Chapo Guzmán with a gun on one arm and a baby on the other. And the music score of the clip is A mis enemigos, sung by Valentín Elizalde. The general assumption is that this video clip—that, of course, was not uploaded by the singer himself, though he must have known of its existence—, has been the reason for his murder. Probably it also had to do with Elizalde’s sympathies for the Federation—nationwide he was well known for songs about the exploits and members of the cartel—and with the fact that he performed in Reynoso, in the state of Tamaulipas, a state controlled by the Zetas, the great enemies of the Federation. Probably—he was the first singer to be killed in the new context of the bloody war between cartels—he did not realize the risk he ran, that singers also

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would be a target in the war. Or, perhaps he thought that being a star made him untouchable. Other artists, however, were more cautious. In an interview8 published 2 years before Elizalde was killed, El As de la Sierra (The Ace of the Sierra), a singer from Sinaloa with a repertoire of pro-Sinaloa songs—just like Elizalde—, says he avoids certain parts of the country. Apart from that, he is always accompanied by bodyguards. His caution was quite logical, because since 1991 the Tijuana and Sinaloa cartels were already enemies and they tried, not in a full scale war, but in hits, to liquidate their opponents. Sensational—and recounted in the corrido Masacre en Vallarta by the Tucanes de Tijuana—was the shootout, on the 8th of November 1992, in a disco in Puerto Vallarta when federal policemen at the service of the Sinaloa Cartel tried to kill some of the leaders of the Tijuana Cartel who were protected by the State police of Baja California. Another famous “incident” was the attack on Chapo Guzmán, on the 24th of May 1993—recounted by Los Traileros del Norte in the corrido Quién tiene la culpa (Who’s to Blame)—at the airport of Guadalajara by sicarios of the Tijuana Cartel. El Chapo escaped, but in the shootout a Cardinal and six more persons were killed. The death of a Cardinal, of course, made big headlines and led, of course, also to a corrido. Elizalde and El As de la Sierra were not the only singers who expressed their sympathies for a particular cartel in the corridos. Nearly all of the singers do it, and the reason is quite simple: when a beginning musician decides to sing corridos about real narcos and real events, in a region controlled by a particular cartel, he cannot, even if he wanted to—and that is almost never the case—, sing about the enemies of that cartel. Apart from that, they sing in places (bars, clubs, and discos) frequented by cartel members, perform at private parties of narcos9 or even have friends or family active in the “business.” Or have been sponsored by the regional cartel at the beginning of their career. Or have composed corridos por encargo because, as the saying goes, a narco without a corrido doesn’t exist.10 But their  Martin Hodgson: “Death in the Midday Sun”. The Observer, 2004, September 19. In the same interview, he also admits he writes songs on commission: “I have a lot of fans who are … well, I call them business people. Mafia people, if you like. It’s nice to sing about them. It’s my job. If somebody pays me to do a corrido, I’ll do it. If they’re a Mafioso or not, it’s all the same to me”. 9  It is hard to refuse an invitation, even for famous singers or groups: a refusal could be seen as an insult. On the other hand, the big bosses pay well: fees from 15 to 250 thousand dollars are mentioned. Sometimes artists have been arrested—and almost immediately afterwards released—during raids by the police or the army at those parties, like, for example, Ramón Ayala, Los Cadetes de Linares, Remmy Valenzuela. Well-known artists who appear at narco parties are probably well treated. The unknown, local singers and groups do not have it so good. In an article by Jorge Damián Méndez Lozano on the website of SinEmbargo, entitled “‘You Won’t Leave until I Tell You’, musicians tell of their experience at narco parties” (16.9.2018), six singers relate how badly they were treated: they had to continue to play for a long time, were threatened, humiliated, and sometimes were not even paid. 10  Many well-known artists like, for example, El Komander, admit they made corridos por encargo. Sums mentioned range from 10 to 50 thousand dollars a song. Beginning artists are, of course, cheaper. Big capos don’t need to pay artists for corridos because songs about them are, just like books, television series, and movies, very lucrative: crime pays. 8

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(inevitable) involvement with a particular cartel constituted a big risk, as the killing of Elizalde demonstrated. Immediately after the murder of Elizalde,11 threats appeared on the web against other singers and groups who supposedly had links with cartels. Beto Quintanilla hastened to declare, because of the rumors he had been shot in retaliation for the murder of Elizalde: “In everything I have sung in the 30 years of my career in music, I never made corridos against anyone, I never speak of my enemies. Never against nobody.” The Tucanes de Tijuana, who were also threatened, declared themselves immediately neutral and non-partisan: their leader and composer Mario Quintero said: “I am very cautious when I make a corrido because you must not offend anyone; you have to be responsible and careful because you never know who will be offended.”12 Their songs, therefore, don’t offend or attack anyone. But it is crystal-­ clear, though they also have songs about rival cartels or kingpins like Chapo Guzmán, that most of their songs deal with members of the Tijuana cartel. And that’s also the case with Beto Quintanilla, who almost exclusively sings about the Gulf cartel and the Zetas,13 like, for example, the song Escolta suicida (Suicidal Escort): Soy del grupo de los Zetas que cuidamos al señor. Somos 20 de la escolta, pura lealtad y valor, dispuestos a dar la vida para servir al señor.

I belong to the Zetas who take care of the boss. Twenty bodyguards we are big loyalty and courage, ready to give our lives to serve our boss.

For this kind of songs the public identifies the singers and groups with certain cartels. It may be true they don’t offend or attack other cartels, but in the bloody war between the cartels it is not possible anymore to be neutral: a tribute to one, is an offense to the other. Worse still: someone can be celebrated in a corrido but at the same time be responsible for the (often gruesome) death of friends or family among the public. In northern Mexico, soon after the death of Valentín Elizalde, posters appeared in bars with a warning: “Artists, don’t praise, don’t offend. If not, you will be punished by man’s law: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” And, so could have been added: a singer for a singer. Neutrality, therefore, is not possible anymore and

 As was the case with Chalino Sánchez, the sale of albums by Elizalde rocketed sky high after his death. In 1 year three million albums were sold. Immediately after he was murdered 250,000 copies of his last album, Vencedor (The Winner), which includes the “notorious” song A mis enemigos, were made. 12  The reaction of Quintanilla and Quintero were published on the site Univisión.com in 2006, December the 4th (“Desmiente Beto Quintanilla su ‘muerte’”) and the 6th (“Son puros chismes”). 13  Just like his brother, Chuy Quintanilla, who was murdered in 2013 in Texas. Beto died in 2007, officially from a heart attack, though many believe he was killed. 11

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that is why only two options are left if you want to go on singing narcocorridos.14 The first is to stop singing about “historical” persons or events and make only fictional corridos as Grupo Exterminador always has done. The second option is to go on writing historical compositions, for sure an attractive option because of the money paid for corridos por encargo, but then, like El As de la Sierra, you have to hire bodyguards and/or avoid certain parts of the country. Avoiding certain parts of the country, however, ceased to be an option: there is no safe turf anymore since the war between the cartels also takes place in regions previously controlled by a specific cartel: heavy fighting is going on in all the regions. La 4a Banda, a group with a lot of songs about the Juárez Cartel—that’s where they started their career always performing before a public of members or sympathizers of the cartel—were killed, as mentioned before, in December 2012 while on stage in Chihuahua—for a long time the turf of the Juárez Cartel—in an attack directed precisely against them. The turf, however, was not safe anymore because the Sinaloa Cartel—till the end of 2004 an ally of the Juárez Cartel, but since then bitter enemies—was trying to gain control over the state of Chihuahua. The musicians were not only killed for being “at the wrong place, at the wrong time”—while Sinaloa and Juárez were at war in the state of Chihuahua—, but most of all for singing the “wrong lyrics”: killing musicians identified with the Juárez Cartel, during a performance, would have a greater impact, because of the publicity it would arouse, than a simple shootout in a bar. And that’s exactly what happened. The message the sicarios from Sinaloa left behind was clear: we can kill your musicians in your turf, so beware. Another incident with a singer that made headlines, even before Elizalde was killed, was the attack on Alberto Cervantes, the leader of Explosión Norteña (Northern Explosion) on the 10th of August 2006. According to the weekly Zeta from Tijuana15 the reason for this attack was supposedly the fact that this band worked as sicarios musicales (musical killers) for the Tijuana Cartel: the band was partisan and made no secret about it. Notable for this band—a characteristic they share with many groups that started since the violence escalated—were their lyrics: they are much stronger, rawer, and more obscene than the language used by famous groups like the Tigres and Tucanes who are, in comparison to these new bands,16 very decent and prudish. Explosión Norteña composed a lot of songs about the

 They also could stop with narcocorridos and dedicate themselves to the other types of song most of them already have on their repertoire. 15  Zeta is a courageous publication in the violent state of Baja California. Unlike other media in dangerous regions of Mexico, the weekly does not apply any form of self-censorship. The price it paid is, however, high: two staff members have been killed and the founder-editor, Jesús Blancornelas, who miraculously survived an attack of sicarios of the Tijuana Cartel—he was seriously wounded—, has been, since the attack, always protected by military bodyguards. 16  Older bands like Los Razos de Sacramento y Reynaldo and Los Originales de San Juan also use a quite strong and obscene language in their corridos pesados (hardcore corridos). 14

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killers of the Tijuana cartel like, for example, El tres letras (The Three Letters)17 or El Muletas (Crutches), La nueva generación (The New Generation), as they call them in a song dedicated to this new group of sicarios. Braggingly they sing in this corrido: La nueva generación es la que hoy ha nacido. Somos malditos de sangre de eso ya tienen testigos.

The new generation was born today. We are bloodthirsty, as you already noticed.

The band is also—and that’s new in the narcocorrido genre—offensive and threatening to the other cartels, the rivals of Tijuana. In the song El tres letras those rivals are called basura (dirt) they will limpiar (swipe away). And in the song Pura gente del Tigrillo (The Fine People of the Little Tiger)18 they threaten, again in a bragging way, Los Negros (The Negroes), the hit men of the Federation: Invadiendo territorio nadie nos puede parar. Vamos puro pa’delante, levantando y matando. Al que se pase de listo que se vaya persignando. Tenemos buen cocinero pa’ envenenar los gabachos. También a todos los negros que se vayan acabando. Que este país es de Tijuana y seguiremos mandando.

Invading territories nobody can stop us. We’ll just go ahead kidnapping and killing. Who tries to be smart better crosses himself. We have a good cook to poison the Yankees. And all the negroes let’s finish them off. This land belongs to Tijuana and we will be on top.

Remarkable for the band is also their detailed knowledge of the hierarchical structure of the cartel and that they know all the code names.19 It is clear they

 The Three Letters stand for El Teo: Teodoro García Simental. El Muletas is Raydel López. Two of the most notorious killers of the Tijuana cartel. El Teo was the leader of one of the factions into which the cartel split up. He was responsible for hundreds of executions. His “cook” confessed to have dissolved 300 people in acid. 18  El Tigrillo is Francisco Javier Arellano Félix, who followed up his brothers Ramón—killed in February 2002—and Benjamín—arrested in March 2002—as leader of the Tijuana cartel (aka CAF: Cartel Arellano Félix). El Tigrillo was arrested on the 14th of August 2006. 19  In the song Qué cincos mi comandante (What a Fives, Commander), about a drug transport, they sing, probably as an inside joke: “Después yo le echo un 50/Me está parando un 14/Y a lo lejos se divisa/que también se acerca un 12/yo ya no quiero más 15/aquí lo espero a las 11” (Later on I throw a 50 at him/A 14 stops me/In the distance you can see/A 12 is coming near/I don’t want any more 15/and wait here at 11). 17

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possessed inside information and that’s no surprise in view of the fact the group not only performed at parties of narcos or in clubs frequented by the sicarios of the cartel but that the leader of the band was also very close to the sicarios. He was arrested a couple of times, when the police raided meetings or parties of the Juárez Cartel and spend several years in prison. On September the first 2016 he was killed on the streets of Rosarito (Baja California).

3  The Movimiento Alterado According to narcocorrido specialists, the latest development in the genre is the Movimiento Alterado (Altered or Sick or High Movement), because of their hard core, hyper-violent, and partisan lyrics though in that sense they are only slightly different from groups like Explosión Norteña. A big difference, however, is that Explosión Norteña was only well known in the state of Baja California and, for security reasons, did not perform outside that state, while the Movimiento Alterado (M.A.) is a nationwide—and also USA—phenomenon, though most of the artists of the movement, because of their pro-Sinaloa Cartel lyrics, live in the USA, avoid regions in Mexico they consider too dangerous, and always go, during their tours in Mexico, accompanied by a lot of bodyguards. The M.A., also known as La enfermedad (The sickness),20 was launched in 2009 by the Valenzuela brothers, the owners of the production company Twiin Enterprises, founded in 2000  in Los Angeles. They also launched a website where they announce the tours of their artists, with clips and trailers of songs and movies that are viewed by tens of millions. They also have an online shop, called “Pura enfermedad” (Pure Sickness) that sells clothes, shoes, boots, CDs, and DVDs, products their artists promote during their concerts.21 On stage they also wear bulletproof jackets, fancy designer clothes, expensive watches, and sunglasses (the new narco look that children of the big bosses also promote on social media22) while they toss around with weapons and project, during their performances, at the back of the stage videos with scenes of violence, luxury, and sexy women. The singers and bands of the movement are big stars: the best known and most popular are Alfredo “El Komander” Ríos, Larry Hernández, RM, Los Buknas de Culiacán, Los Buitres de Culiacán and, though he in under contract with another record label, Gerardo Ortiz.

 Their corridos alterados are also called corridos enfermos (sick corridos).  In an article titled “This Guy Made a Fortune” (Bloomberg Businessweek, 17.1.18) Adolfo, one of the Valenzuela brothers, says: “[Twiins makes] millions of dollars in revenue from live performances and digital outlets, millions from YouTube, millions in sponsorship.” 22  A daughter and the last wife of Chapo Guzmán, Emma Coronel, also sell products online named after El Chapo. 20 21

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According to rumors, the whole movement (and business) is financed by the Sinaloa Cartel.23 Fact, and not rumor, is, as Omar Valenzuela admits in the Bloomberg Businessweek article, that “a few of Twiin’s artists write corridos on commission and play at parties for narcos” and that “Twiins had on occasion asked Sinaloa Cartel Bosses for permission before releasing music about their activities.” Omar does not mention a specific song, but this is certainly the case of a popular, notorious, and much cited song of the Movement, Sanguinarios del M1 (Bloodthirsty Killers of M1). Before releasing it, they asked the protagonist, Manuel Torres Félix, through his daughter, for approval of the lyrics.24 The identity of the lyrical subject is revealed in verses of the last two strophes of the song: “soy el número uno, de clave M1, respaldado por el Mayo y El Chapo” (I’m number 1, my code name is M1, backed by el Mayo and El Chapo) and “Manuel Torres Félix mi nombre, y saludos para Culiacán” (My name is Manuel Torres Félix, greetings to Culiacán). The song describes and praises the brutal killings committed by the men under his command, and, of course, by himself.25 The first strophe is telling for the tone: Con cuerno de chivo y bazooka en la nuca volando cabezas a quien se atraviesa. Somos sanguinarios, locos bien ondeados nos gusta matar.

With an AK-47 and a bazooka on our back blasting the heads of people standing in our way. We’re bloodthirsty, crazy and high on coke we like to kill.

And in the following strophes there are lines like: torturaciones, balas y explosiones para controlar [...] para hacer sufrir y morir a los contras hasta agonizar [...] hacer pedazos a gente a balazos [...] cuchillo afilado para degollar”) (“[we] torture, [use] bullets and explosions to establish control [we] make our enemies suffer and die in agony […] blasting them to pieces […] sharp knives to slit their throats.”) This kind of song constitutes a new trend in the narcocorridos genre. Other characteristics of the M.A., like the raw vocabulary and the celebration of drug and alcohol use—in hedonist songs about the party culture—are not new: Los Tucanes de Tijuana already celebrated parties and drug use, though their language is by far not as explicit or raw as in the corridos alterados. The attacks on enemies of a particular cartel—in the case of the M.A., the attacks on the enemies of the Sinaloa Cartel, like the corrido Matando Zetas (Killing Zetas), a pure war propaganda song—, are not new either. But the “songs on commission” or “on approval” of the  The Valenzuela Brothers also have a branch in Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa. In the Bloomberg Businessweek interview Adolfo Valenzuela also refers to the rumor: “Everyone was saying El Chapo was funding this.” 24  This kind of song could be baptized as “corridos on approval.” 25  Torres Félix was killed by the Army on October 13th 2012. 23

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M.A. are not at all comparable to earlier “songs on commission.” Those earlier corridos por encargo celebrated, often in the first person, values and qualities of the protagonist like his courage, fame, success, power, good deeds, and the respect and admiration people have for him. Values shared by many and that, certainly, are not present in image songs like Sanguinarios del M1: the protagonists in this corrido are feared and ferocious killers, and the songs celebrate their (often) brutal killings.26 But perhaps these songs only mirror the brutal escalation in ferocity that characterizes the drug war in Mexico, a war the Mexicans can see every day on the news and in their streets: perhaps the music that reflects this violence, and the people singing along with the violent lyrics and dancing to it, is a way to obtain release from the brutal reality. However, it is important that in this song, almost an advertisement for murder, the protagonist, as he presents himself in the last two strophes, announces he is backed by El Chapo and El Mayo. And he also mentions JT, Javier Torres, his brother. Three highly admired and respected people within the Sinaloa cartel, but also among large parts of the state’s population (and elsewhere in the country). It is at the service of the great leaders (Chapo and Mayo) that the brutal murders of their enemies are carried out, something that makes it—certainly with a public that sympathizes with the cartel and admires people such as El Chapo and El Mayo—almost a just cause. Certainly, too, because the enemies, in their eyes, are responsible for disturbing the pax narco that was in place when the Sinaloa Cartel still controlled their turf. And, therefore, also for the violence that increasingly victimizes the population. But the fact that brutal murders are becoming more and more normal in Mexico could also play a part.

4  The Ban on Narcocorridos The authorities in Mexico, however, will not tolerate texts of this kind. For years now, narcocorridos have been banned on Mexican radio and television; but not the artists who practice the genre, as long as they sing different kinds of texts. The last 10  years, some states, cities, and municipalities have also banned the singing of narcocorridos during live performances. Under Sinaloa governor Mario López Valdez (2011–2017) the ban also applied to bars and discos, and in cemeteries.27 If artists do not adhere to the ban, they are given a fine: in the city of Chihuahua, where

 Bands like Los Reyes de Alto Mando (Kings of the High Command), the sicarios musicales of the Caballeros Templarios (The Knights Templar), a cartel that controlled the state of Michoacán, composed the same type of bragging corridos about killing, but were only regionally well known. 27  On a video from 2010 the same governor can be seen dancing to the music of the group Calibre 50. In September 2016, the governor banned appearances by Gerardo Ortiz and Calibre 50, but brought the group Los Tigres del Norte in person from the airport for an appearance where they were able to sing undisturbed their great narcocorrido hits (Riodoce, 19.9.16). A photograph with the famous Tigres is, of course, no bad publicity for a politician. 26

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the singing of narcocorridos at concerts has been forbidden since 2011, the fine was raised in 2015 from 5000 dollars to 20,000, and in 2017 to 25,000—plus 36 h in jail—because the singers were not adhering to the ban (the amount was peanuts for them, and the audience wants to hear the great narcocorrido hits anyhow). The last few years some singers and groups have been turned away by fairs and concerts on account of their narcocorrido fame, despite the fact they also have different types of songs in their repertoire. This has affected, most of all, El Komander, the star of the M.A. Artists, on account of singing narcocorridos, may at times not be allowed to perform for a number of years in certain cities: the Tucanes de Tijuana have been banned in their city Tijuana since 2009.28 The arguments used by the authorities to justify this ban and prohibition are that the genre “glorifies crime and criminals.”29 The artists consider this an attack on freedom of expression and contend that the authorities’ position is hypocritical because crime series and films and books are not forbidden. Another argument the authorities use for the ban is the bad influence the narcocorridos would have on young people. To be sure, they could exert some influence, but the corridos are only one of the many elements charactering narco culture in Mexico: there is narco fashion, there are narco soap operas, narco saints, narco language, narco wannabees (buchones), etc. The underlying influence is poverty, however, as the corridos tell it: everyone, thus also young people, can see everywhere around them the “life of luxury” led by the narcos, who to a large extent have escaped the “goddamn poverty.” And to earn money—this can be the first step in a career in the business— young children begin to work for the narcos often as halcones (hawks, lookouts). The well-known journalist Javier Valdez, shot to death on May 15, 2017 by sicarios from a faction of the Sinaloa cartel, paints a good picture of the impact narco business has had on Mexican life in his book Miss Narco. Belleza, poder y violencia (2009: 264): “The narcos who pay off the police, who are the favorite clients of beauty salons, cell phone shops, expensive clothing boutiques, shoe stores, and car dealers. Narco business is everything. Narco business isn’t only violence, the police and the military against criminals. Narco business is omnipresent and omnipotent, like God. Our God of this and every day: every neighbor, repair shop, family member or friend, lover or fellow worker, someone sharing the road, a dining companion and the hairdresser, is involved: narco business is a way of life [...] Without narco business there are no restaurants, no car washes, casinos, tables, large shopping centers, Hummer or Saab automobiles, Lobo or Cheyenne or BMW trucks.” In their protest against the ban stipulations, artists also point to the media, upon which, they claim, they base their lyrics. When a Zeta journalist asks Beto Cervantes from Explosión Norteña why in his songs he sings about the wanted sicarios El  Bizarre, because no obstacles were placed in the way of a much rawer group such as Explosión Norteña. But the enemies of the Tijuana Cartel, which the group praised in its songs, did create obstacles: as already mentioned, Beto Cervantes, the leader of the group, was shot to death. 29  An argument the authorities do not report, but which for many plays a big role in the ban, is the criticism in the corridos of the corruption and involvement of the authorities in the drug business. 28

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Chiolo and El Cachorro, he tosses the ball back in his court: “For your very reasons: if you sell, we sell also. It’s simply marketing. We sing about things that newspapers tell us are happening. My first inspiration for the writing of corridos is ZETA.”30 And Mario Quintero, the leader of Los Tucanes de Tijuana, asserts: “The only difference between us and the 6 o’clock news is that we set the events to music.”31 An opinion he also incorporates in the corrido El promotor de box (The Boxing Promotor): La historia de este corrido Por prensa fue publicada. No crean que estoy inventando. Si fue cierto, no sé nada. Los versos ya estaban hechos, Yo sólo hice que rimaran.

The story of this corrido Was published in the press. Don’t believe I invented it. I don’t know if it’s true The verses were already composed I only made them rhyme.

Quintero is right when it comes to corridos that refer to specific events, though to be sure a note of admiration can always be divined in these songs—admiration is, of course, not a feature of “objective” journalism—but what he says certainly doesn’t apply to the corridos por encargo. These are often songs of pure praise, a long recounting of the qualities of the narco who has given the encargo, empty words, devoid of plot or facts.32 Another difference with the press is the absence in practically all narcocorridos of negative opinions about the narcos and their business. The songs almost never mention the victims, as opposed to the publications by journalists, which do report about the victims and unfavorably about the narcos and the authorities. However, these “wrong lyrics” have been costly for them. According to the National Human Rights Commission of Mexico, under the three previous Mexican presidents (2000–2018) 138 journalists were murdered and 24 disappeared.33 And under the new president, who was inaugurated on the first of December 2018, it’s not different: in the first 9 months of his presidential term 12 journalists have already been murdered. Almost all of them on account of their “wrong lyrics.”

 Zeta 11.8.2006, “Group fired upon” (ZETA investigations from an interview in December 2005).  In: Anne-Marie O’Connor, Traditional Ballads in a New Key, L.A. Times, 3.1.1997. 32  The question is whether these could be called corridos at all, since the narrative element often is completely absent. 33  Out of caution, many journalists in “dangerous” areas censure themselves. Tens of journalists have fled from their field of work, and tens more are covered by a government protection program. 30 31

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References Astorga, L. (1996) ‘Los corridos de traficantes de drogas en México y Colombia’, on: https://lasa. international.pitt.edu/LASA97/astorga.pdf, Retrieved April 10, 2002 Herrera-Sobek, M. (1979) The Theme of Drug Smuggling in the Mexican Corrido, in: Revista Chicano-Riqueña vol 7 no. 4, pp. 49-61 Pérez, E. (2012) Que me entierren con narcocorridos. Mexico: Grijalbo/Random House Quinones, S. (2001) True tales from another Mexico. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press Ramírez-Pimienta, J. (2004) Del corrido de narcotráfico al narcocorrido: Orígenes y desarrollo del canto a los traficantes, in: Studies in Latin American Popular Culture, XXIII, pp. 21-41 Wald, E. (2001) Narcocorrido. Un viaje al mundo de la música de las drogas, armas y guerrilleros. New York: Harper Collins Publications

Jazz and the Mob: A Story of Unexpected Patronage Frank Bovenkerk

1  Introduction In the first half of the twentieth century, there was a striking connection between the Mob and jazz musicians in some large American cities. Music critic and record producer John Hammond held that ‘no fewer than three in every four jazz clubs and cabarets were either fronted, backed or in some way managed by Jewish and Sicilian mobsters’ (Morris 1980: 4). Jazz expert Dan Morgenstern looked back at the history of jazz and observed that ‘You couldn’t keep a club going without underworld connections’ (Morgenstern quoted in Pullman 2012: 135). In the numerous stories about his life, Louis Armstrong described his intimate ties with manager Joe Glaser and Glaser’s relations with the Mafia (Brothers 1999: 160). The same holds true for Duke Ellington, who performed from 1927 to 1931 at New  York’s Cotton Club, which was owned by prominent underworld personality Owney (‘The Killer’) Madden, an associate of impresario Irving Mills ‘who always had a good relationship with gangsters’ (Cohen 2010; Teachout 2013). Frank Sinatra liked to openly spend time in Mafia circles. Although never convicted of anything, Sinatra had what FBI director J. Edgar Hoover called a real ‘hoodlum complex’ (Kaplan 2010). Jazz music started in the 1900s in the city of New Orleans as a fusion of black, creole and European music. It is typically improvised music and participation is basically open to anyone who can play well enough. Musicians of the generation of Louis Armstrong turned jazz into fine art and brought it to Chicago in the 1920s. Jazz became very popular as dance music that was played as ‘swing’ in larger orchestras in the 1930s in New  York, Kansas City and other cities. In the early 1940s, bebop music was developed in Manhattan by ‘jamming’ in small formations by instrumentalists such as Charlie Parker in joints where musicians would gather F. Bovenkerk (*) Willem Pompe Institute, University of Utrecht, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_8

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after their performance in the dance hall. From there jazz music would develop in a variety of styles as a respected music all over America and in the rest of the world. The mob period discussed here is considered to have been a feature of the past. Jazz musicians tended to be reluctant to talk about the mob history—they were either afraid or embarrassed—and it wasn’t until the 1970s that references were made to the issue in several autobiographies (Peretti 1995). African-American musicians did talk about their victimhood and efforts to cope with segregation, but rarely about the restrictions enforced by Mafiosi acting as their impresarios. Jazz was an excellent example of a rise from popular to highbrow culture, illustrating how the art or other objects, taste preferences or styles of the lower classes were now embraced by a ‘better’ audience.1 According to Gans (1974: 27), jazz illustrated how high culture borrowed from popular culture. Jazz musicians were aware of being part of a very unique experiment. Pianist Dr. Billy Taylor called jazz ‘America’s classical music’ and in Miles Davis’ opinion, ‘Schools should teach kids about black music. Kids should know that America’s only original contribution is the music that our black forefathers brought from Africa which has changed and developed here.’ During the Cold War, jazz musicians were recruited as goodwill ambassadors to Africa and South America. It was not the aim of jazz historians to cast doubt on this striking aspect of the story. They preferred to describe it as a move in the direction of openness and cultural acceptance by white Americans (Leonard 1964; Peterson and Ken 1996; Lopes 2002; Baumann 2007). In essence, jazz music could only develop further after dissociating itself from the dancing at the clubs run by organized crime (Peretti 1992: 146 ff.). In books on the history of jazz by Collier (1978: 61, 63) and Gioia (2011: 71), the bars, night clubs and brothels where the music was born are mentioned, but without the slightest reference to the Mob or Mafia. In the monumental film series on the history of jazz by Ken Burns (2000), barely any mention was made of the musicians’ association with the Mob. Criminologists similarly failed to devote much attention to this striking connection. Jazz was not even mentioned in the books on organized crime in the United States, nor was the role of the Mob in the development of the entertainment industry (see e.g., Abadinsky 1990). In the various life histories written by former gangsters (Firestone T.A. 1993), no mention was made of jazz. The subject should have aroused the curiosity of criminologists because it shed light on the illegal economy and the subculture of gangsters. Their spending pattern only attracted academic interest when the authorities launched the follow-the-money approach in crime control, and that was not until the 1980s. By then jazz had detached itself from the underworld image. Starting in the 1970s, the music was played at respectable jazz  This is a term coined by German ethnologists in the 1920s. It originally applied to sunken cultural goods. Via a process of trickling down, class characteristics and status symbols find their way from the bourgeoisie or nobility to the lower classes. Elias (2000) noted that cultural elements could also be adopted by a higher class. Jeans and tattoos are modern-day examples of this. 1

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clubs and concert halls all across the globe and at jazz festivals. Performances were organized by respectable impresarios and producers. Millions of people listened to jazz on the radio and TV or bought records or CDs. For criminologists, the connection between crime and jazz had become an obscure topic. The only exceptions I could find were by Haller on the entertainment industry of Chicago in the 1920s (Yeager 2013) and especially by Hortis in an entire chapter on Mob Night Life in his recent history of organized crime in New York (Hortis 2014).

1.1  Wait Until Dark It is a little known fact that one maverick author did in fact devote a systematic sociological study to the subject. In 1980 Ronald L. Morris published a book called Wait Until Dark. Jazz and the Underworld, 1880–1940,2 an animated ethnography of 60 years of jazz history. In this study, the standard story of the history of jazz was reversed. Gangsters were not held responsible for the bad reputation of jazz, but were credited with its flourishing! The author wrote about patronage by the underworld. It is striking that patronage of the arts was compared to the institution going back to Medieval and Renaissance Europe when royalty, monasteries and the wealthy gave artists their support. In modern capitalist America patronage has come from the rich, among them the nouveaux riches of organized crime. It was actually different from modern-day sponsorship, with patrons expecting artists to provide something in return, such as publicity. It was certainly not any kind of charity provided without a very specific aim in mind, nor was it philanthropy with a group supported in its long-term effort to reach a broader ideological goal. Patronage in the arts in the classical sense meant giving artists the opportunity to work in a protected environment where they could further their artistic ambitions in freedom. At the same time ‘most were treated as ordinary domestics who were subjected to arbitrariness by their master’ (Zolberg 1999: 176). Nineteenth century capitalist America did not have clients. Morris defended four theses all derived from this patronage relationship. The first was that gangsters did not choose jazz musicians to earn money from them; they did so because they really loved this music. Ample criminal profits were invested in developing the entertainment industry, but the striking thing is that the gangsters opted for the ‘folk music’ of a marginalized minority (Berger 1972). Secondly, they offered steady work and a steady income, which was a luxury for African-American musicians. This helped the musicians improve their social position and as a result, the social position of the entire African-American community. Thirdly, there were paternalistic labor relations between the club-owners and the musicians.  The book was translated into French by Jacques B. Hess, retired jazz professor at the Sorbonne in Paris and published under the title Le jazz et les gangsters (Morris 1998). Hess has since passed away. Morris didn’t know about the translation until I told him. It only made him shrug his shoulders. 2

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The club-owners helped the musicians in the event of financial setbacks in life due for example to illness or divorce. Fourthly, the gangsters gave the musicians the freedom to develop their music into what it is today. The innovations in jazz—cf. the title of Morris’ book Wait Until Dark—were largely generated outside the official concert circuit and in the realm of the illegal entertainment industry before 1940. How did the author collect his material? Morris gathered his data in the 1970s. Many of the leading jazz world figures who had first-hand experience were still alive at the time and he could ask them about it. Not that it was all that simple. Everyone knew what had happened, but the musicians initially denied knowing anything about it. He nonetheless found five insiders willing to talk. He also corresponded with jazz writers. The most difficult thing of course was to find someone from the underworld. However, ‘Angelo’ was ‘an older Sicilian gentleman, a former night-club operator who had direct contact with various syndicates’ (Morris 1980: 201). Most of the anecdotes in the book (the subject matter is perfect for anecdotes) were nonetheless from the published life histories of famous musicians. Morris’ work made an exceptionally well-informed impression. In the world of criminologists and jazz specialists, however, he was virtually unknown.3 In the 1970s, when he was gathering his material the research experience for had been exiting for him. He spent most evenings at the jazz clubs in Manhattan. The audiences were usually integrated, but sometimes he was the only white man there. He watched musicians perform in beautiful black suits and noticed they kept their distance from the audience. Did he use the research techniques of participant observation or systematic interviewing? No, he claims not to have been aware of qualitative research methods and had simply done whatever seemed fit. Maybe this was the most concise way to describe ethnography. In the literature on organized crime, Morris was not mentioned once. Nor was there any discussion of his challenging patronage hypothesis in the American literature on jazz. Gangsters helping black musicians. Since Morris’ book was published in 1980, of course a lot more has been written about organized crime and the history of jazz. In this contribution I want to explore whether Morris’ patronage hypothesis holds true in the confrontation with the historical insights and empirical material of the 36 years since it was first published. Any number of (auto)-biographies of jazz musicians have since been published with gangster stories (Hampton Hawes 1979; Danny Barker 1986; Milt Hinton 1988; Andy Kirk 1989; Bud Freeman 1989; Claude Hopkins (written by W.W. Vaché) 1992; Ray Charles 1992; Benny Goodman (written by R.A. Firestone, 1993; Pops Foster 2005; Louis Armstrong (written by T. Brothers 1999); Roy Eldridge 2002; George Shearing 2004; John Levy 2000; Stan Levey 2016 and Dexter Gordon 2018). As have a number of excellent sociological studies on episodes in the history of jazz music or musicians (Ogren 1989; Peretti 1992; Hennessey 1994; DeVeaux 1997; Lopes 2002; Hersch 2017 2007, 2017; Pullman 2012; Crouch 2013; Carlin 2016). There are more reasons to expand upon this story after Morris had stopped his description in the early forties. After 1940, the patronage relationship between the

 Exceptions: Ogren 1989 and Hersch 2007.

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Mob and jazz went on for a number of years in Las Vegas. The former bootleggers from Chicago and New York hired jazz orchestras to perform at their hotel casinos. Another reason to continue looking into the story is because there were still relations between musicians and gangsters after 1940. Morris Levy, Godfather of the music business, definitely belongs in this study on jazz and the Mob (Carlin 2016). The question I want to address here is: Can Ronald Morris’ patronage hypothesis still be defended? Or is it no more than a kind of underworld romanticism (see Bradley 2005)? Is this book serious or is it the product of the passion of a jazz fan instead of an academic researcher, as was the case with many older jazz books according to Peretti (1991)?

2  Gangsters in the Jazz Scene 2.1  Organized Crime Cities The birth of jazz is generally associated with the ragtime and dixieland music played at the start of the twentieth century in the ‘ratty joints’ and honky-tonks, and by pianists in Storyville, the red-light district in the Caribbean atmosphere of New Orleans. There were dance halls run by disreputable Sicilian bosses, but not yet by what is now referred to as organized crime (Hersch 2007). Musicians who moved from the South to Chicago in the great migration started playing the first real hot jazz there in the 1920s, the era of the art patronage system. What came to be called organized crime in the 1920s emerged from an underworld of confidence men, extortion artists, thieves, fences, card sharps, pimps, and racketeers. The first references to an organization of crime were made when entrepreneurs started to provide goods and services that may have been illegal, but were clearly in demand such as gambling, loan sharking, prostitution, bootlegging, and other varieties of smuggling (illegal aliens) and private violence. In addition to these forms of consensual crime, there was predatory crime and the American version mainly pertained to protection rackets. In later studies on extortion, this form of organized crime was often attributed with the function of organizing the market (Gambetta 1993). These forms of crime could flourish in an atmosphere of city machine politics where the politicians, police force, and courts were corrupt. The Storyville red-light district in New Orleans (1897–1917), Chicago under corrupt Mayor Big Bill Thompson (1915–1923 and 1927–1931), New York City under the Democrats in Tammany Hall until 1934, wide open Kansas City under political boss Pendergast (1925–1939) and the gambling palaces enabled by Nevada legislation in Las Vegas in the post-war era all provided the right political conditions. Certainly in the decades after 1920, the term organized crime was linked to the immigrant groups specialized in it. Sociologists saw organized crime as a way for an ethnic group to compensate for its inferior position via the ‘queer ladder of social mobility’ (Bell 1964). The term initially mainly referred to the Irish, and it was

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mainly Prohibition that enabled new groups to play an active role in areas not already monopolized by the Irish. In Chicago as well as New  York, this mainly pertained to Jews from Eastern Europe and Sicilians from Southern Italy. Some 50% of the leading bootleggers were Jewish and 25% were Italian (Haller in Yeager 2013: 79; Block 1983). The Mafia largely became notorious as an Italian organization, since Jews usually stopped after one generation. The Italian crime families, however, passed on their culture to following generations and it still exists today (Ianni 1972; Hortis 2014: 102).

2.2  Protection Rackets Early organized crime starting around 1900 focused on the protection rackets. Extortion was a major criminal activity in the cities where the history of jazz was unfolding, New Orleans (Nelli 1976), Chicago (Lombardo 2010), and New York (Critchley 2009). In New Orleans, the entertainment world was economically run by small legal entrepreneurs who were easy victims for extortionists. The perpetrators and victims were often from the same ethnic minority. The restaurants, dance halls, and saloons of Chicago and New York were just as vulnerable as the market vendors, taxi companies, and small garment industries. What could small shopkeepers or manufacturers do when faced with the demands of hoodlums? If the law enforcement authorities and politicians were paid off, they had no choice but to pay up. One way out was to resist the pressure and seek protection from a more powerful organization. Another option was to give in to the extortionists and tolerate them as business partners. In either case, predatory crime was transformed into consensual crime. It is clear from the memoirs of jazz musicians who played at bars, vaudeville shows and dance halls how criminals worked their way into this world. Chicago cornetist Jimmy McParland recounted how it went when he was playing at a place called Tancil’s. ‘One night a bunch of tough guys came in and started turning tables over to introduce themselves. Then they picked up bottles and began hitting the bartenders with them, also with blackjacks and brass knuckles (…). To us they said, “You boys keep playing if you don’t want to get hurt. That’s all.” A few days later the owner Tancil was killed. That was the beginning of the mob’s moving in on night-club business’ (Shapiro and Hentoff 1966: 129). Pianist and band leader Earl Hines described the racketeering in Chicago. In 1930, he had the following experience at the Grand Terrace. ‘Gangsters just walked in one day. One man went to the cash register, one stood out front, and one on either side of the building. The lieutenant went to the back. “We’re going to take twenty-five percent,” he said. “You must be losing your mind” Ed Fox (owner) said. “I have been doing all right for two years and I don’t need protection.” “You’re going to have protection. You have a nice family and you wouldn’t want anything to happen to your boys, would you?”’ (Dance 1977: 58).

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The musicians themselves were reassured during incidents of this kind, ‘just keep on playing.’ They could hide under the kitchen stove or behind the piano, but there were risks involved. As far as I could discover, however, boogie-woogie pianist Pine Top Smith was the only one killed by a stray bullet in 1929. Tenor saxophone player Bud Freeman came looking for a job at a club where a lot of underworld characters hung out. ‘I don’t think I want to work here…He put an arm around me and said, “Bud, nobody in this here joint will hurt you unless he’s paid for it”’ (Freeman 1989: 33). There was a nice story about singer and trumpet player Louis Prima. He grew up in an Italian neighborhood in New Orleans, so he knew what was what. In 1940, Prima was asked to come to New York and play at The Famous Door on 52nd Street. Two shakedown artists came by to pick up a share of the profits. Prima had an idea and said to the owner, ‘Meet me tomorrow at noon. We’ll go for a ride.’ To everyone’s surprise, he showed up the next day in a smashing limousine with a chauffeur, apparently the car of a big-time gangster (probably a Duesenberg). They drove around the block a couple of times. That was enough. The shakedown artists never showed their face again.4

2.3  Louis Armstrong Although he mentioned a few good examples of just the opposite, Morris wrote that musicians did not really run that much of a risk (1980: 148–153). This changed though once musicians started generating so much income that they themselves became interesting to extortionists. Successful musicians and bandleaders were wise to choose impresarios who were ‘connected’ to the Mob. In 1935 Louis Armstrong (1901–1971) approached impresario Joe Glaser, who he had met years earlier in Chicago. Glaser was part of Al Capone’s circle and had a reputation as a tough wheeler-dealer. Glaser was thought to have enough ‘negative social capital’ to really solve Armstrong’s problems. Although no one knew exactly how deep in the Mafia he was, Glaser kept the rumors about his involvement alive. The previous years had been hard for Armstrong and his managers were embroiled in a conflict. In 1932, Armstrong fled to London by steamship and got into a fight with one of them. In Chicago, Armstrong was confronted by a notorious gangster who forced him at gunpoint to go to New York to meet the terms of a contract with one of the two managers (Teachout 2009). In the ample literature about Armstrong, who kept adding new facts to the story of his life, there was no unanimity about exactly what happened. At any rate Armstrong sought Glaser’s protection and according to his own memoirs, he did so for his own psychological reason. From the start of his career, surviving on the street in New Orleans, he was looking for some kind of

 I heard this story from several people. I am quoting what jazz historian Dan Morgenstern told me because he heard it directly from Pee Wee Hunt (another soloist in Prima’s band). 4

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protection. According to his last account, he found the safety he was looking for with the Jewish Karnofsky family, which gave him a job as ragman and introduced him to a good family life. As cornet player at street parades, he sought the friendship of Black Benny, a gigantically strong black drummer. Later he had a chance to play at the honky-tonk of the Italian Matranga family, which some sources described as the first real Mafia family in the United States. Others said the family imported fruit and was the victim of extortion itself for years (Nelli 1976: 71; Woodiwiss 2001: 99–100). Here, at a third-rate honky-tonk where Armstrong could play ‘a lot of blues for cheap prostitutes and hustlers,’ Slippers the bouncer told him, ‘Dipper, as long as you live, no matter where you may be, always have a White Man who likes you and can and will put his hand on your shoulder and say, “This is my nigger and can’t nobody harm ya”’ (Giddins 2001).5 In 1935, Armstrong went and found Joe Glaser, ‘Pops I need you,’ and listed the conditions they could work under. It appeared to work well. Glaser made sure Armstrong’s debts were paid and kept the fighting managers away. Glaser continued to be Armstrong’s manager from 1935 until he died in 1969. Glaser took care of every aspect of Armstrong’s life, not just his salary. He found gigs, hired and fired musicians, paid his taxes and on top of that paid for anything Louis asked for. It was not until much later, after Armstrong had died as well, that the full truth about this collaboration with the Mob was disclosed. When both their wills were made public, it appeared that Glaser had earned an inordinate amount on his brilliant client. Armstrong left $530,000 and Glaser $3,000,000. The contact Glaser had with the Mob appeared to be more direct than anyone had suspected. Beverly Hills labor lawyer Sidney Korshak, a member of the Chicago Mob run by syndicate boss Tony Accardo, approached Glaser’s company (Associated Booking Corporation) with the simple statement, ‘I’m your new partner.’ Glaser was terrified of him. When Korshak died in 1996, he appeared to have made off with company money (Bergreen 1997; Russo 2006; Teachout 2009). In the first instance, the relationship between Glaser and Armstrong had certain features of patronage, and Armstrong was always very grateful to his manager. But Glaser did not meet the requirements for a good patron. A vulgar man with a criminal record, he constantly spoke in obscenities. According to the accounts of others who knew him, Glaser was mainly interested in making money and not in the music itself.6 He also made money selling cars and organizing boxing matches. It was unusual that he went with his African-American musicians wherever they played, even though it did not mean he slept at the same hotel. What he really thought of his clients was not indicative of any particular interest in music. He liked to boast about Armstrong, ‘This is my nigger,’ and he would say, ‘These shines are all alike. They’re so lazy.’

 According to other authors, this advice should be attributed to Black Benny (Brothers 1999: 160).  George Shearing had a different opinion about Glaser. ‘He was really building up careers, rather than just getting his percentage’ (Shearing 2004: 126). 5 6

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Louis Armstrong and Joe Glaser. Originally used for “Louis Armstrong: A Cultural Legacy”

2.4  Prohibition and Running Dance Halls and Jazz Clubs Let us go back more in detail to the early years of jazz music in a few American cities. Why were gangsters who earned money as racketeers or bootleggers interested in investing in the entertainment world in general and jazz in particular? Prior to 1910, jazz began on the streets of New Orleans at parades or funerals, and it was played at working men’s clubs, dance halls and honky-tonks. Jazz was played in New York at elegant hotels and restaurants, but that changed in the 1920s. Prohibition made part of show business switch to cabarets and speakeasies and this is where the element of organized crime became part of the picture (Erenberg 1981). Up until the Depression in 1929, illegal entrepreneurs in the seedier parts of town tried to sell alcohol and provide a dance floor at the cabarets and speakeasies. This happened in the black part of Chicago, the South side, and in New York in Harlem on 133rd Street up until 1935 (Freeland 2009). This was the part of the jazz age when dancing was enormously popular and white customers were attracted by the exotic pleasures they expected to find there. The bootleggers of the 1920s were treated like folk heroes, the well-to-do white audience came slumming to see the gangsters. The

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same thing was happening in Kansas City at Casino Gardens, a club owned by local Mafia boss Johnny Lazia, and later at the gambling hotels of Las Vegas where ‘Mafia leaders helped inspire the public’s almost hypocritical admiration for anti-­ heroes’ (Bernhard et al. 2008). It was also going on at the fancy clubs of New York, the Stork Club (Blumenthal 2000) and the Copacabana (Podell-Raber and Pignone 2007), owned by Mafia boss Frank Costello, or the famous jazz club Birdland opened by Morris Levy in 1949 with shady Italian financial backing (Carlin 2016: 14). The admiration of gangsters of bygone days is now catered to in Las Vegas at the special Mob Museum (with a hall solely devoted to jazz!).7 It is not easy to explain the fascination with the Mafia, but Kaplan (2010: 467) came close with the idea that ‘the American fascination with gangsters stems from the pleasant fantasy that they have razored away the troublesome complexities of life by sheer, brutal acts of will.’ The assumption that gangsters used their clubs to sell illegally made or imported alcohol was only very partially true. In the heyday in Chicago, customers had to buy the alcohol around the corner and the club provided the glasses, ice, water and ginger ale. In 1928, there was even a reason to enforce the hip flask ruling that considered clubs guilty of aiding and abetting customers in the public consumption of alcohol (Kenney 1993: 151). According to the official line of reasoning designed to combat corrupting investments in the legal economy, the income of every criminal organization striving for continuity was invested in certain types of businesses. The common economic sectors were in keeping with the knowhow and experience of the people involved and favored small businesses where the entrance level (diplomas) was low, not many rules were enforced, and a lot of cash came and went (cf. Edelherz and Overcast 1983). In actual practice, many criminals barely followed this pattern. The success of the clubs should not be judged by the income, but by how the money was spent. The idea was for flamboyant spending to get others to respect them (Naylor 1999). Granlund (1957: 139), who was connected to the Mob himself and invented the successful theater-restaurant formula in New York, noted that mobsters were eager to support anything with an element of chance. Opening a jazz club could be counted as a high risk activity because despite the jazz craze and popularity of dancing, according to sociologist Walter Reckless (1933), three quarters of them were quick to close down. But when business went well, the gangsters acted as if there was no tomorrow. They were big spenders and tippers at restaurants, theaters, and dance halls and many of them were known to donate a small fortune to the Catholic Church’s collection plate. They invested in boxing (owning a prize fighter was a big status symbol8), ran their own horses at the race tracks and congregated at their own night clubs. These were the spots where they could strut their stuff in public, hang out together and entertain celebrities. Fox (1989) listed the biggest clubs of the most famous gangsters and showed how they competed for prestige. As  The now elderly Mayor Oscar Goodman, famous as the lawyer of many a gangster in the past, took the initiative to open the museum. 8  A man like Stan Levey (Levey 2016) was a double status symbol since he was a prize fighter as well as a drummer with Gillespie and Parker as well as with the Stan Kenton orchestra. 7

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New England crime boss Vincent Teresa (1973: 126) remarked, ‘Most of them like to be in the limelight. They like to get all dressed up and go into a fancy place with a broad on their arm and show off. Ninety percent of all the mob guys come from poverty. They grew up with holes in their pants, no shoes on their feet (…). Now they made it. They got money, five-hundred-buck silk suits, hundred-buck shoes, ten-grand cars and a roll of bills big enough to choke a horse. It doesn’t do any good to just look at it. They want everyone to know they’ve made it.’ Now we come to the main question: why did the owners of the dance clubs and speakeasies have a special preference for jazz? Demographic figures on US cities in the early 1930s show that the gangsters only had jazz at their clubs in cities with immigrants from Italy and Eastern Europe and an African-American community.9 Morris explained the collaboration first and foremost by alluding to the cultural affinity. Italians, Jews and African-Americans all liked expressive Southern and Eastern European music. In New Orleans, Italians reconstructed the night life of Messina and Palermo. They loved parades, listened to brass bands and loved musical brouhaha at funerals (Cinel 1991: 76). All three groups had a clear preference for brass and string instruments (Raeburn 2009: 143). Italian musicians taught African-­ American pupils. The three groups arrived in the northern cities of the United States at the same moment in history and were all looked down upon as newcomers (Hersch 2017). Jazz was an escape outlet for them. It was also noted that the Italians and Jews who aspired to become club-owners were all young, around 30, just like jazz musicians at the start of their career. They grew up in the same neighborhoods. The cultural affinity was also clear from the numerous Italians and Jews who, like African-Americans, decided to become jazz musicians. Dal Cerro and Witter (2015) wrote about the careers of hundreds of Italian jazz musicians.10 This held also true for Jewish musicians: Gerber (2009) lists no less than 7000 Jewish jazz musicians in his book Jazz Jews. There were a striking number of Jewish composers

 World Almanac & Book of Facts, 1927–30. Whether the information is totally reliable is not completely certain. There were no Italians in Detroit and the jazz played by black musicians there (before Motown) was organized by the Jewish Purple Gang (Bjon and Gallert 2001). There were barely any Italians in the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul with their large originally Scandinavian communities. The Mob boss at the night spot were jazz was played was known as Kid Cann, though his real name was Isidore Blumenfeld (Goetting 2011). 10  Even people who are not jazz fans have at least heard of Nick La Rocca, ‘Wingy’ Mangone, Louis Prima, Joe Venuti, Louie Bellson (born Balassoni), Flip Phillips (born Filipelli), Stéphane Grappelli, Pete and Conte Candoli, Buddy DeFranco, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett (born Benedetto), Dean Martin (born Dino Grocetti), Lennie Tristano, Scott LaFaro, Joe Pass (born Passalaqua), Joe Lovano, Buddy Greco, Jimmy Giuffre, Charlie Mariano, Joe Morello, Frank Rosolino, Pete Rugolo, Tony Scott (born Sciacca) or Charlie Ventura (born Venturo). 9

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and song writers.11 There were barely any Irish jazz musicians.12 The affinity idea does seem to have something to it.

2.5  Mafia Impresarios Al Capone loved opera and he loved jazz even more. In Chicago, the center of the jazz world in 1927, Al and his brother Ralph Capone had gradually become the main jazz impresarios (Bergreen 1994: 244). Unlike their competitors, they were equal opportunity employers who did not draw racial distinctions at the clubs and saloons on the South Side where musicians were African-American and audiences entirely white. Capone’s biographer Bergreen viewed his role as a byproduct of the Capone monopoly on the sale of (diluted) whiskey. African-American musicians did not have a choice about where to perform, in Chicago they could only work at vice establishments (Absher 2014). Peretti (2007: xi) wrote about how ‘white managers and gangsters forcibly took over black-owned clubs and controlled the careers of black entertainers’ in New York in the 1920s. For their gigs, musicians were basically dependent on Capone and other underworld bosses. It was like a form of indentured labor. In all the gangster stories, a direct or indirect threat of violence is a basic element. If musicians wanted to respond to an attractive offer outside their regular impresario, it definitely was not appreciated. Later in life, Roy Eldridge (Eldridge 2002) had some stories to tell. When Earl Hines wanted to leave Chicago to play in New  York, Ralph Capone made it very clear ‘that the only way Hines would leave the Grand Terrace was in a pinewood box.’ After accepting a ‘wrong’ offer, pianist Teddy Wilson was threatened that the place would be stink-bombed. Deviations from their contracts were not tolerated. In a similar situation, George Shearing was told, ‘Uphold your contract or else’ (Shearing 2004: 126). When they wanted to have Duke Ellington come play at the Cotton Club, friends of friends in the Cotton Club syndicate arranged it by pressuring his employer at the time to let him go, ‘Be big or you’ll be dead.’ According to Ulanov (1946: 67), he was big. So what exactly was the role of organized crime? In the rest of the States and in later periods, a sharp distinction was drawn between impresarios connected to the Mob like Joe Glaser or later Morris Levy and impresarios who helped jazz musicians escape the reach of the underworld like Norman Granz, George Wein, producer Leonard Feather and talent scout John Hammond. Not that the former were necessarily members of the Mafia or ‘made men,’ they were just connected to it.  Benny Goodman, Paul Whiteman, Lee Konitz, Shelley Manne, Artie Shaw, Terry Gibbs, Shorty Rogers, Lou Levy, Teddy Charles, Stan Getz—often with Americanized surnames—Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, George & Ira Gershwin, Oscar Hammerstein, Richard Rodgers, Lorenz Hart and Harold Arlen. 12  The only ones I can think of are Jimmy & Tommy Dorsey, Rosemary Clooney, Gerry Mulligan and Bunny Berigan. 11

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Mob historian Mark Haller (1999) tried to explain the structure of the agent system in jazz. He worked from the assumption that there were illegal entrepreneurs who mainly served a function in the local neighborhood. The neighborhood bar served beer and whiskey and provided the cabaret and music.13 If illegal entrepreneurs wanted to survive, they needed a power apparatus to fulfill two important functions at a higher level. It had to be able to make the economy predictable by enforcing price agreements, making the authorities powerless by paying the police and politicians, and mediating in conflicts. Block and Chambliss (1981) had made the theoretical argument that organized crime’s main function was to organize illegal activity. Unlike the model of organized crime as a bureaucracy with bosses and sub-bosses, in Haller’s view the entrepreneurs remained independent business people. The organization that served a market-regulating function consisted of ‘families.’ Haller compared the way entrepreneurs linked up with the larger organization to how legal entrepreneurs were members of something like the Rotary Club. The words used to put pressure on band leader Tommy Dorsey to accept Frank Sinatra’s breaking his contract and leaving, ‘Sign or else,’ were a famous example. Families operating in the background boosted the prestige of people under their protection and promoted business contacts. The employment and placement of jazz musicians at the various clubs, dance halls and speakeasies was part of the deal. It meant a restriction of the musicians’ freedom of choice, but it provided them with protection. Being Mob-connected meant nobody would mess with you. These are the cases that are pretty much common knowledge, but we already noted that musicians did not like to talk about it. When Bert Vuijsje interviewed tenor saxophone player Ben Webster in Amsterdam in 1969, Webster whispered something about a change of orchestras just before World War Two because of a decision by ‘people in the business.’ ‘He made us promise not to tell anyone about it, it was clear what Webster meant by this’ (Vuijsje 1980). However, the 1954 biographical film The Benny Goodman Story full of Hollywood stereotypes carries a similar scene in which gangsters decide that the bandleader is allowed to go to New York. The mechanism enabling jazz orchestras to perform on stage was based on the power of the underworld’s ‘shadow government’ to eliminate or at any rate mitigate the role of the state. There was enough cash available and the parties involved had their ways of influencing politicians. Gangsters were in a position to ignore the prejudices against stigmatized minorities and the disapproval of ‘immoral’ conduct such as interracial dancing. Hortis (2014) was not off base when he referred to another sector of New York night life, the gay scene. After a law was passed in New York in 1930 barring ‘disorderly premises,’ the Mafia (Genovese family) took control of the sector. The description by Duberman (1994) of how things went there was pretty much the same as in the jazz world although the patronage element was less outspoken here. Whether gay bars could stay opened depended on whether the police precinct could be ‘bought.’ The

 In Chicago there is still one neighborhood bar open, the Green Mill. It was the hangout for Al Capone and his men. Jazz is still played there on a stage in the corner. 13

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clandestine atmosphere, the sale of watered drinks, police payoffs and raids were reminiscent of Chicago in the 1920s.14

3  Opportunities for Upward Social Mobility The opportunities for financial and social success differed according to the color of the musicians’ skin. The Original Dixieland Jazz Band of Nick La Rocca, the son of a Sicilian immigrant, made the first jazz record that was a commercial hit. For African-Americans in New Orleans at the start of the twentieth century, music was initially no more than something they did on the side. For the rest they had day jobs as longshoremen, barbers or waiters. People generally looked down on their kind of music because it was associated with dancing, night life and honky-tonks. It wasn’t only white people who frowned upon it, so did the African-American middle class and the creoles of color. It is striking that African-American intellectuals like W.  E. B.  Du Bois totally overlooked the liberation potential jazz entailed (Lutz 1991). In these circles, black jazz was viewed as an exotic rendezvous for white pleasure-seekers. To earn more money, climb the social ladder and maybe even record their music, musicians left New Orleans to try their luck in Chicago. There they had a chance to play at the night clubs of gangsters who initially saw them as little more than bums (Fox 1989). This is where the professionalization of jazz nonetheless began (Ogren 1989). Up until then, the spontaneous interaction between the audience and the musicians had been characteristic of this type of lower-class entertainment. This changed when white audiences starting frequenting jazz clubs in the black parts of town. Following the lead of fixers or go-betweens, the audience came to dance and go slumming. Whites liked the thrill of illegal drinking in public places likely to be raided by the police (Kenney 1993: 22). White musicians came to listen to the music and then imitate it at the Lincoln Gardens and Sunset cafés (Freeland 2009). On the authority of James Petrillo, the aggressive leader of the American Federation of Musicians, black musicians were banned from the white ballrooms. Mainly focusing on the integrated clubs, the police did their best to suppress the new dance craze. Gangsters were the only ones who gave the black musicians an opening and were able to achieve a bribery-based modus vivendi with them (Hennessey 1994). The musicians developed their own code of ethics that separated them from the audience. The profession of jazz musician was one way African-Americans could achieve upward social mobility in the era before the formal repeal of segregation in 1954. For a generation of white middle-class guys attracted to the romantic image of this new music, the ones Lopes (2002) called hepcat musicians, it also offered the prospect of a lucrative and adventurous career. DeVeaux (1997) noted that the growing

 After the Stonewall Riot in 1969, militant activist Rodwell raised the issue of how to liberate the gay scene from organized crime. 14

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interest in jazz was indicative of an emerging African-American middle class in the 1920s. In a sociology study on the backgrounds of jazz musicians, Harvey (1967) observed a striking class differentiation. A further breakthrough resulted from the efforts of respectable managers like Norman Granz with a stance against racial discrimination that was an enormous boost to the appreciation of jazz. Music was to listen to, Granz thought, and not to dance to, which was why the audience had to be ‘sociologically’ brought up. At a Sunday afternoon jam session in Los Angeles in 1942, he and the night-club-owner put tables and chairs on the dance floor, making it impossible to dance. He had his musicians wear a tuxedo when they played and stopped the music if the audience was making too much noise. So it was clear that jazz musicians had to leave their past with the underworld behind. ‘A dark, smoky cellar may look romantic in the small hours, but late night sessions produce more bad music than people are capable of realizing at the time’ (Granz in Hershorn 2011: 55). Bohemian entrepreneurs Max Gordon and Lorraine Lion came on the scene in New York and founded the Village Vanguard, a popular jazz club. Club-owner Mike Canterino calmed the noisy audience down at the Half Note and Joe and Iggy Termini did the same at the Five Spot. By now, musicians had enough confidence to take matters into their own hands, and bass player Charlie Mingus refused to play if the audience was not totally quiet (Chevigny 1991).

4  Paternalistic Labor Relations Illegal entrepreneurs make unreliable bosses. Louis Armstrong recounted how the clubs paid the musicians every day because you never knew whether the club would still be there the next day (see also George Lewis in Fairbairn 1971). And anyway, the musicians’ income depended more on tips than on fixed wages. The gangsters’ behavior was unpredictable, 1 min they would give you a big tip, and the next minute toss a burning cigarette at you (Allsop 1961). There was not much point to entrepreneurs making long-term investments since the police could close the place down or you could lose it to the competition. The dressing rooms were often sordid and shabby. The whole working environment was lousy. ‘The people were noisy and drunk, they wore paper hats and they smoked. You walked out of there at the end of the evening and you had blown all the blood out of your body. Your clothes smelled and your eyes and throat burned,’ Bud Freeman complained (1989: 83). The gangsters looked down at the musicians. Driggs and Haddix (2005: 116) wrote about how gangsters in Kansas City ‘regarded musicians as little more than fixtures on a par with bar stools and pianos. Musicians served at the club-owners’ pleasure, subject to abrupt mood swings, ranging from generous to lethal.’ It is not clear to what extent this condescending attitude to musicians was universally shared. It makes it difficult to explain why they wanted the musicians to adhere to such a high code of ethics (Granlund 1957; Morris 1980). The musicians were impeccably

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dressed and not allowed to flirt with anyone in the audience. Smith (2002) referred to a ‘shadow charter’ stipulated by the managers. There are however many statements by musicians who reminisced with warmth and admiration about their former patrons. Ralph Berton (1974: 165), Bix Beiderbecke’s biographer, wrote that ‘Those Chicago racketeers and bootleggers weren’t noted for their generosity to each other, but many of them were very good to jazz musicians.’ And Eddie Condon (1992: 124) remembered the extremely pleasant get-togethers when Capone wandered in, ordered the doors closed, and settled down to enjoy himself. He also often went to a cabaret with a clientele composed almost exclusively of basketball players, gangsters, and detectives. As bass player John Levy (2000: 32) wrote, ‘We were ready for home at 4 o’clock in the morning. Then one gangster came up to me on the edge of the bandstand where I was putting the cover on my bass. He just tipped me on the shoulder with his 45-caliber pistol, and said, “Hey. Take that thing off and play for us. We gonna have a party.”’ Levy ended up receiving a hundred-dollar bill, more than he made in a whole month. Morris quoted any number of musicians who were grateful to their former bosses, sometimes leading to very touching comments. As singer Bessie Smith put it, ‘Any bootlegger is a pal of mine.’ Pianist and band leader Earl Hines noted that ‘relations with bootleggers were always cordial’ (Morris 1980: 2–3). Mezzrow (1961) recounted how relaxed he was when he spoke to Al Capone at a tense moment in his club. The gangsters were generous with tips, sometimes gave their house musician a nice instrument as a present, helped in the event of hard times like paying alimony or solving disputes, and sometimes paid the expenses for musicians who wanted to kick the heroin habit. In many cases, they really helped musicians make a career by publicizing their names. The authoritarian relations restricted the musicians’ freedom at the clubs, just as their impresarios limited their freedom to decide where to play. Morris rightly viewed this as a down side of the tight ties between the musicians and the Mob. Peretti (1992) noted that ‘the gangsters exacted a high price for their patronage’ and went on to describe the penalties for not blindly obeying the bosses (146–147). After Joe ‘King’ Oliver overplayed his hand when negotiating a fee at the Savoy Ballroom in New York, he failed to get good gigs again. This important figure in the history of jazz ended as a poor toothless janitor at a pool in Savannah. Band leader Fletcher Henderson was blacklisted, Coleman Hawkins was frozen out of gigs. After a dispute with his manager, Louis Armstrong fled to Europe, and there were other examples as well (Moody 1993). Earl Hines complained that Al Capone considered him his personal property, and was taken hostage for 10 days to get him to play a gig against his will. Count Basie had to play for 2  weeks for nothing, as penalty for not sticking to the contract. Travis (1983) took a dim view and went so far as to compare the labor relations to slavery. He described the musicians as working with ‘chattel contracts for the master,’ and a comparison with the incomes in other occupations did indeed show that jazz musicians were not earning much. Up until World War Two, there were barely any official restrictions to the power of the club-owners in general. Neither the state nor the labor unions made much of an effort to intervene.

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The American Federation of Musicians may have been one of the strongest unions in the labor movement, but with the division into black and white locals, its structure was fundamentally discriminatory (Chevigny 1991; Absher 2014). The segregation did not end until after 1963. Underworld club-owners either ignored the labor unions or colluded with them in dividing the musicians over the clubs. Local 627 in Kansas City was a rare exception. It operated as a clearing house for gigs, a social center and a vehicle for grievances against unfair practices by booking agents and band leaders. What is more, the local was open to musicians from outside who wanted to join a band (Driggs and Haddix 2005). But if things threatened to get out of control, there were always intimidating measures that could be taken (Russell 1973: 22). Band leader Jesse Price recounted in the 1950s how gangsters had taken a few musicians in a car to a lonely spot on Cliff Drive in the 1930s to show them a racketeer getting beaten up. The message was clear; there was no way the musicians were going to get a raise. According to Morris, the role of the Mafia in the jazz world pretty much came to a close at the end of the 1930s. This had to do with the Depression (starting in 1929) and the end of Prohibition in 1933, which meant many of the clubs had to close down. Al Capone went to prison in 1931 for income tax evasion. In a number of cities like Chicago or Kansas City (Hayde 2010) and New  York, new, reform-­ minded Republican city establishments replaced the corrupt Democrat ones. In Chicago, all the cabaret theaters were closed down in 1928 (Johnson and Craig Sautter 1998). Musicians had to look for another way to earn a living. The rise of the swing big bands in the mid-1930s was the final blow for old-style jazz. The audience loved the new dance music. Sidney Bechet became a tailor, Baby Dodds a taxi driver and Kid Ory started a chicken farm. The old-fashioned gangsters were no longer around for the rise of the radio and the record industry.

4.1  Organized Crime and Jazz After World War Two Although to my knowledge not a single author has done so yet, there is ample empirical evidence to warrant expanding the historical connection between jazz and the Mob after the end of the 1930s to more recent periods. This is no simple matter since by then there had been an essential change in the nature of the music itself. Starting around 1941 in New York, bebop was developed by musicians who gathered in small groups to experiment at tiny night clubs after their evening performance in an orchestra looking out over a dance floor. At first they met uptown in Harlem, but the group including such prominent names as Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie (trumpet), singer Sarah Vaughan, Thelonious Monk (piano), Bud Powell (piano), Oscar Pettiford and Kenny Clarke soon moved downtown, where 52nd Street was lined with any number of clubs. There were still individuals with former Mob connections among the club-owners and managers. The bebop musicians developed a closed subculture that Gitler (2001) referred to as a movement and sociologist Howard Becker, who had played the piano at clubs himself for years, wrote

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about (Becker 1973). The musicians were focused on each other, demanded respect for their special talents, challenged each other to musical duels and could not care less about anyone who happened to be listening. In their opinion, the audience consisted of ‘squares’ they preferred not to have anything to do with. Bebop was for insiders and one of the best-known LPs made by Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Stitt and Stan Getz in 1956 was arrogantly entitled For Musicians Only. Part of the new bebop scene was the remarkably eccentric ‘Jazz Baroness’ Pannonica de Koeningswarter, née Rothschild, who loved the music and helped many musicians (especially Thelonious Monk) out when in trouble. She exemplified in her own unique way the classic patron. More than 20 well-known melodies composed by the jazz masters of the day were named after her: Nica’s Dream, Blues for Nica, etc. (Rothschild 2012). The main thing was for musicians not to make concessions to the taste of the general audience. Alto saxophonist Charlie Parker set an example with what was considered very complex music at the time. Musicians were no longer supposed to even want to entertain the white man. Trumpet player Miles Davis exemplified a similar attitude and sometimes turned his back to the audience when he played. Together these musicians constituted a closed community that organized crime had a hard time getting under its control. The same held true of the musicians in the next episode of jazz history starting in the 1950s. Hard bop musicians (Miles Davis on the trumpet, Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane on the tenor saxophone) played in the same small groups. But they had to make a living and the individuals and combos all needed impresarios and record companies. As a result of rapid advances in technology, a mass audience could now be reached via the radio, jukeboxes, and records and a new era had begun in the 1930s (Myers 2013). There were regular radio broadcasts from the clubs and sometimes an LP was even recorded live there (e.g., Art Blakey and Clifford Brown on A Night at Birdland in 1954). Scouts came to the clubs looking for musicians to come and make records. The major record companies, Columbia, Decca, and RCA Victor, were initially not interested in bebop. The tempos would be too fast for dancing. Gillespie and Parker couldn’t be trusted and their music would be hard to sell (Myers 2013: 32). It was small labels like Savoy, Dial, and later also Blue Note that gave the early bebop musicians a chance to record their music. It was a period when anyone with money who enjoyed the music could start his own record label including some mob-­ related entrepreneurs (e.g., the self-described ‘jazz hustler’ Teddy Reig (1990)). I think Peretti (1992: 147 ff.) had a point when he said any number of part- and full-­ time gangsters involved with this kind of music in the 1940s started taking advantage of the trends as concert promotors or organizers for the record industry and the radio. They played a role in the new way of running the music business.

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4.2  Morris Levy All the modern technology led to new misdemeanors. Criminals have an excellent nose for loopholes in the law due to rapid economic and social changes. Legislation and law enforcement methods had not been properly formulated yet. One person who came to the fore as gangster with aspirations in the jazz world was Birdland owner and Roulette Records president Morris (Moishe) Levy (1927–1988). He contracted some of the top jazz musicians for his club, Lionel Hampton on the vibraphone, Tito Puente on drums, Dexter Gordon, Charlie Parker, and many others as well (Knoedelseder 1993). Levy’s biographer Richard Carlin (2016) described him as precisely the opposite of Norman Granz. Levy was a man who enjoyed his reputation as ‘a friend of the racketeers,’ a braggart who liked to exaggerate this connection. His brilliant idea of buying up the composer rights to the jazz songs he recorded on his label made Levy a rich man. Unlike performers, composers had a right to royalties every time a song was played. Levy also had other fingers in the pie, like selling records with some little thing wrong with them under the counter. For a long time, Morris Levy managed to elude the attention of the police, the Internal Revenue Service, and the Justice Department. Although convicted of all kinds of fraud later in life, he never served his sentence because he died just beforehand of liver cancer at the age of 62.

5  Jazz and Freedom It was in the years when the Mob had influence over how the jazz world was organized (1900–1960) that this art form could develop relatively autonomously. ‘Because of its marginality, a frequent characteristic of the kind of setting where jazz operated was a relaxed attitude toward legality, overseen in some cases by urban machine politics and organized crime,’ Townsend (2000: 5) wrote in a survey of jazz in American culture. Typical characteristics of jazz musicians and the jazz scene included freedom to get together and make music for their own pleasure and freedom to join a group doing so, performing for each other instead of for an audience in what soon became known as a jam session (Cameron 1954), spontaneity and individual expression, as were mainly manifested in the solos they played and the advancement of their original talents, the competitive spirit that played a role from the street corner battles in New Orleans to the battles of bands between swing orchestras and the cutting contests between the bebop musicians, the constant innovation of styles and the development of a unique inner-directed subculture. Hersch (2007) called the places where this occurred ‘pockets of freedom’ and they were not regulated by the state, restricted by the trade unions or shaped by the money economy of the big entertainment industry. This was only feasible because this music was created at ‘improper spaces’ where interested people of different races could get together, the parks and dance halls of New Orleans, the cabarets of Chicago and

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Kansas City, the speakeasies of New York and the gambling palaces of Las Vegas. The musicians played in the daytime and went to their gigs in the evening; new jazz was created after hours and later reached a larger audience via records and the radio. At their regular gigs, the musicians had to stick to the program, they played what their audience and managers wanted to hear, including Irish melodies in three quarter time if it was for an Irish private party, but after hours they were their own men. For a long time, it was the Mob that shielded them from the natural enemies of their freedom, the trade unions that would not let outsiders in, the state that maintained the color line, the record companies that insisted on music that was easier to listen to (as Decca boss Jack Kapp would say, ‘Where is the melody?’). Pianists who played at the brothels in New Orleans had ‘unlimited freedom to experiment and work out stylish qualifications of their own’ (Ogren 1989: 59). Eddie Condon recounted how totally free pianists in Chicago were trying to outplay the others (Condon 1992: 182). Bud Freeman and others complained about the labor conditions in Kansas City, ‘but at least there was no attempt to tell the musicians what to play and how’ (Russell 1973: 22). Roy Eldridge remembered the late midnight jamming (Eldridge 2002). At the Cotton Club in Harlem from 1927 to 1931, Duke Ellington and his orchestra were forced to play jungle music with a Deep South plantation backdrop for an audience restricted to whites. But the owner and manager kept their word, paid on time and as far as the music itself was concerned, kept their distance (Cohen 2010). ‘Gangsters were simply not interested in shaping the outcome of a band’s style,’ Morris concluded (1980: 196). Jazz music underwent a relatively free evolution. Starting in1941 in New York, the bebop musicians developed freely and independently of the commercialization haunting the scene. Especially in 1946–1953, there was a period of intense musical creativity, the sort of a unique peak that occasionally occurs in other art forms as well (Pullman 2012: 170). They would play in large dance orchestras all evening, but afterwards they went to their favorite jam session spots in Harlem. They wanted to break away from the tradition of entertainment and minstrels and played for each other and solely for their own enjoyment. The atmosphere had been shaped in part by the world of organized crime since no popular speakeasy seemed devoid of hoodlum associations. ‘But the hoods let the musical fraternity alone’ (Shaw 1971: 66). DeVeaux (1997) summarized the situation as follows. Before 1930, musicians like these would gather at the Rhythm Club, which was run by a racketeer. Before 1940, they liked to hang out at Onyx, a former speakeasy that belonged to Joe Helbock and was later one of the clubs to become a striptease joint, at Minton’s Playhouse and Monroe’s Uptown House, also a remnant of the Prohibition era. After 1945, the bebop musicians met at the Royal Roost, Downbeat, Three Deuces, the Famous Door, and the Mafia-connected Birdland. By the 1970s, the whole scene was a thing of the past.

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6  Conclusion: The Patronage Hypothesis In the first instance, it seems bizarre to say a popular culture product can rise to become part of high-brow culture as the result of an intervention by an organization as vulgar as the Mob. And yet this upward cultural mobility (a mechanism recently described by Gioia 2019) is exactly what happened. In 1980 this is what led Ronald L.  Morris to publish his ethnography on the history of jazz from 1880 to 1940, defending the hypothesis that it was the patronage of organized crime at the time that enabled jazz to develop as it did. Jazz sprang up in all the American cities where machine politics flourished and where a black population and a second generation of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe and immigrants from Italy organized their upward social mobility side by side with organized crime. When they invested in the entertainment industry, they did not do so primarily to make money, but to spend it in an ostentatious way that everyone could see. They posed few restrictions on the music itself and jazz was given a chance to develop freely. Ronald L. Morris (1980) introduced the idea of a relationship of patronage. After consulting newer sources, how much of Morris’ patronage hypothesis can still be confirmed? First: gangsters loved this music. At the start, the musicians were very aware of their employers’ criminal background as they were confronted with the protection racket. According to their autobiographies, it was sometimes frightening for them, but they got over it. Their gratitude for the chance the gangsters gave them to play and their generosity in the form of tips more than made up for it. After all, gangsters were the only people with the financial means to establish a modus vivendi with the police and keep out the unions, which generally discriminated against African-American musicians. They were the only ones with the much needed political backing to more or less ignore the color barrier still in place for the musicians as well as the people who came to the clubs to listen and dance. At a very elementary level, the first prerequisite if you want to speak of patronage was met with. Without the gangsters, the kind of jazz that depended on its success with a white audience simply would not have existed, at least not in its present form. Secondly, the clubs meant jobs, a relatively steady income, and a chance for talented African-American musicians to become part of the middle class. Jazz contributed to the integration of the black community. It gave the white hepcats a chance to develop a subculture of their own. A third element in the patronage hypothesis pertained to the freedom the Mafia gave the musicians to perform. The gangsters stipulated who was going to play where and under what conditions. The places they played at were small, shabby, and smoke-filled, the material conditions very poor. The penalties the musicians were faced with if they broke their contract could be draconic. The state failed to provide much of a safeguard against outright exploitation. But on the other hand, the personal relations with the club-owners were often excellent and the musicians generally referred to their relations with their boss as good. I agree with Peretti (1992), who noted that the gangsters charged a high price for their patronage. The fourth prerequisite for patronage was also there: the jazz musicians were given a place to freely develop their music. The typical characteristics of jazz, the free

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improvisation, the experimenting, the competitive spirit at the jam sessions and the drive for constant innovation were all given free rein and the Mob did not interfere. So based on these four considerations, I think Morris’ patronage hypothesis can be confirmed. It deserves a place in cultural criminology.

References Abadinsky, H. (1990), Organized Crime, Chicago, Nelson Hall. Absher, A. (2014), The Black Musician and the White City. Race and Music in Chicago 1900-1967, Chicago, University of Michigan Press. Allsop, K. (1961), The Bootleggers. London: Arrow Books. Barker, D. (1986), A Life in Jazz. Edited by Alyn Shipton, Houndmills, Hampshire and London, Macmillan Press Ltd. Baumann, S. (2007), ‘A General Theory of Artistic Legitimation: How Art Worlds are Like Social Movements,’ Poetics, 35, 47-65. Becker, H.S. (1973), Outsiders. Studies in the Sociology of Deviance. New York: The Free Press (originally 1963). Bell, D. (1964), The End of Ideology, Glencoe, Il.: Free Press. Berger, M. (1972), ‘Jazz: Resistance to the Diffusion of a Culture Pattern,’ in: C.Nanry, (ed.), 1972, American Music: From Storyville to Woodstock, New Brunswick, N.  J., Transaction Books, 11-43. Bergreen, L. (1994), Capone. The Man and the Era, New York etc., Simon & Schuster Paperbacks. Bergreen, L. (1997), Louis Armstrong. An Extravagant Life. New York: Broadway Books. Berton, R. (1974), Remembering Bix. A Memoir of the Jazz Age, New York: Harper & Row. Bernhard, B., M.  S. Green and A.  F. Lucas (2008), Gaming Industry in Las Vegas from 1931 through 2007. Cornell Hospitality Quarterly, 49 (2), 177-190. Bjon, L. & J. Gallert (2001), Before Motown. A History of Jazz in Detroit 1920-60, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Block, A. A. (1983), East Side West Side. New Brunswick & London, Transaction Books. Block, A.A. & W.J. Chambliss (1981), Organizing crime. New York, Elsevier Science Publishing Co., Inc. Blumenthal, R. (2000), America’s Most Famous Nightspot and the Lost World of Café Society, Boston: Little, Brown & Cy. Bradley, A. (2005), On and Off the Bandstand. Lincoln, NE: I Universe. Brothers, T. (1999), Louis Armstrong in His Own Words. Selected Writings, Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press.. Burns, K. (2000), Jazz, TV-documentary. Cameron, W. B. (1954), ‘Sociological Notes on the Jam Session,’ Social Forces 33 (2), 177- 182. Carlin, R. (2016), Godfather of the Music Business: Morris Levy, Jackson, University Press of Mississippi. Charles, R. & D. Ritz, (1992), Brother Ray. Ray Charles’ Own Story. New York: DaCapo Press. Chevigny, P. (1991), Gigs. Jazz and the Cabaret Laws in New York City, New York & London, Routledge. Cinel, D. (1991), Sicilians in the Deep South: The Ironic Outcome of Isolation. Studi Emigrazione, March, 55-86. Cohen, H. (2010), Duke Ellington’s America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Collier, J. L. (1978), The Making of Jazz. A Comprehensive History. New York: Delta, Bantam Doubleday. Condon, E. (1992, original 1947), We Called it Music. A Generation of Jazz, Boston, Da Capo Press.

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Critchley, D. (2009), The Origin of Organized Crime in America. The New  York City Mafia, 1891-1931, New York & London, Routledge. Crouch, S. (2013), Kansas City Lightning. The Rise and Times of Charlie Parker, New York etc., Harper Perennial. Dal Cerro, B & D.  A. Witter (2015), Bebop, Swing and Bella Musica. Jazz and the Italian Experience, Chicago: Bella Musica Publ. Dance, S. (1977), The World of Earl Hines. New York: Da Capo Press. DeVeaux, S. (1997), The Birth of Bebop. A Social and Musical History. Berkeley: University of California Press. Driggs, F. & C. Haddix (2005), Kansas City Jazz. From Ragtime to Bebop, a History, New York & Oxford, Oxford University Press. Duberman, M. (1994), Stonewall, New York, Penguin Books. Edelherz, H. & T.  D. Overcast (1983), The Business of Organized Crime. An Assessment of Organized Crime Business-type Activities and their Implications for Law Enforcement, Lewis: Palmer Press. Eldridge, R. (2002), Roy Eldridge. Little Jazz Giant, London & New York, Continuum. Elias, N. (2000), The Civilizing Process. Sociogenetic and Psychogenetic Investigations, Oxford: Blackwell (originally 1939). Erenberg, L.  A. (1981), Steppin’ Out. New  York Nightlife and the Transformation of American Culture, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Fairbairn, A. (1971), Call Him George, New York, Bantam. Firestone, R.A. (1993), Sing, Sing, Sing, The Life and Times of Benny Goodman, New York & London, W.W. Norton & Cy. Firestone, T.A. (1993), ‘Mafia Memoirs: What They Tell Us About Organized Crime,’ Journal of Contemporary Criminal Law, 9, 197-220. Foster, P. (2005, originally 1971) The Autobiography of Pops Foster as Told to Tom Stoddard, San Francisco, Blackbeat Books Fox, S. (1989), Blood and Power. Organized Crime in Twentieth-century America. New  York: Penguin Books. Freeland, D. (2009), Automats, Taxi Dances, Vaudeville. Excavating Manhattan’s Lost Paradise of Leisure, New York & London, NYU Press. Freeman, B. (1989), The Autobiography of a Chicago Jazzman, as Told to Robert Wolf, Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press. Gambetta, D. (1993), The Sicilian Mafia: the Business of Private Protection. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Gans, H.  J. (1974), Popular Culture and High Culture. An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste, New York, Basic Books, Inc. Publ. Gerber, M. (2009), Jazz Jews. Nottingham: Five Leaves Publishing. Giddins, G. (2001), Satchmo: The Genius of Louis Armstrong, New York, Da Capo Press. Gioia, T. (2011), The History of Jazz. New York: Oxford University Press. Gioia, T. (2019), Music. A Subversive History, New York, Basic Books. Gitler, I., (2001), The Masters of Bebop. A Listener’s Guide. Cambridge, Mass.: Da Capo Press. Goetting, J. (2011), Joined at the Hip. A History of Jazz in the Twin Cities, St. Paul, Minnesota Historical Society Press. Gordon, M. (2018), Sophisticated Giant. The Life and Legacy of Dexter Gordon, Oakland, University of California. Granlund, N. T. (1957), Blondes, Brunettes and Bullets, David McKay, Inc., New York. Haller, M. H. (1999), Illegal Enterprise: A Theoretical and Historical Interpretation,’ Criminology, 28 (2), 207-235. Harvey, E. (1967), ‘Social Change and the Jazz Musician,’ Social Forces, 6 (1), 34-42. Hawes, H & D. Asher (1979), Rise up off me, New York, Da Capo Paperback. Hayde, F. R. (2010), The Mafia and the Machine. The Story of the Kansas City Mob. Fort Lee, NY: Barricade Books Inc.

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Hennessey, T.  J. (1994), From Jazz to Swing. Afro-American Jazz Musicians and Their Music, 1890-1935, Detroit, Wayne State University Press. Hersch, C. (2007), Subversive Sounds. Race and the Birth of Jazz in New Orleans. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hersch, C. (2017), Jews and jazz. Improvising ethnicity, New York & London, Routledge. Hershorn, T. (2011), Norman Granz. The Man who Used Jazz for Justice. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hinton, M. & D.  G. Berger (1988), Bass Line. The Stories and Photographs of Milt Hinton, Philadelphia, Temple University Press. Hortis, C. Alexander, 2014, The Mob and the City. The Hidden History of How the Mafia Captured New York, New York, Prometheus Books. Ianni, F. A. J. (1972), A Family Business. Kinship and Social Control in Organized Crime, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul. Johnson, C. & R.  Craig Sautter (1998), The Wicked City. Chicago from Kenna to Capone. New York: Da Capo Press. Kaplan, J. (2010), Frank. The Voice, New York, Doubleday. Kenney, W. H. (1993), Chicago Jazz. A Cultural History, 1904-1930, New York & Oxford, Oxford University Press. Kirk, A. (1989), Twenty Years on Wheels. As Told to Amy Lee, Oxford, Bayou Press. Knoedelseder, W. (1993), Stiffed. A True Story of the MCA, the Music Business and the Mafia. New York: Harper Collins Publ. Leonard, N. (1964), Jazz and the White American. The Acceptance of a New Art Form. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Levey, S. (2016), Stan Levey, Jazz Heavyweight. The Authorized Biography, Solana Beach, Santa Monica Press LLC. Levy, J. (2000), Men, Women and Girl Singers, Beckham Publications Group, Silver Spring. Lombardo, R.  M. (2010), The Black Hand, Terror by Letter in Chicago, Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press. Lopes, P. (2002), The Rise of a Jazz Art World, Cambridge etc., Cambridge University Press. Lutz, T. (1991), ‘ Curing the Blues: W.E.B.  De Bois, Fashionable Designs, and Degenerated Music’, Black Music Research Journal, 11 (2): 137-56. Mezzrow, M. (1961), Really the Blues. London: Gorgi Books. Moody, B. (1993), The Jazz Exiles. American Musicians Abroad. Reno: University of Nevada Press. Morris, R. L. (1980), Wait Until Dark. Jazz and the Underworld, 1880-1940. Bowling Green, Oh: Bowling Green University Popular Press. Morris, R. L. (1998), Le jazz et les gangsters. Abbeville Press. Myers, M. (2013), Why Jazz Happened. Berkeley: University of California Press. Naylor, R. T. (1999), ‘Washout: A Critique of the Follow-the-money Methods in Crime Control Policy,’ Crime, Law & Social Change, 32 (11), 1-58. Nelli, H.  S. (1976), The Business of Crime. Italians and Syndicate Crime in the United States. New York: Oxford University Press. Ogren, K. J. (1989), The Jazz Revolution: Twenties America & the Meaning of Jazz, New York and Oxford, Oxford U.P. Peretti, B. W. (1991), ‘The Jazz Studies Renaissance,’ in: R.T. Buckne & S. Weiland (eds), Essays on the History and Meanings of Jazz, Detroit: Wayne State U.P., 139-149. Peretti, B.W. (1992), The Creation of Jazz. Music, Race and Culture in Urban America. Urbana-­ Champaign: University of Illinois Press. Peretti, B.W. (1995), ‘Oral Histories of Jazz Musicians: The NEA Transcripts as Texts in Contexts,’ in: K. Gabbard (ed.), Jazz among the Discourses, Durham & London, Duke University Press, 117-133. Peretti, B.  W. (2007), Nightclub City. Politics and Amusement in Manhattan, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press.

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Peterson, R.  A. & R.  M. Ken (1996), ‘Changing Highbrow Taste: From Snob to Omnivore,’ American Sociological Review, 61 (5), 900-907. Podell-Raber, M. & C.  Pignone (2007), The Copa. Jules Podell and the Hottest Club North of Havana, New York, Collins. Pullman, P. (2012), Wail. The Life of Bud Powell. New York: Peter Pullman, LLC. Raeburn, B. B. (2009), ‘Stars of David and Sons of Sicily. Constellations Beyond the Canon in Early New Orleans Jazz, Jazz Perspectives, 3 (2), 123-152. Reckless, W. (1933), Vice in Chicago. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Reig, T (1990), Reminiscing in Tempo. The Life and Times of a Jazz Hustler, Jazz Studies, New Jersey, Rutgers University. Rothschild H. (2012), The Baroness. The Search for Nica, rebellious Rothchild and Jazz’s Secret Muse, New York, Vintage Books. Russell, R. (1973), Jazz Style in Kansas City and the Southwest, Berkeley etc., University of California Press. Russo, G. (2006), Supermob. How Sidney Korshak and His Criminal Associates Became America’s Hidden Power Brokers. New York: Bloomsbury. Shapiro, N. & N. Hentoff (eds) (1966 originally 1955), Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya. The Story of Jazz as Told by the Men who Made it, New York, Dover Publications. Shaw, A. (1971), The Street that Never Slept. New York’s Fabled 52d Street, New York, Conard, McCann& Geoghegan, Inc. Shearing, G. (2004), Lullaby of Birdland, New York & London, Continuum. Smith, B.  T. (2002), Blue Notes Until Dawn. The New  York Jazz Community, 1940-1967. Ph.D. Thesis, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. Teachout, T. (2009), Pops, A Life of Louis Armstrong. New York: Houghton Miffin Harcourt. Teachout, T. (2013), Duke. A Life of Duke Ellington, New York, Gotham Books. Teresa, V. (1973), My Life in the Mafia, Greenwich, Conn.: Fawcett Publications. Townsend, P. (2000), Jazz in American Culture, Jackson, University of Mississippi. Travis, D. (1983), An Autobiography of Black Jazz, Chicago: Urba Research Institute, Inc. Ulanov, B. (1946), Duke Ellington, New York, Creative Age Press, Inc. Vaché, W.W. (1992), Crazy Fingers. Claude Hopkins’ Life in Jazz, Washington and London, Smithsonian Institution Press. Vuijsje, B. (1980), Boeking XVI, Jazz nu 4, p. 165. Woodiwiss, M. (2001), Organized Crime and American Power: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Yeager, M.G. (2013) (ed.), Illegal Enterprise. The Work of Historian Mark Haller, Lanham etc., University Press of America. Zolberg, V.L. (1999), Constructing a sociology of the arts, New  York, Cambridge University Press, p. 176.

Crimen et Circenses: Serbian Turbo Folk Music and Organised Crime Elena Krsmanović

1  Introduction The trend of creating popular songs that were composed in the style of traditional music emerged in the territory of Serbia and Bosnia in the 1950s (Rasmussen 2002). The style was known as newly-composed folk music (NCFM). As its popularity grew, a new music genre called turbo folk spawned from it only to become the most popular and most critiqued cultural product in the Western Balkans. Characterised by the use of instruments typical for Serbian folk music such as the accordion, frula1 and tamburica,2 turbo folk also features electronic and disco beats combined with oriental influences of Turkish, Greek and Arab music. Due to the fact that it brought together the folk and the modern, turbo folk was quickly embraced by the masses. It became so big that rather than competing with the new trends that globalisation brought to the local music scene (e.g. hip-hop, electronic music, reggaeton), it simply absorbed the acoustic and rhythmic novelties and continued to diversify and grow in popularity to this date. The term turbo folk was coined by a local musician Rambo Amadeus who merged together the description of its aesthetics and his own critique of the genre and the values it promotes in the song Turbo folk.3 In it, he says turbo folk is not music, but instead  the process of “exciting the lowest passions of Homo sapiens”. Back in 1988 Rambo used the term to refer to his own music. Two decades  Frula is a traditional wooden instrument resembling the flute that was used by shepherds in the past. 2  Tamburica (Serb. for little tamboura) is a long-necked lute popular in northern Serbia, other exYugoslav countries and Hungary. 3   Rambo Amadeus, Turbo folk (2005), album Oprem Dobro. 1

E. Krsmanović (*) Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_9

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later, it became something “other than” music. According to Rambo, it is a complex phenomenon that has to do with crime on the one hand (in the song, he refers to various forms of human trafficking, drugs, gambling, etc.), and transitional capitalist society, globalisation, consumerism and related values on the other hand (or in Rambo’s words: Coca-Cola, McDonalds, hypermarkets, porn videos, Eurovision, and licence plates with small and round numbers are all turbo folk). But how did a single genre of popular music come to be known as the main promotional tool of organised crime, nationalism and related values? And how did the international media come to equate it with a soundtrack to genocide for “having been financed by the Serbian, Croatian and Montenegrin organised crime groups” with the purpose of serving “as the soundtrack to some of the most heinous war crimes since the Holocaust” (The Vice Guide to the Balkans—Part II, as cited in Čvoro 2014)? In a musical sense, turbo folk is neither unique nor a localised phenomenon. The fusion of the folk music motifs with more modern melodies and beats that define it are typical of many other contemporary musical genres. Ćirjaković (2004) identifies similar patterns not only in terms of its heterogeneous audio-aesthetics, but also in relation to music videos, reputation and image of popular performers, and the influence they have on the young population. Electronic, techno, rock, disco, jazz, rap and other forms of popular music elements have been introduced to folk music all over the globe. According to Ćirjaković (ibid.), such fusions have been documented in neighbouring Balkan countries (e.g. skyladiko in Greece, chalga in Bulgaria and tallava in Albania), as well as the remote parts of Europe, Asia and Africa (e.g. Turkish pop, rumba catalana from Spain, Egyptian el Gil, Algerian raï, Moroccan chaabi, Nigerian jùjú and fuji music, Mexican narcocorrido and Indonesian millennium keroncong and pop sunda). In terms of social and cultural influence, the literature on turbo folk reveals more controversies and conflicting interpretations of the phenomenon. Here I am not referring to the condemnations grounded in arguments of banality and kitsch, essentialist claims of low cultural value, nor the feminist readings of objectification and over-sexualisation of female performers (Kronja 2001, 2004; Stanić 2001; Grujić 2009, 2013; Volčić and Erjavec 2010). Similar arguments were applied to other genres and territories (Bretthauer et al. 2007; Aubrey and Frisby 2011; Hatton and Trautner 2011; Frisby and Aubrey 2012; Elouardaoui 2010; Oh 2014). What is particular about turbo folk is the fact that the music genre came to symbolise the axes dividing post-conflict society in Serbia—the masses supporting nationalist, warmongering politics of Milošević and embracing turbo folk (also known as First Serbia), and the civil elite that loathed both (the so-called Second Serbia). This division was rooted in the modernisation efforts of the previous communist regime. Seeking to build the reputation of a modern Yugoslavia, the state promoted rock music as a fitting expression of a modern European country (Đurković 2004). Rather than using overt censorship methods, the Communist Party in Yugoslavia opted for financing fitting alternative music forms with state money, thereby managing both the competition and what gets out into the market. Simultaneously, to the state

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promoting popular musical forms from the West,4 and as a response to the overwhelming modernisation processes in socialist Yugoslavia,5 the rural population embraced modernised folk music instead. Čvoro (2014: 5), therefore, interprets turbo folk as a sort of “reverse nationalism—one that celebrates exotic authenticity and lust for life of the Balkans in contrast to the inhibited anaemic and emasculated Western Europeans”. However, with the rise of Milošević on the political scene, turbo folk was labelled as a tool used by him in order to spread nationalism and incite ethnic hatred (Gordy1999). As a consequence, choosing between enjoying and hating turbo folk no longer had to do only with distinguishing between “good” and “poor” musical taste, but choosing war over peace as well. Much of the turbo folk critique delineated below was built on foundations rooted in similar polarisations between the First and Second Serbia.6 The rise of nationalism, war, organised crime, deterioration of moral values, disappearance of the middle class, and intellectual and cultural genocide are just some of many negative accomplishments assigned to turbo folk in the public discourse (see Gordy 1999; Kronja 2001, 2004). Turbo folk thereby ceased to exist purely as a musical genre and metamorphosed, in the eyes of many, into a powerful weapon of indoctrination. It was seen as “part of a popular culture that was an ideological construction of the Milošević regime and a direct expression of Serb nationalism; a mass-produced media spectacle that fosters mindless consumerism, sexism and criminality; and a triumph of the primitive and backwards Balkan over its cosmopolitan European counterpart” (Čvoro 2014: 2). Critics of this position have pointed out that such interpretations are rooted in cultural racism (Dimitrijević 2002; Ćirjaković 2004, 2013a, b; Čvoro 2014). Cultural racism refers here to the systemic cultural elitism and hatred towards turbo folk as an extension of discrimination against the working class (Čvoro 2014: 18; Dimitrijević 2002). Despite the critiques, this remained the dominant view on turbo folk in the academic and intellectual circles in Serbia and beyond. Social values linked to the establishment of Milošević, such as quick enrichment through crime and “controversial business”, conspicuous consumption, sugar-­ daddies and sugar-babes, were also rooted in turbo folk aesthetics (see Kronja 2001;  From jazz, to rock music inspired by bands such as the Beatles, to Italian canzoni (see Kritika kritike turbo folka 2011). 5  Industrialisation, emancipation and establishment of new towns and settlements in the period from the 1950s to the 1970s brought many rural inhabitants to urban areas where they had to adjust to the new way of life (see Frendo et al. 1996). 6  After the fall of Milošević, the division between those who embraced turbo folk and those who renounced it with disgust culminated. Young Serbian intellectuals from Belgrade started denouncing their national identity and cultural heritage and identifying as citizens of Belgrade (Volčić 2005: 639). Being a “citizen” of Belgrade in 2000s meant not only that one is of urban and cosmopolitan identity and had better taste in the products of popular culture. It also meant that one is of a “guiltless identity” in relation to the breakdown of Yugoslavia (ibid.). In other words, young people felt that their generation had nothing to do with electing Slobodan Milošević or taking part in the war that the Serbian nation was held accountable for. By declaring themselves as Belgraders, they wanted to break free from the post-war condemnations and stereotypes. 4

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Baker 2007). Therefore, apart from associating turbo folk with the nationalist regime of Slobodan Milošević, critics of the genre emphasised its links with organised crime (Dragičević-Šešić 1994; Kronja 2001, 2004; Slavková 2010). Ivana Kronja (2004), for instance, claimed that turbo folk has served to establish and promote a cult of crime and violence. What this chapter tries to demonstrate is that the assumption about a deep intertwinement of organised crime and turbo folk in Serbia is unfounded, and that the links between the two phenomena are correlated with cultural racism and the exclusively nationalistic interpretations of turbo folk outlined above. To do so, it departs from the couple that epitomises this connection—the most popular turbo folk superstar Svetlana (Ceca) Ražnatović and her late husband, crime boss Željko Ražnatović (Arkan). It explores the couple’s public representation and then turns to the involvement of Ceca in Arkan’s criminal activities, mostly related to money laundering and embezzlement. Here it shows that it was football—not music—that the criminal connection was grounded in. Moving on, the text turns to the question of whether the case of Ceca is an isolated incident or, indeed, a symptom of the widely feared pathological symbiosis between turbo music and turbo crime. Therefore, the concluding part of the chapter tries to identify the underexplored connections between the most popular music genre in Serbia and its criminal underground.

2  Short Note on Methodology In order to fill the gap in the literature on the turbo folk and crime nexus, a mixed-­ method approach was used in this work. Similarly to other chapters of this book, most of the text draws on the extensive review of the existing literature on turbo folk. This method was complemented with the analysis of Ceca and Arkan’s media appearances. The strength of this analysis lies in the fact that it provided a nuanced overview of the couple’s public performativity by considering not only their media statements, but also audio and visual aspects of the footage they are portrayed in. Analysed video materials were selected through convenience sampling, due to the fact that footage of Ceca and Arkan is over 20 years old and only a portion of it is easily accessible. The analysis encompassed the recording of the couple’s wedding and several other TV appearances of the couple. All materials were accessed through YouTube. While convenience sampling is limited and does not allow for generalisations, the validity of this research was enhanced by triangulation. Document analysis of the available court cases documentation provided some useful information on Ceca’s involvement in her late husband’s criminal operations. Finally, due to the lack of information on the more current overlaps between the criminal underground and the music industry in Serbia, I have conducted five semi-structured interviews and one unstructured interview in an attempt to bridge this knowledge gap. A personal acquaintance who is a journalist and a music expert was my gate-keeper. I have conducted three expert interviews with music connoisseurs, two interviews with musicians and one interview with a person closely connected through their

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work with the Belgrade nightlife scene.7 In addition to that, I have also consulted an interview with a Serbian football referee on local hooligans that I have conducted in 2011 to verify some information. While this sample is way too small to generate firm knowledge, the expertise of the selected interviewees is sufficient to provide valuable indications of the directions worth exploring in future research.

3  “Wedding of the Century”:8 Turbo Folk and Crime Unite In order to explore the link between Serbian turbo folk music and organised crime— that, as I will argue later, is nowhere near as organic as some theoreticians would like us to believe—it is first necessary to reflect on the public image of the couple who embodied this link in the post-war Milosević’s Yugoslavia: Željko Ražnatović Arkan and Svetlana (Ceca) Ražnatović.

3.1  Introducing the Groom: The Beautiful Thunder9 Notorious criminal Željko Ražnatović Arkan was born in Slovenia in 1952. Soon after his birth, his family moved to Belgrade because his father became a colonel in the Yugoslav army (Sajović 2006). His impressive criminal record encompasses dozens of armed robberies, burglaries, an attempted murder and four successful prison escapes in the territory of various Western European countries between 1973 and 1983. Švarm (2010) provides an account of his international criminal career that started in Belgium in 1973. There he was sentenced to 10 years in prison for a bank robbery, but he escaped the prison in mid-1979, and by the time of his next arrest several months later he had committed two more robberies in Sweden and three in the Netherlands (ibid.); the latter included the robbery of the jewellery store Smit Ouwerkerk at the Singel canal in Amsterdam (Bovenkerk 2003: 46) where he was apprehended. After 2 years behind bars in Holland, Arkan fled to Germany where he was once more captured, only to escape prison for a third time. His last criminal venture abroad happened in 1983 in Switzerland where he was locked away after a  In order to protect the anonymity of people interviewed, I have decided to use broad categories of expert interviews, interviews with musicians and interview with a person closely connected through their work with the Belgrade nightlife scene. In the case of the last interviewee, I let the respondent define how they wanted to be referred to in this work since taking extra measures of precaution to secure anonymity was of great importance to them. 8  The wedding of  Željko and  Svetlana Ražnatović was  and  continues to  be  heavily mediatised and is referred to in the news reports as “the wedding of the century”. 9  Wordplay—Ceca released the song My Beautiful Thunder in 2006. The lyrics tell a story of a former love with a “beautiful thunder”, and a time when they were so strong together that the “ground cracked” underneath their feet (in Serbian: “A sećaš li se, lepi grome moj, nekada je tlo pod nama pucalo”). It was widely believed that she devoted this song to Arkan after his death. 7

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routine traffic check-up. Shortly after, he broke free from Thorberg prison (Švarm 2010). In the decade he operated abroad, Arkan was known to have been active in Sweden, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and Switzerland, even though he spent more time in prison than on the streets of Western European countries. He moved back to Yugoslavia after escaping the Swiss prison in 1983. Yet, Arkan owes his notorious international reputation to his undertakings upon his return to Yugoslavia. Like many other criminals at the time, Arkan is believed to have been contracted to do the “dirty work” for Yugoslav secret services and that, consequently, his illegal operations in the country and abroad were largely tolerated by the government (Sajović 2006; Lopušina 2014; Martinović 2015). Some sources claim that his return to Serbia was also aided by the secret services, and that he was one of their most efficient operatives (Lopušina 2014). Due to these connections, there is still a considerable lack of transparency when it comes to Arkan’s illegal enterprise, connections to the state and alleged ties with Camorra.10 Prior to his marriage to Ceca, Arkan led a group of football club Red Star hooligans that served him as a vehicle to first spread nationalism and incite conflicts at matches, and later to form a paramilitary group, the Serb Voluntary Guard (a.k.a. Arkan’s Tigers) in 1990. Claiming to be defending Serbs who live outside Serbia and protecting Serbian interests, Arkan’s Tigers fought in Croatia and Bosnia from 1991 until the end of 1995. During this time they committed numerous crimes and acts of sadistic violence (Čolović 2002: 284). In 1997, Arkan was indicted for his command of the guard by the Prosecutor of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) and accused of crimes against humanity and superior responsibility, wilfully causing great suffering, violations of the laws or customs of war, murder of 78 victims in the Sanski Most area and rape (Indictment against Željko Ražnatović Arkan, ICTY). Despite this, he was portrayed as a national hero in Milošević’s Serbia (Čolović 2002: 178). Therefore, the news that he was to marry Ceca, the most popular singer in the country, was widely celebrated throughout the country. The carnivalesque (Presdee 2000) nuptials of Ceca and Arkan were heavily mediatised. The wedding was broadcasted live on a national television channel and Serbian media reported that between 36 and 67 media outlets, including the BBC and CNN, reported on the event that was labelled the wedding of a century. For the occasion, Arkan chose a wedding outfit that was reminiscent of the glorious Serbian army commanders from the First World War. In this regard, it is important to note that in WWI, the Austro-Hungarians suffered unexpected defeats at the hands of the Serbian army in the Battle of Mountain Cer and the Battle of Kolubara (Lyon 1997). Hence army commanders of the time11 earned the status of national heroes and an important place in Serbian folklore. Through that analogy, Arkan’s bespoke uniform  Italian investigative journalist Roberto Saviano (2003) wrote about Arkan’s connection to the Camorra in relation to trafficking in arms based on a report of the Italian military information service Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza militare from 1994. 11  Particularly Field Marshal Radomir Putnik, Field Marshal Stepa Stefanović, General Pavle Jurišić Šturm and Field Marshal Živojin Mišić. 10

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served to conceal that he was a paramilitary formation leader and a criminal, and underpin his branding as a heroic protector of the nation. Music played at the wedding provides further evidence of such intentions. A clear example is March to the Drina, a patriotic march that was composed by Stanislav Binički in order to celebrate a Serbian WWI Army commander, Milivoje Stojanović. The composition was later appropriated by the nationalist movement (Gordy 1999) and is now frequently played during popular festivities. The wedding video shows Ceca and Arkan cruising through the fancy hotel ballroom to the powerful brisk rhythm of the march. Arkan further strengthened his reputation by obtaining the blessing of the Serbian Orthodox Church to marry Ceca,12 and having prominent clergy members performing and attending the wedding ceremony.13 Respecting Serbian wedding traditions—e.g. collecting the bride from her parental home and shooting the apple14—served a similar purpose and showcased the groom as an exemplary, traditional male. Among the customs, the so-called purchase of the bride provided an additional opportunity for the groom to demonstrate his power and wealth. Slowly building up towards a crescendo, Arkan first offered single bills, moved on to wads of cash (hundreds of Deutsche Marks), and to a briefcase filled with money, and finally gold and diamonds for the bride’s sister, before being allowed to see his bride. Later in the footage, he is shown pouring more golden ducats into the hands of Ceca’s family.

3.2  Here Comes the Bride: Ms. Ideally Bad15 In contrast to the generous and extraverted groom, stood the seemingly shy, meek bride in the traditional folk costume. Even though only 22 at the time, Ceca already had celebrity status and a successful singing career with six studio albums. Celebrated for her beauty, sex appeal, talent and recognisable husky voice, Ceca was (and remains) one of the highest paid performers in the Serbian music industry (Blagojević 2012). In the role of Arkan’s bride, however, Ceca was greatly different from the flirtatious, sexy stage persona that her audience was used to. On her first  The blessing from the Church was necessary not only because Arkan was married before and had seven children with other women. An additional reason was the age difference of 21 years between him and his young new spouse. Namely, according to the Orthodox Church canon, a blessing is needed if the age difference between the bride and the groom is more than 15 years. 13  One of whom was Vasilije Kačavenda, a former bishop of the Serbian Orthodox Church in Bosnia and an informant for the Yugoslav secret services (Buchenau 2014) who was later involved in a child sex abuse scandal. 14  The bride’s father places an apple on the highest tree in the yard and the groom has to shoot it to prove his manhood (good shooter = good protector, though it is possible to interpret the ritual as having to do with fertility too). Traditionally, the bride is not allowed to leave the house until the groom hits the target. 15  Ideally bad (Serbian: idealno loša) is a title of 2006 song and studio album, second that Ceca released after her arrest and the launce of criminal investigation against her. 12

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encounter with the groom, after he had emptied his pockets to win the right to see her, she denied him a kiss. This was greeted with approval by the best man and the rest of the groom’s entourage, who took it as a proof of her virtuous character (we hear them shouting “I swear to God, she is honest and innocent”16). While the groom strives to strengthen his national hero identity through this marriage, the rebranding of Ceca goes from that of the oversexualised and objectified turbo folk singer to a model wife. That change is announced in the wedding video when the commentator proclaims: “At that moment Ceca Veličković went down in the annals and a new star was born— Svetlana Ceca Ražnatović”.17

Much like turbo folk, the wedding symbolically united the rural and the urban once the party moved from Ceca’s birth-village to the five-star InterContinental Hotel in Belgrade, where the newly-weds changed from their traditional attire into expensive designer garments. Yet, the musical genre of turbo folk itself was not a prominent motif of the festivity (or it did not make the editor’s cut on the videotape). The band is mostly pictured playing traditional folk songs, patriotic and nationalistic hymns. Once more in contrast to her turbo folk recognisable style, Ceca performed several traditional numbers. She opened up with Đurđevdan (Eng. St. George’s Day),18 another song that was embraced by Serbian nationalists among which Arkan’s Red Star hooligans as its origins have been controversially linked to a historical event in WWII.  According to the historian and Jasenovac concentration camp19 survivor, Žarko Vidović, the lyrics to this song were created in the train that transported close to 3000 Serbs from Sarajevo to the Jasenovac camp on St. George’s Day of 1942. Even though contested by the author of the song, Goran Bregović20 and many others, the idea about the origin of the lyrics was widely embraced and popularised in Serbian media. Pursuant to the new role of a modest, exemplary wife, Ceca’s performance was devoted to Arkan—she looked at him and sang to him, while others were enjoying the act. After the wedding, Ceca and Arkan continued to appear in the media together. Their rhetoric remained nationalistic, but quickly started evolving from militant to pacifying. For instance, symbolically choosing to make an appearance on Orthodox  In Serbian: “Boga mi, mlada je čestita i poštena”. Svetlana CECA Ražnatović, (23 June 2018), Ceca i Arkan  – Svadba 19.02.1995. [Video File]. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=cLc-eO6m4as. Timestamp: 00:21:15. 17  Ibid. Timestamp: 2:09:00 18  Known also as Ederlezi, a version of the song in the Romani language became somewhat globally famous after being used by Emir Kusturica in Time of the Gypsies (1988). 19  Jasenovac was a extermination camp established by the Croatian Ustasha regime active during the Second World War. The official list of victims contains 72,193 names, but it is widely believed that more than 100,000 people were killed there. More than half of the victims were Serbian. Other victims were Roma, Jewish and Muslims from Bosnia. See e.g. Kolstø (2011). 20  Todorspin (8 January 2015). Goran Bregović o Balaševiću. [Video File]. Retrieved from https:// www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=28&v=2x5lOm5lpcU&fbclid=IwAR3ib6R3J5zFUMd EvYLXoYyv7tG4quc7kCVDUTRhUrTW-OoD7dW_lyGbNl0 16

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Christmas 1996, they repeatedly said that they only wish “for peace to be established and Tigers to return home safe and sound” and believe “in peace and love”.21 Orthodoxy and nationalism were still an important element of their public discourse. However, the couple was adamant about their disengagement from the war and violence. When asked whether they will follow the tradition and shoot from firearms on the night of the holiday they said the following: Ceca: No, Željko does not like shooting. TV host: And the only type of weapon he has is? Arkan: A pager. Ceca: We like to shoot at targets in the shooting range and we often go there. We really like that sport.22

Interviews confirmed that Ceca and Arkan tried to rebrand themselves as family-­ oriented people in their public appearances after 1995 (Expert Interview, March 2019, Belgrade N17LMB)

This, of course, did not mean farewell to turbo folk in Ceca’s career, nor did she stop flirting with the motif of crime aesthetics in her music. She released several music videos that show her on a spectrum from a trophy wife that likes bad boys and the luxury they bring, all the way to a mafia-like cold-blooded executioner of those who did her wrong (for instance, see Idi dok si mlad (1995), Monotonija (1995), Dokaz (1999), and Prođi sa mnom kroz crveno (2000) music videos). It is important to note that Ceca did continue to commodify the motif of crime in her music, albeit it was often secondary to motifs of consumerism and cheap erotica. In conclusion to this part, I would like to point out that this analysis was not aiming to exoticise the wedding or contribute further to the stereotypes of the ugly Balkans and the European other. The event served here as a mere illustration of how performativity was central in both building (or perhaps, more accurately, reforming) Arkan’s bad boy reputation and Ceca’s pop-culture identity. From their spectacular marital debut, until the romanticised scene of their final moments together, Ceca and Arkan’s public life has been a carefully choreographed balance between legal and illegal, between badass and exemplary Serbs, between turbo and folk.

4  W  idow’s Prayer: Jesus, Give Me a Lion Heart to Survive the Forthcoming Days 23 I was in a solitary confinement for 30 days, with no rights to visitation, canteen, lawyers, or sun. Cockroaches kept me company. I had a bed, a side table and a little bench in the cell. When I got in, I saw the lyrics of my songs on all the walls. I thought to myself: “My God, what an irony!” Ceca on the time she spent behind bars. (Srbija danas 2019)  Maksovizija, January 7, 1996. Timestamp 13:42.  Maksovizija, January 7, 1996. Timestamp 11:23. 23  A verse from Ceca’s song Isuse (1996), Album: Emotivna luda. 21 22

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Ceca’s marriage to Arkan started and ended in the Intercontinental Hotel in Belgrade. Five years after they tied the knot in the lavish ceremony, Arkan was sitting in the luxurious lobby of the same hotel while his wife was in a nearby boutique. With two bodyguards by his side, Arkan was approached by a group of armed men and shot through the left eye (see Collin 2001: 77). He died on the way to the hospital. After Arkan’s passing, the life of his widow took two big turns. One had to do with how criminal justice authorities started perceiving her. The other was related to how she wanted to be perceived by the fans of her music. Namely, as suspicions were raised that she took over some illegal businesses of her late husband, including the Obilić football club, Ceca was putting efforts into becoming a de-politicised, modern and independent career woman. The text below explains the legal case against Ceca, and how she managed to preserve her good reputation and popularity despite pleading guilty to criminal charges against her. Three years after Arkan was killed, Ceca was charged for illegal possession of firearms and embezzlement24 related to her illegally profiting from FC Obilić players’ transfers between May 2000 and August 2003 (Indictment against Svetlana Ražnatović Ceca). To understand the illegal aspects of the FC Obilić management and Ceca’s involvement in it, however, it is necessary to go back to the period when Arkan became the president of the football club in 1996. Although FC Obilić was never privatised, it came to be controlled by the Ražnatović family. Entering the business of running a football club provided ample opportunities for racketeering, money launder and embezzlement. The FC also served for money laundering through donations to build the stadium, not charging tickets for the matches, and similar and other similarly corrupt behaviour (Obilić FC 1999/2000, Obilić FC 06/07/2000, People’s Bank of Yugoslavia report: NBY_UP457/99-1, Insajder 2008). The mechanism for the illegal trade functioned in the following way: 1. A prospective player is approached by a criminal group and asked to sign a private contract with them; 2. Criminals put pressure on football managers to make the signed player part of the starting line­up and/or a national team player in order to raise the player’s profile and make him more recognizable internationally; 3. With the football player on the criminals’ payroll and his profile becoming increasingly attractive to scouts from big football clubs, the player is eventually sold. Payments are made in cash or to offshore accounts. The sale would happen within a maximum of 2 years since the player was recruited. There would be no traceable records of the transfers and they would be registered as ‘borrowed’ to the club that illegally purchased them. This allowed Arkan and other criminals in the country to take all the money and pay no taxes to the state. (Insajder 2008)

Furthermore, that meant that the club had no income, which allowed for further opportunities to launder money through bogus investments and sponsoring payments to the club.  Ceca was arrested in a large police operation “Sabre” following the assassination of the Serbian Prime Minister, Zoran Đinđić. Following a police investigation, she was charged for illegally profiting from transfers of football players from Obilic Football club first run by her late husband, and later by herself. 24

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Suspicions of Ceca’s involvement in the shady activities in relation to the financial management of FC Obilić extend to the years Arkan was running it (SBPOK police report, People’s Bank of Yugoslavia report: NBY_UP457/99-1). However, she was only charged for illegally obtaining money from transfers that took place after the murder of her husband. These pertain to the sale of ten players for close to 10  million Deutsche Marks (DM) and 3.22  million USD (Indictment against Svetlana Ražnatović Ceca). The case against Ceca lay dormant for 7 years. Its epilogue came in the spring of 2011, when she was convicted based on her confession (Report on the admission of guilt of Svetlana Ražnatović) and subsequent plea deal with the Prosecution (Plea deal agreement with Svetlana Ražnatović). In June 2011, Svetlana Ceca Ražnatović was sentenced to 1-year house arrest and ordered to pay a 1.5  million euro fine. This sum is rather marginal considering the fact that FC Obilić records show that 37.5  million DM from the trade in players was unaccounted for just in the period of 1999–2000 (ObilićFC1999/2000), and the police investigation report indicates that over 22.5 million DM and close to half a million USD had been illegally obtained between 1998 and 2003 (SBPOK police report).

4.1  Ceca 2.0 During close to a decade-long period from Ceca’s arrest until her sentence was served, she released three studio albums.25 Developments in her musical career in the period before, during and after her arrest remained, by and large, undisturbed. Despite her marriage to Arkan and related ties with nationalist movement in the 1990s and her criminal record in the 2000s, Ceca did not lose her popularity. In fact, she became more popular than before by reinventing herself as an empowered, successful woman who is heart-broken but remains strong and capable of fending for herself (Volčić and Erjavec 2010). The Ceca of the new millennium, i.e. Ceca 2000 as her album prophetically announced the transformation, managed to win the hearts of audiences throughout the Balkans, even in the “enemy” countries of Bosnia and Croatia.26 Changes in Ceca’s public image were twofold. On the one hand, she stepped out of politics, withdrawing herself from Arkan’s party. On the other hand, her music (and the way she talks about it) also transformed into a product that is less folk and more turbo flavoured, all in order to symbolically represent her modernised and cleansed brand. Nationalism, the key element of her early career, was no longer incited in her songs, but rather commodified. Take for instance her concert that took place in Belgrade in 2013, on Vidovdan, a Serbian national and religious holiday. Vidovdan, celebrated on 28th June, is of great symbolic value in relation to Kosovo and Serbian national identity, because of the battle between the Serbs and the Ottoman Empire that took place on Kosovo

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 Worse than Love (2004), Ideally Bad (2006) and Love Lives (2011).  Not without controversies and moral panics—see Baker (2007).

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Field, on Vidovdan 1389. This battle is widely understood in the national folklore as a heroic sacrifice of the Serbian people who died defending the Orthodox Christian religion and national honour against the infidel Turks.27 The holiday was politicised in the last 40 years in the struggle to resolve the contemporary issue of Kosovo and Serbia’s relationship to it (Čolović 2010). So, when Ceca announced her biggest concert yet will take place on Vidovdan 2013, many interpreted it as another deliberate intersection between her music and Serbian nationalism. However, Ćirjaković (2013b) offers a more nuanced take on the event. He wrote that the key to understanding her concert is not Kosovo, but capitalism: “In the neoliberal era, symbolism and emotional capital of the Kosovo battle became a commodification tool. Just as, for instance, pictures of Che Guevara and the Valentines Day, Kosovo is turned into a marketing device and goods that have a significant value on the market. Of course, the secret of Ceca’s popularity also does not lie in a mythical [Kosovo field] battle or nationalism. On Vidovdan at Usce,28 Ceca organised a big celebration of the modern, consumerist escapism and the accompanying indifference towards Kosovo”.

Going back to Čvoro’s (2014) application of Žižek (1993, 2000) to turbo folk delineated in the introduction, it appears as though contemporary turbo folk can, indeed, be interpreted as an empty signifier of national identity. As such it allows everyone to read into it whatever they want—be it the primitiveness of the Balkans or local resistance to the anaemic West—while swimmingly promoting capitalism and related values.

5  Towards the Missing Links At this point, it is clear that Ceca’s singing had little to do with her criminal career. Yet, the question that remains is whether we can find the links between crime and turbo folk music elsewhere—among other performers, the fans, or the music (industry) itself? Many female turbo folk singers had relationships with Serbian criminals and controversial businessmen. Such romances were frequent in the 1990s,29 but continued to occur later as well.30 But, the same seems to be true for women in other professions in the post-war, transitional Serbian society. Patriarchy, nepotism, discrimination against women and the rise of the new elite comprised of wealthy  The symbolic importance of this date is best understood when many important historical events taking place on Vidovdan are taken into account: the fight for independence through the SerbianOttoman War in 1876, assassination of Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo 1914 that led to the start of WWI, passing of the 1921 Constitution, Milošević’s speech announcing potential conflicts in 1989, and his deportation to the ICTY in 2001. 28  Location of her concert in Belgrade. 29  e.g. Ceca and Arkan, Goca Božinovska and Zoran Šijan, Dara Bubamara and Lazar Dugalić Laki, Jelena Karleuša and Ćanda 30  e.g. Ana Nikolić and Miša Banana, Jelena Kostov and Kene, Biljana Sečivanović and Kene. 27

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criminals and war profiteers, changed the social climate in the country. For many women, social mobility often depended on the ability to seduce and manipulate powerful men. As a result, more and more women looked for sugar-daddies, while more and more gangsters embraced the idea of sponsoring beautiful women who can further reflect their power and status (Dedić 2017). Turbo folk, undeniably, played a role in promoting such lifestyles. Numerous songs in which women demand diamonds, expensive cars, clothes and villas became major hits of turbo folk music. Lyrics of such hits best illustrate this point. ‘Cabrio Porsche’ by Tina Ivanović, album Extra (2006); ‘Žene vole dijamante [Women love diamonds]’ by Jelena Karleuša, album Jelena (2005); and ‘Red Ferrari’, by Dragana Mirković, song made for the film Slatko od Snova (1994) In addition to that, tabloid media eagerly embraced the dynamics and reported generous investments that criminals were making to aid the careers of their lovers (see for instance D.I 2013; Estrada i mafija 2017). While at first glance these sponsor-­like relationships may seem inherently anti-feminist and backward, Jelača (2015) offers a different reading of turbo folk and femininity. She argues that womanhood in turbo folk carries with it the potential to dismantle the very patriarchal structures that objectified women in the first place. According to her analysis, turbo folk divas “are potentially transgressive figures precisely because they are women who challenge the traditional models of patriarchal relations premised on love plots and naturalized identities. Instead, their enactment of technologically enhanced femininity is deployed towards fetishizing material security and social power” (Jelača 2015: 47). Similar can be said of Ceca’s musical persona. A distinction that needs to be made either way is the one between those musicians who accept illegally obtained money to advance in their careers and those who take an active part in making money through illegal activities. In that sense, the partnership of Ceca and Arkan remains unprecedented. Next to the performers, the audience of turbo folk is often represented as deviant and criminal in the public discourse (Baker 2007; Volčić and Erjavec 2010). To understand why this level of connection between criminality and turbo folk exists in the public discourse, one must be reminded of the specific cultural signifiers and devisors typically associated with turbo folk. Turbo folk always stood in contrast to the urban and advanced: it was associated with people who were uneducated, uncultured, wild and backward. It was more than just a manifestation of poor taste—it became known as a numbing opiate for the masses and a synonym for social decadence. In her analysis of the public perception of turbo folk in Croatia, Baker (2007) writes that people listening to turbo folk are believed to be young, criminal men who are seeking hedonistic entertainment, causing social disorder, and engaging in gangster violence and organised crime. She applies Cohen’s moral panics theory (1972) to account for the exaggerated media framing of turbo folk as criminal and the underlying efforts to preserve the former order and values in Croatian society. Similarly, in Serbia, turbo folk was seen as the axes setting apart crime and violence-­ prone supporters of Milošević from people opposing his warmongering politics. However, not only did turbo folk outlive Milošević and his nationalist politics, it also seduced audiences in Bosnia, Croatia, North Macedonia and Slovenia.

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Additionally, political compliance of turbo folk is not in contrast with the global trends and the role popular culture often has in legitimising dominant ideologies. Therefore, cultural racism looks like a more credible explanation of the negative (and criminalising) sentiments towards turbo folk. Ćirjaković (2013a) asserts that by showing that traditional can be modernised, turbo folk threatens one part of the civil elite. Therefore, this hybrid modernity of turbo folk has to be denigrated and those who embrace it need to be othered. In the attempt to keep certain privileges and the domain of the modern for themselves, the threatened civil elites politicise and essentialise culture. Criminals listening to a particular music genre does not make that music criminal, in the same way doctors listening to another type of music does not make it medical. But how about the music itself? Turbo folk is very similar to its precursor, NCFM (Kritika kritike turbo folka 2011) that does not bear the same stigma of promoting crime, nationalism and violence. Furthermore, it is just one of many popular fusions of folk music and modern, computerised beats. On the other hand, the lyrics and aesthetics promoted in music videos for early turbo folk songs offer some, but limited, intersections with criminality. These are often overemphasised in the pretentious readings of crime commodification in the products of popular culture (e.g. Gordy 1999; Kronja 2001, 2004). It is both dangerous and incorrect to generalise such observations to the whole musical genre that is much more often focused on singing about heartbreaks and consumerism. In fact, the trend that seems to persist in Serbian turbo folk for some time now is to avoid the notion of nationalism, violence and the like (Volčić and Erjavec 2010, J15LS). Finally, one may take a broader approach and look for crime within the music and entertainment industry in Serbia. The existing criminological literature has very little to reveal when it comes to this. Although limited in scope, research completed for this chapter did detect interesting indications of criminality that should be explored in future studies. I use the word indications because this inquiry relied heavily on several expert interviews, and therefore does not offer a sufficient basis for more specific conclusions. First indications concern the music industry within the country. Serbian media outlets with publishing houses of their own, the presence of piracy, lack of market monitoring, and an absence of records that would realistically reflect the consumption and demand in the market create a very problematic set of circumstances that are easy to abuse. Who gets paid for copyright is fixed (interviews BB2TN, J15LS, HH90R), because media play songs by the composers who are signed by the music record companies belonging to those same media outlets. “In 365 days of the TV programme, you have 650 days of music [on one music channel]! Me: How is that possible? Of course it’s possible when there is no monitoring! You have all these specialised music channels—Pink Music, Pink Music 2, Pink Folk, Pink Folk 2, Pink n Roll, Pink Hits. And you fill the programme in with whatever the fuck you want. You register your channel in Bosnia. There you can talk about organized crime, you know, because you have a network of collaborators, including publishing houses, media, Serbian Music Authors Association (SOKOJ), The Intellectual Property Office of Serbia. That is the organized crime in music, not turbo folk”. (Expert Interview, March 2019, Belgrade, J15LS)

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The second indication of a nexus between crime and music has to do with the entertainment industry, or more precisely the clubbing scene in Serbia and its diaspora. “When you start, you go to small kafanas31 in Austria, Germany, Switzerland and toil all night long... Sweat and blood—that is the life. But when you become popular, then you can enter the big clubs and get thousands of euros for less than two hours of work”. (Interview with a musician, March 2019, Belgrade, HH90R)

Popular names often bring thousands of people to these clubs. That they serve to attract the masses and generate huge revenues for the clubs where money laundering occurs seems a more credible inference (J15LS, BCH39). “…and I heard this directly from people who perform there [big clubs in diaspora], you have a dude standing in a corner somewhere and his job is to produce as many bills at the registry possible. It does not matter what, and whether that staff is really being sold because the clock is ticking. They only work until 3 or 5 in the morning and you need to slide in that money, show it on paper”. (Expert Interview, March 2019, Belgrade, J15LS)

Similar practices are happening in Belgrade too, where counterfeit bills are being produced in popular night clubs (D84KZ). “Yeah, I heard that was happening in some places [producing fictive bills] but not in the ones I worked in. There we had other things. For instance, hmmm, you show only some of the alcohol you are selling and you pay taxes for that, sure. But then you have a warehouse packed with bottles, and you just slide them in and sell, get it? You pay 10euros for a bottle and you sell it for a 100. That is pure profit that no one can touch”. (Interview, March 2019, Belgrade, D84KZ)

Overall, there was no disagreement between the respondents as to whether illegal activities happen in these clubs and why big names in music are needed in this scenario. However, when it comes to the structure of club ownership and how it affects the singers, empirical data is both hard to collect32 and contradictory. Namely, whether the groups who own the clubs are ethnically based or not is unclear, but there is a level of collaboration between the Serb, Croatian and Bosnian club owners (J15LS, BCH39). “When you are signed to perform with the Bosnian crew, you then sing in Bosnian clubs in Switzerland, Germany, Austria. You cannot go sing in the Serb and the Croatian. It is a turf, like in the cartels. And they [different groups of club owners] compete to get the good performers. They bid. Sometimes they trade. Because there is a lot of money at stake”. (Expert Interview, March 2019, Belgrade, J15LS)

But, another respondent does not agree that these groups are ethnic. At least, not in Switzerland. “I am not sure I would agree with that [that the groups of club owners are ethnically homogenous]. You know who is the owner if it’s a small place. But if it is a bigger game (fuck, you know, we are talking millions here) there you have groups of 7–8 co-owners. In Face club in Zurich, for instance, it’s 8 people. From Belgrade, Montenegro and Muslim. Generally, it is better if people do not know who the owner is because you do not limit the audience then. You still have people who say “I would never go to a Serb’s place”. (Online expert interview, September 2019, BCH39)

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 Kafanas are bistros in which alcohol and traditional foods are served. Many have live music.  I had some interviews turned down because people did not want to talk about it.

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The limitations of the scope of this research, however, should be taken into account. It was never an intention here to make conclusive claims about the role musicians have in (indirectly) sustaining illegal activities in the clubbing scene of Belgrade and of the Yugoslav diaspora. However, the novel data that was uncovered in this exploration of the nexus between turbo folk and crime calls for further scientific inquiries that will give answers to the questions raised here.

6  Conclusion This chapter challenged the assumption about deep intertwinement of organised crime and turbo folk in Serbia. It did so by scrutinising the case of Ceca and Arkan, “the queen” of turbo folk music, and “the king” of the Serbian criminal underground. The analysis has shown that it was football—not music—that the criminal connection was based upon. Further, it was demonstrated that performativity was a pivotal element of the couple’s media appearances, and that both successfully used it to reform their public reputation. In that sense, Ceca and Arkan’s public life has been a carefully choreographed balance between legal and illegal, between badass and exemplary Serbs, between turbo and folk. Moving away from this isolated case, the article sought connections between turbo folk and crime in other performers and turbo folk music itself. Yet, the analysis has shown that the key to understanding turbo folk is neither crime nor nationalism, but capitalism. In this sense, a consistency was found with the work of Čvoro (2014) who first saw turbo folk as an empty signifier of national identity that can both be interpreted as a symbol of Serbian backwardness and as a proof of their resistance to the anaemic, emasculated West, while simultaneously promoting the values of capitalism. On the other hand, a key to understanding critiques of and moral panics around the phenomenon of turbo folk lies in cultural racism stemming out of social and political developments in Yugoslavia. In an attempt to make an original contribution to the literature on the overlaps between music and crime in Serbia, this chapter revealed possible indications of white-collar crime in the music industry and uncovered the instrumental value of turbo folk’s popularity for money laundering in the night clubs of the country and in the Serbian diaspora. Interestingly, this chapter revealed no connections to crime that had to do with the genre of turbo folk per se. Rather, it is popular music that offers opportunities for criminals to profit, and turbo folk is just one form of that. Balkaton, folk-rap and other contemporary melodic fusions present lucrative opportunities too. Therefore, it seems necessary to replace inquires looking to confirm that turbo folk is bad and ugly with novel criminological investigations that are not grounded in cultural racism but empirical evidence.

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References Aubrey, J. & Frisby, C. (2011) Sexual objectification in music videos: A content analysis comparing gender and genre. Mass Communication and Society, vol. 14, no. 4, pp. 475-501 Baker, C. (2007) The concept of turbofolk in Croatia: inclusion/exclusion in the construction of national musical identity. In Gerry, C.  J., C.  Baker, B.  Madaj, J.  Nahodilova, & L.  Mellish (Eds.) Nation in Formation: Inclusion and Exclusion in Central and Eastern Europe. London: SSEES Publications. Blagojević, G. (2012) Turbo-Folk and Ethnicity in the Mirror of the Perception of the YouTube users. Glasnik etnografskog instituta SANU, vol. 2, pp. 55-170 Bovenkerk, F. (2003) Organized Crime in Former Yugoslavia. In: Siegel D., van de Bunt H., Zaitch D. (eds). Global Organized Crime. Studies of Organized Crime, vol 3. Springer, Dordrecht, pp. 45-61 Bretthauer, B., T. Zimmerman & J. Banning (2007) A feminist analysis of popular music: Power over, objectification of, and violence against women. Journal of Feminist Family Therapy, vol. 18, no. 4, pp. 29-51 Buchenau, K. (2014) The Serbian Orthodox Church. In Leustean, L. N. (Ed.). Eastern Christianity and politics in the twenty-first century. New Yourk: Routledge Ćirjaković, Z. (2013a) Muški snovi, neoliberalne fantazije i zvuk oklevetane modernosti. Sarajevske sveske, pp. 39-40, 89-114 Cohen, S. (1972) Folk devils and moral panics: The creation of the Mods and Rockers. London: MacGibbon and Kee Collin, M. (2001) This is Serbia Calling. Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio and Belgrade’s Underground Ressistance. London: Serpent’s Tail Čolović, I. (2002) The politics of symbol in Serbia: essays in political anthropology. London: C. Hurst & Co Čvoro, U. (2014) Turbo-folk music and cultural representations of national identity in former Yugoslavia. Furnham: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd Dedić, A. (2017) Femininity and feminism in art practices in Serbia: 1970-2010 (unpublished doctoral dissertation). The Polytechnic University of Valencia, Valencia, Spain Đurković, M. (2004) Ideološki i politički sukobi oko popularne muzike u Srbiji. Filozofija i društvo 25, pp. 271-284 Elouardaoui, O. (2010) Contemporary Arab Music Video Clips: Between Simulating MTV’s Gender Stereotypes and Fostering New Ones. Imaginations Journal of Cross-Cultural Image Studies/revue d études interculturelle de l image, vol. 4, pp. 112-133 Frendo, H., B. Cook & M. Obradović (1996) Communist modernization in Yugoslavia (1947–53). The European Legacy, vol. 1, no. 3, pp. 859-865 Frisby, C. & J.  Aubrey (2012) Race and Genre in the Use of Sexual Objectification in Female Artists’ Music Videos. Howard Journal of Communication, vol. 23, no. 1, pp. 66-87 Gordy, E. (1999) The Culture of Power in Serbia: Nationalism and the Destruction of Alternatives. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press Grujić, M. (2009) Community and the Popular: Women, Nation and Turbofolk in post-Yugoslav Serbia (unpublished doctoral dissertation). The Central European University, Budapest, Hungary Grujić, M. (2013) Turbo-Folk u Srbiji i reprezentacija žena: prividna transgresivnost jedne muzičke produkcije. Balkania vol. 4, pp. 196-236 Hatton, E., & M. Trautner (2011) Equal opportunity objectification? The sexualization of men and women on the cover of Rolling Stone. Sexuality & culture, vol. 15, no. 3, pp. 256-278 Jelača, D. (2015. Feminine libidinal entrepreneurship: towards a reparative reading of the sponzoruša in turbo folk. Feminist Media Studies, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 36-52 Kolstø P. (2011) The Serbian-Croatian Controversy over Jasenovac. In: Ramet S.P., Listhaug O. (eds) Serbia and the Serbs in World War Two. Palgrave Macmillan, London, pp. 225-246 Kronja, I. (2001) Smrtonosni sjaj: Masovna psihologija i estetika turbo folka [Deadly splendor: Psychology of the Mass and the Aesthetics of Turbo Folk]. Belgrade: Tehnokratija

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Kronja, I. (2004) Turbo folk and dance music in 1990s Serbia: Media, ideology and the production of spectacle. Anthropology of East Europe Review, vol. 22, no. 1, pp. 103-114 Lopušina, M. (2014) Ubij bližnjeg svog: Jugoslovenska tajna policija 1945’2002. Belgrade: Marso Lyon, J. (1997) “A peasant mob”: The Serbian Army on the eve of the Great War. The Journal of Military History, vol. 61, no. 3, pp. 481-502 Martinović, N. (2015). An Analysis of the Causes of Serbian Transnational Organised Crime. European Society of Criminology. Porto Oh, C. (2014) The politics of the dancing body: Racialized and gendered femininity in Korean pop. In The Korean Wave. In Kuwahara, Y. (Ed.) The Korean wave: Korean popular culture in global context. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 53-81 Presdee, M. (2000). Cultural Criminology and the Carnival of Crime. London: Routledge. Rasmussen, L. (2002) Newly-composed folk music of Yugoslavia. London and New York: Routledge Sajović, B. (2006) UDBA. Ljubljana: Karantonija. Slavková, M. (2010) Echoing the beats of turbo-folk: popular music and nationalism in ex-­ Yugoslavia. Lidé města, vol. 12, no. 2, pp. 419-439 Stanić, R. (2001). Tri heroja srpskog folka: država u kafani. In: Tarlać, G. & V. Đurić (eds.), Antologija turbo folka: pesme iz stomaka naroda. Belgrade: SKC, pp. 99-108 Volčić, Z. (2005) Belgrade vs. Serbia: Spatial Re-Confirmation of Belonging. Journal of Erhic and Migration Studies, vol. 31, no. 4, pp. 639-658 Volčić, Z. & K.  Erjavec (2010) The Paradox of Ceca and the Turbo-Folk Audience, Popular Communication, vol. 8, no. 2, pp. 103-119 Žižek, S. (1993) Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology. Durham: Duke University Press. Žižek, S, (2000) The Fragile Absolute: Or, Why is the Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For? London: Verso

Media Sources Ćirjaković, Z. (2004) Turbofolk – naš a svetski. NIN, 21.10. 2004 Ćirjaković, Z. (2013b) Saputnici kapitulacije: Ceca, Aca Lukas i Maks Veber. Nova srpska politička misao, 01.07.2013. Čolović, I. (2010) Vidovdan. Peščanik, 08.07.2010. Retrieved from https://pescanik.net/vidovdan/. Dimitrijević, B (2002) Globalni turbo - folk, NIN, 2686, (July, 20, 2002) Dragičević–Šešić, М (1994) Neofolk kultura: Publika i njene zvezde. Sremski Karlovci, Novi Sad: Izdavačka knjižara Zorana Stojanovića. D.I. (2013, 20.07) Ana Nikolić priznala: Miša Banana je ljubav mog života. [Ana Nikolić admitted: Miša Banana is the love of my life] Blic. Retrieved from: https://www.blic.rs/zabava/ ana-nikolic-priznala-misa-banana-je-ljubav-mog-zivota/zvlp0e3 Estrada i mafija [Show business and Mafia] (2017, 16.12). Politika ekspres. Retrieved from http:// politika-ekspres.net/kriminal/22-kriminal/877-estrada-i-mafija-sta-je-vezivalo-kriminalce-ipevacice. Insajder (2008) Pravila igre. [Rules of the Game]. B92. Part 1  – 5 (21.01.2008, 28.01.2008, 04.02.2008, 11.02.2008 and 18.02.2008). Retrieved from https://insajder.net/sr/sajt/pravilaigre/. Kritika kritike turbo folka (2011) Napucavanje Pajsera 24/7. Retrieved from: http://dizelgorivo. blogspot.com/2011/10/kritika-kritike-turbo-folka-smrtonosni.html Saviano, R. (2003) Scampia Erzegovina. Giuseppe Genna, 13.07.2003. Retrieved from https:// giugenna.com/2003/07/13/roberto-saviano-scampia-erzegovina/ Srbija danas, 19.03.2019. Jeziva ispovest: Ceca progovorila o danima u zatvoru – Društvo u samici su mi bile bubašvabe. Retrieved from https://www.srbijadanas.com/vip/vip/jeziva-ispovest-cecaprogovorila-o-danima-u-zatvoru-drustvo-u-samici-su-mi-bile-bubasvabe-2019-03-19.

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Švarm, F. (2010, 14.01) Deset godina od ubistva Željka Ražnatovića: Arkanova ostavština [Ten years from the murder of Željko Ražnatović: The legacy of Arkan]. Vreme (993). Retrieved from https://www.vreme.com/cms/view.php?id=906970.

Official Documents Indictment against Svetlana Ražnatović Ceca, 479/03. The Republic Public Prosecutor's Office, Republic of Serbia. 28.03.2003. Belgrade, Serbia. IT-97-27 Indictment against Želko Ražnatović Arkan. International Criminal Tribunal For The Former Yugoslavia, 23.09.1997. The Hague, The Netherlands. NBY_UP457/99-1 The report on control over financial and business operations of FC Obilić in 1998-1999. National Bank of Yugoslavia, 03.09.1999. Belgrade, Serbia. ObilićFC06/07/2000 The Official Letter of Žarko Nikolić to the FC Obilić Assembly. FC Obilić, 07.06.2000. Belgrade, Serbia. ObilićFC1999/2000 The list of sold football plazers in the season 1999-2000, FC Obilić, undated. Belgrade, Serbia. Plea deal agreement with Svetlana Ražnatović, 479/03. The Republic Public Prosecutor's Office, Republic of Serbia. 08.04.2011. Belgrade, Serbia. Report on the admission of guilt of Svetlana Ražnatović, 479/03. The Republic Public Prosecutor's Office, Republic of Serbia. 08.04.2011. Belgrade, Serbia. SBPOK police report (undated) Report on Svetlana Ražnatović. Service for Combating Organized Crime, Ministry of Interior. Belgrade, Serbia SPPC, 2003. Siezed Property Police Confirmation for Svetlana Ražnatović. Ministry of Interior, 07.03.2003. Belgrade, SerbiaDimitrijević, B. (2002) Globalni turbo - folk, NIN, July, 20 , 2002

Part IV

Music, Genocide and Crimes Against Humanity

Todestango: Music in Nazi Death Camps Willem de Haan

1  Introduction The music of Richard Wagner (1813–1883) is controversial for many reasons. The composer is notorious for his anti-Semitism and for having been a source of inspiration to Nazism but most of all for the abuse the Nazis made of his music. Survivors of the Holocaust have testified that Wagner’s music was performed in the death camps (Siegel 2013: 213).1 It is therefore not surprising that: “one has the image in one’s mind of Wagner being played as the victims made their way to the gas chambers.”2 However, while a few survivors recall hearing strains of Wagner at Auschwitz, the vast majority of eyewitnesses makes no mention of his music or even strongly denies to have heard it in the camp (Sheffi 2001; Ross 2012). Surviving members of the camp orchestras in Auschwitz have insisted that “they did not play while people were marched to the gas chambers (one of the rumors which grew in the post-war years)” (Gilbert 2005: 176). In other words, the belief that Jews were led to the gas chambers at the sounds of Wagner’s music is a myth (Siegel 2013: 206). In this chapter, the question is raised whether it is also a myth that: “The Nazi savagery forced Jewish musicians, who were in concentration camps, to perform a tango while they accompanied large rows of men, women and children to the gas chambers.” (Judkovski and Pomeraniec 2009: 45.14–45.32) At the Trial of the Major War Criminals before the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg in

 Death camps are concentration and extermination camps.  Actor, writer and presenter Stephen Fry in his BBC documentary film ‘Wagner and Me’ (2010). https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=hlmaEpw7oz0. 1 2

W. de Haan (*) VU University, Amsterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_10

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1946, Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Lev Smirnov charged that: “The Germans executed their tortures, ill-treatments, and shootings to the accompaniment of music. For this purpose they created a special orchestra selected from among the prisoners. They ordered composers to write a special tune, to be called the ‘Death Tango’. Not long before the camp was liquidated the Germans shot all the members of the orchestra.”3 Even though this charge has been brought forward in an international court of law, it seems harder to imagine that thousands of Jews were murdered to the strains of tango music, than to believe that they were being led to the gas chambers accompanied by music of Richard Wagner which, after all, is viewed as the “music of death” (Siegel 2013: 206). This chapter traces the roots of the story of the “Death Tango”—a story which irresistibly triggers the imagination and, therefore, is constantly reproduced in different versions in the press, in books, on the internet, and in social media. In this chapter, an attempt will be made to separate myth from reality by cutting a trail through the jungle of fact and fiction. This is, of course, by no means to deny what happened during the Holocaust. In fact, historical research has shown that the creation of musical ensembles in the death camps was a deliberate policy of the SS (Fackler 2000: 345, note 209). In the death camps, “music played a valuable role in the extermination process, helping the operation to run smoothly and assisting in the maintenance of discipline and order” (Gilbert 2005: 145). Hopefully, by studying the particular role of tango music in the Holocaust, additional knowledge may be gained about the role of music in the modus operandi of what has been called the “crime of all crimes” (Rafter 2016).

2  Nazi Death Camps As soon as Hitler assumed power in 1933, the Nazi regime started to erect forced labor- and concentration camps for political prisoners, prisoners of war, Jews, Sinti and Roma (“Gypsies”), homosexuals and Jehovah’s Witnesses in Dachau, Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald, Mauthausen, Flossenburg, Neuengamme, and Ravensbück. Auschwitz was one of the largest concentration camps consisting of the main camp Auschwitz I-Stammlager and approximately 45 satellite camps (Gilbert 2005: 144).4 In order to implement the so-called “Final Solution” to the Jewish question, six extermination camps were erected in occupied Poland for the systematic murder of Jews on an industrial scale. Under the code name “Operation Reinhard,” these camps were erected in Auschwitz II-Birkenau, Belzec, Chelmno, Majdanek,  Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German major war criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450–451. 4  For a list of sub-camps of the Auschwitz concentration camp, see http://auschwitz.org/en/history/ auschwitz-sub-camps/. 3

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Sobibor, and Treblinka in 1942.5 A number of other concentration camps resembled these extermination camps. One of them was the Janowska6 camp, established in the fall of 1941 on the outskirts of the Nazi-occupied city of Lviv.7 In the West, Janowska is less well-known which is, perhaps, since there were no gas chambers and crematoriums and, officially, the camp was listed as a forced labor camp for the Deutsche Ausrüstungswerke (German Armament Works). However, in March 1942, when the mass deportation of Jews from Eastern Galicia began, Janowska became a transit camp for the deportation of Jews in the Lvov region to the Belzec extermination camp where they would be killed in the gas chambers. Finally, Janowska itself was transformed into an extermination camp where Jewish and other prisoners were killed, mostly by shooting (Beorn 2018: 460).8 Current estimates put the total number of Jews who passed through Janowska at over 100,000 while the number of victims murdered at the camp is estimated at 35,000–40,000 (David-Fox et al. 2014: 255). The camp was administered by a staff of 12–15 SS officers, who were from time to time replaced. The camp was guarded by a Sonderdienst battalion of so-­ called Trawniki men, SS-trained Russian POWs who had volunteered for service with the SS.9 The camp was liquidated by the Nazis on November 20, 1943 (Berenstein 1962: 366). After the Soviet Army liberated the city, on 26 July 1944, an “Extraordinary State Commission (Chrezvychainaia Gosudarstvennaia Komissiia) (ChGK) investigating the German-Fascist Atrocities in the Lvov Region” carried out investigations into the war crimes committed at Janowska.

3  Music in the Camps In the Nazi death camps, music was an integral part of camp life. Most music was made on command or with permission of the SS but, occasionally, prisoners also made music without permission. In the concentration camps, where the conditions were more favorable than in the extermination camps, Lagerveranstaltungen took place in the form of cabaret evenings and variety shows with vocal or instrumental musical interludes (Fackler 2007: 21).  Bełzec, Sobibor, Treblinka, and Chełmno operated almost exclusively for the purpose of mass murder. Auschwitz and Majdanek also accommodated slave labor for the surrounding factories and mines, and thus had more substantial resident populations (Gilbert 2005: 192–193). 6  Polish: Janowska, Russian: Янов or “Yanov” and Ukrainian: Янівський табір. 7  The Nazis called the city Lemberg, which formerly was called Lwów (Poland) (pronunciation— Lvoev), later Львов (USSR) (pronunciation—Lvov), but originally and currently Львів (Ukraine) (pronunciation—Lviv). The Soviet Red Army occupied Lviv on September 17, 1939 and abandoned the city on June 22, 1941. The Nazi army occupied the city from July 1, 1941 until July 25, 1944 when the Soviet Red Army liberated the city from the Nazi occupation. 8  It is likely that in Janowska more people were murdered than in the extermination camp of Majdanek (Winstone 2015: 282). 9  They were named after the location of their training facility in the village of Trawniki near the city of Lublin. 5

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So-called Blockveranstaltungen (block performances) took place “after hours” when the SS men had withdrawn from the camp, leaving the prisoners largely to their own devices. These performances were given at private occasions like birthdays or on other days with a personal significance (Fackler 2007: 20). They took place under conditions somewhere in between formal permission, toleration, and straight prohibition (Brauer 2012: 202).10 Obviously, politically motivated block performances were forbidden and could only be held secretly, “not infrequently on peril of their lives” (Fackler 2007: 25). In the extermination camps, music-making must be understood within the context of the severe restrictions under which “ordinary” prisoners had to live, where music merged with mass murder and the lives of the prisoners were always in jeopardy (Dahm 1997: 3). Only a small segment of the prisoners had the chance to engage with music and, if they did, they had to make music in spite of constant hunger, impending disease and pestilence, mental and physical violence, and random acts of terror (Fackler 2007: 25).

4  Singing The most common form of music-making in the camps was unaccompanied unison singing (Fackler 2007: 17). Singing on command of the SS would take place mostly on the Appellplatz (roll-call area), while marching in columns to or from work and during the hard labor itself. In addition, the SS imposed forced singing as a background for punishment and execution (Fackler 2007: 145). Songs that guards forced prisoners to sing were well-known German songs or songs that were created in the camps as variations on existing popular songs (Fackler 2007: 6). An example of these so-called “KZ-Lieder” (concentration camp songs) is “Auschwitz ist ein schönes Städtchen” (Auschwitz is a nice little town), which was based on a preexisting song about the city of Hamburg (Gilbert 2005: 175–176). Many camps also had their own newly composed “house song” (Peitzmeier 2014) commissioned by the SS. Occasionally, prisoners would sing spontaneously for one another or in the form of choir singing among groups of common national or religious origin (Gilbert 2005: 148). These groups would preferably sing songs that they could identify with, like folk songs from the countries and regions they came from or partisan political songs they associated with freedom and resistance. Like telling stories, singing these songs may have helped them to reconnect with their pre-war lives, or offered them opportunities for imaginative escape into a world outside the camp (Gilbert 2005: 150). In addition, songs were created in which new or modified lyrics were written to a familiar melody. Songwriters took great pains to portray camp life in graphic detail, to describe the depressing situation they found themselves in and to express the fears and hopes of the prisoners (Gilbert 2005: 151). In this way, they tried to bear witness for future generations and to assure that some of the occurrences in the

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camps would be remembered even if they didn’t survive the war. However, songs were created to not only document the harsh conditions in the camps, but also to demonstrate that the spirit of the prisoners had not been broken (Fackler 2007: 18–19). An example is the seemingly cheerful march “W Auschwitz-Lager gdy mieszkałem” (When I lived in the Auschwitz camp), describing Auschwitz sarcastically as the “paradise on earth” where prisoners were infested with lice and made to suffer through endless roll-calls. Another example is the “Auschwitzlied” (Auschwitz song) which tells about everything from disease, forced labor, and torture to the incessant longing for home and family. Other examples are the song “Zug zum Krematorium” (Train to the crematorium) which tells about the extermination camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau (Gilbert 2005: 151, 153) and the Jüdischer Todessang (Jewish death song) based on the Yiddish folk melody Tsen Brider about ten brothers who in the new version of the song are going to be killed in the gas chambers.10

5  Camp Orchestras In most concentration camps and almost all extermination camps, professional musicians and talented amateurs of different ages and nationalities were recruited by the camp administration to play in Lagerkapellen (camp orchestras). In the Auschwitz I-Stammlager and Auschwitz II-Birkenau camps, no fewer than five orchestras of varying sizes were set up by the SS (Gilbert 2005: 176). Except for the women’s orchestra of Auschwitz II-Birkenau, these ensembles consisted exclusively of men (Fackler 2007: 8). The lineup in the camp orchestras varied depending on the availability of musical instruments and capable musicians. Some of the ensembles could rehearse frequently, perform regularly and even give concerts where the artistic standard was high. Others were coping with conditions inhibiting rehearsals and performances, like the poor physical condition of the musicians, having to play from memory for the lack of musical scores, the lack of musical instruments, language barriers in interpersonal communication, and personnel changes in the ensemble due to death or deportation (Fackler 2007: 15). In Auschwitz I, a symphony orchestra was established in December1940 which existed until the camp was liberated on January 27, 1945. Starting with about 80 players, the orchestra would soon become the largest orchestra in any of the Nazi death camps with over 120 musicians in 1944.11 Beside the symphony orchestra in the Auschwitz I-Stammlager, there were sizable orchestras in the Auschwitz  http://holocaustmusic.ort.org/places/camps/central-europe/sachsenhausen/kulisiewiczaleksander/jdischertodessang/. 11  In 1942, the Polish inmate Franciszek Nierychło was replaced as conductor by the well-respected Warsaw musician Adam Kopycinski (1907–1982). He retained this position until the orchestra’s dissolution in 1945. Kopycinski survived Auschwitz and founded the Wroclaw Philharmonic Orchestra. 10

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II-Birkenau and Auschwitz III-Monowitz camps and numerous smaller ensembles in the satellite camps (Fackler 2007: 8). Auschwitz II-Birkenau consisted of a men’s camp and a women’s camp each with their own symphony orchestra. The men’s orchestra was established in July 1942, shortly after the building of Birkenau had been completed. At the order of the sub-camp commandant Johann Schwarzhuber, 16 musicians from the main camp orchestra were brought over to form the core of a new ensemble. By taking in new arrivals from Holland, Greece, Poland, France, and Germany, the number of musicians increased to between 40 and 50 musicians.12 The orchestra was disbanded in October 1944. Throughout its existence, the orchestra enjoyed much support, both formal and informal, from the SS. Camp commandant Schwarzhuber, for example, personally arranged for the provision of musical instruments and scores (Gilbert 2005: 180). The women’s orchestra was set up in April 1943 and grew to approximately 45 members, most of whom were amateur musicians.13 Like the men’s orchestra, the women’s orchestra had both Jewish and non-Jewish members representing a broad variety of nationalities. The orchestra included women from Germany, Poland, France, Hungary, the Netherlands, Greece, Czechoslovakia, Belgium Russia, Ukraine, and Austria. They played the improbable combination of piano, violin, cello, double bass and percussion, with accordion, mandolin, flute, guitar, horn, and recorder. Additionally, the orchestra worked with vocalists (Eischeid 2016: 6). In Auschwitz III-Monowitz, an orchestra was created in September 1943 which consisted of between 40 and 50 Jewish and non-Jewish musicians of various nationalities. Many of them were accomplished professional musicians, including several famous jazz instrumentalists from Holland (Gilbert 2005: 179). In the extermination camps, few musicians were given a chance to be recruited for the “Lagerkapelle.” In the Treblinka camp, a violin, clarinet, and harmonica trio was formed which would become an ensemble of ten.14 Similar small ensembles were formed in the Bełzec and Sobibor extermination camps.15

 The orchestra played under the leadership of Jan Zaborski, until October 1942, subsequently under Franz Kopka, and from mid-1943, under Szymon Laks (1901–1983). Laks, a Jewish prisoner who until then had played in the orchestra as violinist and worked as a copyist of scores, survived the camp and wrote his memoir Musiques d’un autre monde (1948) translated as Music of Another World (1989). 13  In August 1943, the Polish prisoner Sofia Tchaikovska was replaced as conductor by the Viennese musician Alma Rose (1906–1944). She fell ill and did not survive Auschwitz. Richard Newman and Karen Kirtley wrote her biography Alma Rosé: Vienna to Auschwitz (2000). Surviving members of the women’s orchestra wrote their memoirs: Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, Inherit the Truth (1996) and Fania Fénelon, Playing for Time (1997). See also: Gabriele Knapp, Das Frauenorchester in Auschwitz: Musikalische Zwangsarbeit und ihre Bewältigung (1996); Susan Eischeid, The Truth about Fania Fénelon and the Women’s Orchestra of Auschwitz-Birkenau (2016). 14  The ensemble was conducted by the famous Polish-Jewish violinist and dance-music composer Arthur Gold (1897–1943) who would not survive the camp. 15  Chełmno is the only death camp of which no musical activity has been documented. 12

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Unlike these extermination camps, and possibly due to its hybridity, the Janowska camp sported an orchestra of approximately 40 musicians which—in size and quality—was more comparable to the orchestras in the Auschwitz I-Stammlager and Auschwitz II-Birkenau camp than to the musical ensembles in the Bełzec, Sobibor, and Treblinka extermination camps. The Janowska prisoners’ orchestra was created in 1942 by the camp commandant SS-Untersturmführer (lieutenant) Gustav Wilhaus and his deputy SS-Untersturmführer (lieutenant) Richard Rokita. The orchestra included leading Jewish musicians from Lvov like the composer and conductor of the Lvov Opera Yakub Mund and violinist and Professor at the Lvov State Conservatory Leonid Shtriks. Other members of the orchestra were cellist Leon Eber, an oboist named Vogel (whose first name is unknown) and the musicians Yuzef Herman and Eduard Steinberger (whose instruments are unknown) (Friedman 1945). Finally, there is mention of a well-known fiddler named “Schatz” (Reznik 2014: 216).16

6  Purpose The purpose of creating orchestras and musical ensembles in concentration and extermination camps depended on the type of camp and the interest of the camp administration. Ambitious camp commandants with cultural pretensions were attracted by the prestige and cultural status of having their “own” Lagerkapelle (Fackler 2007: 8). However, generally, the camp commandants expected that, depending on the quantity and quality of the musicians, the orchestras and musical ensembles could be serving multiple purposes in the management of a death camp. They could, for example, use “their” orchestra to advertise the “orderly” conditions within their camp when it was being inspected, or when high ranking visitors were shown around (Brauer 2012: 191). The orchestras would have to play concerts before SS officers, as well as inmates.17 In some camps, including the Auschwitz I-Stammlager, open-air concerts were held in the summer months (Fackler 2007: 9). The orchestras would also have to play on ceremonial occasions and Nazi public holidays like Hitler’s birthday. Most importantly, however, music was used to discipline, punish, and deceive. The camp orchestras were to provide the rhythm to keep the marching columns of prisoners in step as they left the camp or returned from their work as slave laborers (Fackler 2007: 9). The orchestras were forced to play during roll-call at the Appellplatz and music was used in sadistic ways as a background to public  Schatz’s first name was Zygmunt or Maciej. Reznik also mentions the name of Artur Gold. However, this famous orchestra leader was taken from Warsaw to Treblinka where upon his arrival in the winter of 1942 he created a Lagerkappelle (camp orchestra) in which he played until he was murdered at the end of 1943. 17  “Ordinary” prisoners could only occasionally attend these concerts. Most inmates were not given the opportunity (Gilbert 2005: 188). 16

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e­ xecutions intended to deter the prisoners from violating rules or trying to escape. In Auschwitz III-Monowitz, for example, the retrieval of an escaped prisoner was “celebrated” by forcing the man to march through the ranks of his fellow-prisoners, bang on a drum and sing: “Hurra, hurra, ich bin wieder da!” (Hurrah, hurrah, I am back again!). The escapee was publicly hanged while the orchestra was playing marching music (Gilbert 2005: 176). The orchestras also had to “welcome”—and deceive—new arrivals. Aware of the fact that they would be eager to find out about the unknown place they had reached, the SS would ensure that newcomers encountered reassuring signs. New arrivals were received at a train station with waiting areas, tables with departure times, neatly groomed gardens, signposts indicating baths and changing rooms, and, last but not least, music. Depending on the origins of the transport, the orchestra would play anything from opera to Polish, Czech, or Hungarian folk music. All this was designed to hide the real function of the camp and make the new arrivals disbelieve that they were facing immediate death (Gilbert 2005: 178). Finally, the sound of music may have served to also deceive the population of surrounding villages about what was being perpetrated in the camp (Dahm 1997: 3).

7  The Repertoire Compared to the singing on command, the camp orchestras offered a far broader spectrum of music. Historical research has shown that half of the repertoire of the camp orchestras consisted of “light” (marching-, operetta-, and dance-) music while the other half consisted of classical music and parts of operas (Gilbert 2005: 131). In addition, the orchestras played popular pre-war songs and film music (Gilbert 2005: 177; Fackler 2007: 9). At the gate, the orchestras primarily played German marching tunes.18 The most popular ones, like the well-known Alte Kameraden (Old Comrades) would have to be played over and over again (Gilbert 2005: 183). At the Sunday concerts in the Auschwitz I-Stammlager, the repertoire was more sophisticated and included excerpts from operas and operettas, and substantial symphonic works by composers like Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, and Tchaikovsky (Gilbert 2005: 188). In addition to these classical items, the Auschwitz II-Birkenau men’s orchestra also played special commissions from the SS, like the potpourri Schwarze Augen (Dark eyes) based on Russian songs (Gilbert 2005: 188). The repertoire of the women’s orchestra in Auschwitz II-Birkenau was eclectic and included arias from operas by Verdi, Puccini, and Rossini, orchestral music by Brahms, Mozart and Schubert (Gilbert 2005: 188) and selections and arrangements of lighter classical works by composers like Lehár and Von Suppé, waltzes by

 In the Auschwitz I-Stammlager, the orchestra performed original camp compositions, including conductor Franciszek Nierychło’s Arbeit macht frei (Work makes free) and violinist Henryk Król’s Arbeitslager-Marsch (Labour camp march) (Gilbert 2005: 183). 18

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Johann Strauss and, especially, the dance-hall Jalousie-tango which was the favorite piece of the women’s camp commandant Maria Mandel (Eischeid 2016: 8). Members of the orchestra could be ordered any time to give private performances. The connoisseurs among the upper ranks of the SS would prefer chamber music by composers like Mozart and Schumann19 while the lower ranks secured the services of small ensembles or individual musicians to provide light or even “degenerate” jazz music for their drinking sessions, orgies, and other feasts (Fackler 2007: 12).

8  The Myth Historians have attempted to reconstruct the repertoire of the camp orchestras on the basis of survivors’ memories.20 Some survivors remembered that the camp orchestra played Wagner. One of them has even claimed that, following direct orders from the Führer, they were not permitted to perform anything else (Gaschen 1989: 5). Surviving musician Henryk Eisenman has told that at his arrival in Auschwitz, in early 1944, he was received with the sounds of “a full, first-class symphony orchestra performing Wagner’s Lohengrin” (Kater 2000: 80; Kater 2003: 180). Another surviving musician, Nathan Vuijsje, a trombonist in the Auschwitz I-Stammlager orchestra, remembered playing “parts of Wagner symphonies” (Vuijsje 2012: 125).21 Other survivors, however, do not remember—or even strongly deny—that Wagner’s music was played in the camps. David Zauder, trumpet player in the Auschwitz I-Stammlager orchestra, claimed that: “I never heard Wagner until I came to the United States.”22 And, Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, who played cello in the Frauenkapelle of the Auschwitz II-Birkenau women’s camp, told Stephen Fry that: “I can’t remember hearing a single note of Wagner in all my time there.”23 According to Jonathan Livny, the founding president of the Israeli Wagner Society, the camp orchestras were too small and without the instruments required to play Wagner.24

 Auschwitz camp commandant Josef Kramer especially liked Schumann’s Träumerei to be played for him (Eischeid 2016: 49). 20  With regard to their musical preferences, the SS have hardly left anything behind (Brauer 2012: 201). 21  Wagner wrote two symphonies. However, the second symphony (in E major) was unfinished. A version of this symphony completed and orchestrated by Felix Mottl was discovered much later, in the 1980s. 22  The New York Times, January 12, 1992. 23  See note 2. 24  “It is impossible and absurd. Playing that music requires a large orchestra with professional musicians. The orchestras in the camps consisted of professional and amateur musicians. They were usually small chamber orchestras or brass bands. They had some copper and percussion. They lacked the wind instruments required for Wagner. (-) Were the victims accompanied by a large orchestra in Wagner occupation? With choir and soloists? It is completely absurd.” https://rexvalrexblog.wordpress.com/2014/12/17/en-los-campos-nazis-nunca-se-interpreto-musica-de-wagner/. 19

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Historians have also studied documents (scores and programs) that were recovered after the war. It was, for example, found that the programs of concerts given by the orchestra of the concentration camp of Sachsenhausen feature merely one title of an original work by Wagner (Gilbert 2005: 131, 213). However, what was featured as Overture Rienzi may have been referring to the more popular “Erinnerung an Richard Wagners Rienzi,” an arrangement composed by Otto Hohmann. Among the circa 200 scores carrying the stamp of the “Lagerkappelle” (Camp orchestra) that are preserved in the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum, four scores of these arrangements are preserved: Otto Hohmann, Erinnerung an Richard Wagners Rienzi and Erinnerung an Richard Wagners Lohengrin; Fr. Eberle, Kleine Fantasie über R.  Wagners Lohengrin and Ernst Urbach, Wagners Heldenbuch/Fantasie (Szczęśniak 2017: 157). In the interbellum, these arrangements for relatively small musical ensembles (or piano solo) were highly popular and widely distributed among amateur musicians. It should, therefore, be no surprise that some of the musicians on their way to Auschwitz carried these scores, together with their musical instruments. Among the circa 200 scores that are preserved in the Auschwitz-­ Birkenau Museum only one score is of an original work by Wagner. Das Liebesmahl der Apostel (The Love-Meal of the Apostles) (1843, WWV 69) is a piece largely for chorus with only a small final part for orchestra. It is currently a little known and rarely performed piece but in the interbellum it was quite popular and used as study material for amateur choruses. In the light of recent findings, it has been concluded that the camp orchestras of Auschwitz almost certainly did not play Wagner (Peitzmeier 2014: 102). Nevertheless, it is possible that an original work by Wagner25 was played the score of which has not been preserved. However, it is much more likely that the orchestras played arrangements of Wagner’s music which, at the time, were highly popular. Thus, musician Henryk Eisenman may very well have recognized melodies from Wagner’s Lohengrin when, in fact, he heard the orchestra play either Otto Hohmann’s Erinnerung an Richard Wagners Lohengrin’ or Fr. Eberle’s Kleine Fantasie über Richard Wagners Lohengrin. After all, the popularity of these compositions rested on the recognizability of the well-known Wagner melodies. All things considered, the image of Wagner being played as the victims made their way to the gas chambers has not been bolstered by historical research. If at all, Wagner’s music was played by camp orchestras at concerts and as entertainment for the SS. Music was occasionally, but not routinely played when transports arrived and newcomers were selected for work or led to the gas chambers (Fackler 2007: 10). Survivors remember having been “welcomed” in Auschwitz with loud noise, shouting and barking dogs while they were driven out of the train wagons by SS men with bats and whips.26 Maybe the orchestra was heard playing at a nearby ­location (Peitzmeier 2014: 108). It is also possible that in some of the death camps  For example, the Symphony in C major which is scored for a relatively small ensemble of 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 1 contrabassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, timpani and strings. 26  See, for example, Lex van Weren at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDhukbKSt2Q. 25

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music from radio or gramophone recordings were heard from the camp loudspeaker system.27 However, the image of Wagner’s music being played as the victims were led to the gas chambers is a myth based on fiction rather than fact.

9  Fact and Fiction The myth may be explained as a result of “fictional memory,” i.e., a collective recall of memories of traumatic events that, actually, were never experienced. Research in cognitive psychology has shown that after a long retention period memories of past traumatic events may create such a false impression (Wagenaar and Groeneweg 1990: 86). The intensity of the emotion is no guarantee for accurate eyewitness testimony (Ibid.: 87). The extreme situation of having been victimized in a Nazi concentration camp does not create an exception to the rule that in memories of traumatic episodes details tend to be arranged in a manner that serves one’s own objectives (Neisser 1981). The way in which survivors tell their stories is influenced by their lives before, during, and after the Holocaust while their stories are tailored to meet the expectations of their listeners (Greenspan 1998: 286). As a result, the process of survivor recall and testimony evokes “ever more blurred and stylized memories, often, unbeknownst to them, influenced by information gained from later readings or the stories of others” (Levi 1988: 19). This seems to have been the case with memories of Wagner’s music being used by the Nazis for sadistic purposes, i.e., to humiliate the victims even in the final moments of their life. Given the deeply felt aversion by some of the Holocaust survivors (Siegel 2013) against the anti-Semitic composer whose music was loved by Hitler, used by the Nazis to add luster to mass meetings of their NSDAP, played at state occasions of the Third Reich and distributed as background music for Nazi newsreels, it seems understandable that they tend to believe that Wagner’s music was also being played in the death camps and even as the victims made their way to the gas chambers. To merely disqualify this image as a case of “fictional memory” would not do justice to the traumatic experiences of these Holocaust survivors. Nor would it be realistic to expect factual accuracy from survivor memories in terms of names, dates, and details which can rarely, if ever, be provided. Memories are dynamic and evolve over time as they are continually reshaped and recycled to make sense of the past from the perspective of the present (Wagoner 2017). This can explain why Wagner and his music have become such prominent symbols of National Socialism and the Holocaust, alongside the deportations, the trains, the death camps, and the survivor testimonies themselves (Sheffi 2001: 180). It needs to be taken into account

 During executions in the Majdanek camp, for example, dance music poured from loudspeakers mounted on special vehicles in order “to drown out the screams of the dying” (Fackler 2007: 6). 27

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that stories and myths play an important role in historical memory, both individual and collective, as they help “to come to a better understanding of unsayable traumatic events” (Collado-Rodriguez 2008: 57). However, taking survivor memories seriously is not to glorify them, but rather taking a critical look at what these stories can tell us. In order to do justice to survivors’ stories, we need to be able to analyze their internal contradictions as well as challenge the myths they may produce. Indeed, “to lose that critical perspective is … not to honor the survivors but to do them damage” (Kushner 2006: 283). With this in mind, a critical look will be taken at the stories that have been and continue to be told about how Jewish musicians in Nazi death camps were being forced to perform a “Death Tango” as men, women, and children were led to the gas chambers. In what follows, an effort will be made to sort out what these stories tell us about the role of music in the modus operandi of the Holocaust.

10  Tango Music in the Camps The “legend of the Death Tango” comes from the Janowska camp near the city of Lviv in Ukraine.28 What the Soviet Assistant Prosecutor at the Trial of the Major War Criminals before the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg charged on February 14, 1946 was reported to the world as a story about at the Janowski and Belzec camps where thousands of Russian Jews were murdered to the macabre strains of a “Death Tango” composed, directed and played by Jewish musicians who were later killed.29 This story has since been and is still being reproduced in the press, in books, on the internet, and in social media. In a more elaborate version of the story, we are told that not long before the Janowska camp was liberated by the Russian Army, during the last performance of this tango, which became a symbol of horror, the members of the orchestra were shot one by one “in the spirit of the Wagnerian mysteries and in imitation of Haydn’s Farewell Symphony.”30 The Death Tango was composed and played on command of the SS. In order to understand why precisely a tango should be played during executions, we have to know that during the 1920s and 1930s the tango was one of the most popular ballroom dances in Europe. This popularity explains why survivors31 remember that in

 Paul Bottomore, Today’s tango is Plegaria—Eduardo Bianco c. Mario Visconti 03-1937. Posted on January 23, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGfcYb9R-mA. 29  “Nazis Murdered Jews to Strains of ‘Death Tango’ Nuremberg Trial Learns.” Jewish Telegraph Agency, February 17, 1946 (See also Ehrenburg and Grossman 1946: 308–309; Russell [1956] 1972: 123). 30  The article about the Yanov camp was published for the first time at the end of 1980 in Number 44 of the magazine Novoye Vremya (New Time). See https://www.proza.ru/2009/10/24/1084. 31  For example, Auschwitz survivor Bernhard Klieger remembered that: ‘We heard tangos and other hit music’ (Klieger 1963: 38; see also Brauer 2012: 202). 28

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the Nazi death camps tango music was being played32 and pre-war tangos continued to be sung by prisoners, with permission of the guards, secretly together or just by themselves. After the war, survivors often remembered only fragments of these songs, while they were unable to recall where or when they had heard them or to specify the authorship of the text (Gilbert 2005: 150). Yet several attempts have been made to reconstruct the vocal repertoire of prisoners in the camps. Examples are the Kaczerginski33 collection of Lider fun di getos und lagern (Songs from the ghettos and concentration camps) and the Kulisiewicz34 collection, both at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.35 Among the hundreds of songs that they recovered are dozens of tangos.36

 Among the circa 200 scores of the camp orchestra that are preserved in the collection of the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum, 12 are tango compositions (Szczęśniak 2017). Jacob Gade (1879–1963) Jalousie/Tango Tzigane, arr. Georges Martine; Gerhard Mohr (1901– 1979) Du hast den schönsten Mund /Monika-Luise!; Frank Fux [Fox] (1902–1965) Weisst du noch/ Tango Serenade aus dem Algefa-Film “Aufruhr im Damenstift,” arr. Gerhard Mohr; Michael Jary (1906–1988) Roter Mohn Tango aus dem Algefa-Film “Schwarzfahrt ins Glück”; Gerhard Winkler (1906–1977) Klein Sennerin/Lied und Tango; Gino Redi (1908–1962) Die Phantastische Nacht / Tango Bolero; Friedrich Schröder (1910–1972) Ja, so war es zu Grossmutters Zeiten Lied und Tango; Ralph Maria Siegel (1911–1972) In Freundschaft/Tango und Konzertlied, arr. Franz Stolzenwald; Idem. Unter der roten Laterne von St. Pauli/Tangolied; Idem. Heut wird ein Märchen wahr/Tango; Franz Josef Breuer (1914–1996) Weit ist der Weg in die Heimat/Lied und Tango, arr. Franz Stolzenwald; Stassi D. Tombulis (unknown) Traum von Haiti/Ein Südsee Tango, arr. Franz Stolzenwald (Szczęśniak 2017: 162–171). 33  Shmaryahu (“Shmerke”) Kaczerginski (1908–1954) was a Yiddish-speaking poet and musician who dedicated much of his time to collecting pre-war Yiddish songs and songs of the Holocaust. It has been claimed that the songs were originally collected at the direction of the Nazis who commissioned the prisoner Kaczerginski to collect texts and scores for the intended Hitler’s “Museum of the Disappeared Subhumans” in Berlin. See https://jewish.ru/ru/stories/reviews/3109/. After Kaczerginski managed to escape to the partisans, he continued to collect the lyrics of the songs which were included in the collection. According to musicologist and curator of the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C., Bret Werb: “Kaczerginski’s magnum opus, the anthology Lider fun di getos un lagern (Songs of the Ghettos and Camps), published in New York in 1948, remains unsurpassed to this day as a resource for research in the field of Jewish folk and popular music of the Holocaust period” (Werb 2014: ii). 34  Aleksander Tytus Kulisiewicz (1918–1982) was a law student in Nazi-occupied Poland when, in October 1939, he was denounced for anti-fascist writings, arrested by the Gestapo and sent to the concentration camp of Sachsenhausen. Kulisiewicz’s near-finished 3000-page typescript of song texts, musical notation and extensive annotations—the product of 20  years of painstaking research—includes some 500 songs representing the musical activity of 36 different camps. https:// beta.worldcat.org/archivegrid/collection/data/122648298. 35  For other early collections of pre-war Yiddish songs and songs of the Holocaust, see Werb (2014). 36  The Kaczerginski collection of Holocaust songs includes 38 tangos (Judkovski 1998: 26). The Kulisiewicz Collection also contains a number of tangos, including some arrangements for string quartets. 32

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11  Singing Tangos in the Camps With their origin among society’s outcasts and their textual motifs of love and longing, violence and oppression, these melancholic songs seem to have had a special relevance for Jews in the death camps (Werb 2014: 110). As a popular genre, tango melodies were used across the camps as a basis for creating new songs with lyrics in German, Polish, or Yiddish. An example is the Der tango fun Oshvientshim (The Auschwitz tango) based on the tune of the pre-war Niewolnicze (Slave) tango. The lyrics, written originally in Polish by an unnamed Jewish girl who did not survive, mourn the lack of music in the camp and express the hope that the song will uplift the prisoners. The end of the song goes like this: “Oh, freedom and free times are calling. The Negro soon brings his mandolin and will soon tinkle his song here. And the Englishman and Frenchman sing a tune. From sorrow will come a trio and also the Polack soon will take up his little flute and make the whole world feel. Let song then rouse the hearts that yearn for the freedom they lack. Our slave-tango…” (Gilbert 2005: 157). Another example is an anonymous verse called “Gazownia” (Gas chamber) written to the tune of a romantic Polish tango called Jest jedna jedyna (There is only one). In the newly created song, the lines—“There is only one, which I love the most. I will sacrifice everything for her, all nights and days”—became: “There is only one gas chamber, where we will all get to know each other, where we will all meet each other, maybe tomorrow—who knows?” (Gilbert 2005: 151). One particular striking example of a newly created song was discovered in 1964 when Aleksander Kulisiewicz interviewed Anna Muzyczka, a survivor of the Janowska camp who remembered a song and scribbled down the words.37 Hear how the fiddle sobbing plays bloody notes of sweet string music. Hear how your heartbeat fades away. And so the death tango plays. Have no fear, my dear. Sand will cover your body. Bright star candles will be your nightlight. And your pillow will be a single stone. But happy you will be so all alone. Shots are fired, bullets flying. Separation! Poison! Keep playing. And if death grabs for your hand, just be ready. Death is a friend.38

Kulisiewicz typed these words in German and, subsequently, recorded the song.39 On the document40 with the typewritten version of the text (in German), the title of the song Todestango has clearly been added in pencil and with the mistaken prefix “Das” instead of “Der.”41

 Possibly the song text was originally in Polish (or Yiddish) and only later translated.  After the English translation from Aleksander Kulisiewicz: Songs From The Depths Of Hell. Folkways Records Album N° FSS 37700 (1979) http://www.antiwarsongs.org/canzone. php?lang=en&id=8746. 39  Aleksander Kulisiewicz, Das Todestango (The Death Tango), Songs from the Depths of Hell, January 1, 1979. 40  See the Kulisiewicz Collection at the USHMM, RG-55.003.0. 41  It is not clear if Kulisiewitcz or someone else added the title and why this person made this mistake. 37 38

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While his informant Anna Muzyczka could not identify the author of the words that she remembered, Simon Wiesenthal has claimed that a songwriter called Zygmunt Schlechter was ordered to compose a “death tango” (Wiesenthal 1998: 22). However, Schlechter whose first name is not Zygmunt42 but Emanuel, was not a composer but a poet. As a lyricist he has written many popular songs and, at least, 20 tangos. While Emanuel Schlechter may have been the author of the words that Anna Muzyczka remembered, it seems implausible that he should have composed the music for the “Death Tango.” But if Schlechter is not the composer, who else wrote the melody for the “Death Tango”? There are three versions of the “Death Tango” story, respectively claiming that the composer was an unknown Jewish musician, a famous Argentinian bandleader or a popular Polish songwriter.43 1. The original source of the story is not the Soviet Assistant Prosecutor at the Trial of the Major War Criminals in Nuremberg in 1946 but the Chrezvychainaia Gosudarstvennaia Komissiia (Extraordinary State Commission) (ChGK).44 At the International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg, the Soviet prosecution introduced 31 reports from the Extraordinary State Commission as Exhibits for the prosecution. Exhibit USSR-6 was the Report of the Extraordinary State Commission on crimes in the Lvov region. This document included a German photograph captured by the Red Army in the headquarters of the Gestapo of Lviv.45 It was documented as: “A photograph of the orchestra of musicians from prisoners in the Janowska camp playing the ‘Death Tango’ during the shooting of Soviet citizens.”46  Bret Werb, musicologist at the USHMM believes that Wiesenthal mistakenly combined Schlechter’s last name with that of his frequent songwriting partner Zygmunt Wiehler, a pianist, conductor, and composer of symphonic, choral, operetta, vaudeville and dance and film music. Personal communication. 43  A work that is mistakenly taken for the “Death Tango” on the Internet is Palladio, a grotesque for the string orchestra written in 1996 by the English composer Karl Jenkins. See e.g., https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=EkZpz9TxFVI or https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEpxa8JEbUw. 44  The full official name is “Extraordinary State Commission for the Establishment and Investigation of the Crimes of the Fascist German Invaders and Their Accomplices, and of the Damage They Caused to Citizens, Collective Farms, Public Organizations, State Enterprises, and Institutions of the USSR.” To investigate the atrocities, the Extraordinary State Commission appointed a special commission consisting of deputies of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR Major General I.S. Grushetsky, N.V. Kozyrev and V.G. Sadovoy, Dr. I.M. Treguba, E. S.Grushko, Chairman of the Lviv City Council Executive Committee P.V. Boyko, P.S. Turchenko, A.A. Vishnevsky, representative of the Extraordinary State Commission S.T.  Kuzmin, with the participation of the Chief Forensic Medical Expert of the Red Army, Doctor of Medical Sciences M.I. Avdeeva, assistant Chief Forensic Medical Expert of the Red Army V.I.  Pukhnarevich, Forensic Medical Expert D.A.  Golaev, Forensic Expert N.I.Gerasimov, Prosecutor of the Lviv Region I.P.  Kornetov and Head of the Investigation Department of the Lviv Regional Prosecutor’s Office P.Z. Kryzhanovsky. https://0gnev.livejournal.com/609276.html. 45  The original German negative is stored in the Extraordinary State Commission in Moscow. Extraordinary Commission (ChGK), Hitler crimes against peaceful population, 521. 46  IMT XXX, 395. 42

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In his book No Statute of Limitations (Kuzmin 1985), Sergey Trofimovich Kuzmin describes how, in the Summer of 1944, as an investigator for the Extraordinary State Commission, he learned about the shooting of prisoners to music for the first time47 and “tried to restore the cruel truth in all its details” by investigating the story of the “Death Tango”: “We tried to find notes or at least people able to restore from memory this tragic melody. (-) But when we asked former prisoners to reproduce, even approximately, the theme of the composition, they did not have the strength to force themselves to indulge in terrible memories. We understood these people well and felt how in their minds the sounds of tango were tangled with the cracking of machine-gun bursts, the dying cries of the doomed and the mountains of corpses that ended this terrible picture. Our attempts to reproduce the notes as an accusatory document had to be abandoned. The ‘Death Tango’, born in the camp, was buried there.” In its report, the Commission stated what would later, at the Nuremberg trial, be reiterated by Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Smirnov, namely, that: “The Germans … ordered composers to write a special tune, to be called the ‘Death Tango’.”48 Kuzmin, who attended the Nuremberg trial as a special representative of the Extraordinary State Commission, wrote later in his memoir that the order to compose the tango was given to “a prisoner whose name we could not establish then” (Kuzmin 1985). In June 1965, defendants and witnesses testifying at a trial before a military tribunal in Krasnodar stated that the “Death Tango” had been composed by someone in the Janowska camp. Allegedly, camp commandant SS-Untersturmführer Gustav Wilhaus had said to Professor Schtriks: “As for the music, I ordered it to another professor, a composer who is also here, in the camp” (Tokarev 1976). As no name was mentioned, the question of who composed the music to the “Death Tango” remained unanswered much like the question where the title Das Todestango (The “Death Tango”) came from.49  “At the Nuremberg trial, the world heard numerous testimonies about the shooting of prisoners to music in many fascist death camps, but this was later. At the time we were faced with this fact for the first time in the Lviv region.” 48  Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German major war criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450–451. 49  Of course, the name “Tango of Death” was used earlier and in a different context. El Tango de la Muerte was composed as “Tango para Piano” by Horacio Mackintosh. The sheet music, which had no lyrics, was published in 1917 by Breyer Hermanos in Buenos Aires. On the cardboard cover we see a drawing of an elegantly dressed couple with the man looking like a vampire about to stab a dagger into the lady’s heart. The only recording of this tango by José Arturo Severino’s Instrumental Quartet, Orquesta Típica Severino, was released on March 5, 1917 (Victor disc, 69,722-B). On April 9, 1917, a film entitled Tango de la Muerte premiered in Buenos Aires. According to Ricardo García Blaya, the film, written and directed by José Agustín Ferreyra, may have been inspired by the tango or the other way around the musician was inspired by the moviemaker. The latter is more likely because Horacio Mackintosh wrote Tango de la Muerte as a tango for piano to be performed as a musical accompaniment to the silent movie. Tango de Muerte was also the title of the comic 47

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According to Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Smirnov, “The Germans ... requested ... a special tune, to be called the ‘Tango of Death.’” However, according to retired military jurist and war veteran Mikhail Tokarev the melody was called “Death Tango” “only after the prisoners had given it that name. Thereupon, SS men and the guards laughed maliciously and cheered: “That’s right, the ‘Death Tango’!”” (Tokarev 1976). Later, survivor Leon Weliczer Wells, in his book The Janowska Road, recalled that during executions of prisoners the orchestra played “the Death Tango, as we call it on such occasions” (Wells 1996). Thus, in the first version of the story the “Death Tango” has been written by an unknown Jewish composer—probably one of the musicians—who wrote an especially composed melody the notes of which were lost when he along with all the other musicians of the camp orchestra were murdered. 2. A second version of the story relates the “Death Tango” to the Argentinian composer and orchestra leader Eduardo Bianco (1892–1959). This story comes originally from Aleksander Kulisiewicz who recorded the words that Janowska camp survivor Anna Muzyczka remembered. Kulisiewicz matched the lyrics to the tune of the tango Plegaria (Plea) which Bianco has written and composed in 1925 but became popular after Bianco had moved to Paris. In Europe he became widely acclaimed for his tangos tinged with a continental flavor. He toured with his Orquesta Típica Bianco-Bachicha in countries like Austria, Bulgaria, Greece, Holland, Poland, Switzerland, Turkey, the United States, and the Middle Orient. Plegaria was their greatest hit.50 In 1939, they gave a concert in Berlin in honor of the Führer.51 It is, however, a myth that the concert was given in the presence of Hitler and Goebbels. As it is a myth that the Nazis were as fond of Plegaria, in Germany known as Der Glocken Ruf (The Bells Call) that they adopted the tango as a hymn to be played by the orchestras in the death camps during executions.52 Nonetheless, there is evidence that Plegaria was indeed used for that

opera (sainete) premiered 5 years later in Buenos Aires in 1922. In the same year, the title song written by Alberto Novión and published by E. S. Castiglioni y Cía was recorded by Carlos Gardel while an instrumental version was recorded by the orchestra of Roberto Firpo. See El tango de la muerte by Ricardo García Blaya at http://www.todotango.com/english/history/chronicle/280/ El-tango-de-la-muerte-Shooting-around-the-bush-with-El-tango-de-la-muerte/. 50  Another song, frequently recalled by survivors, was Treblinke Dort (Treblinka There). This song from the Warsaw ghetto was also based on a tango by Bianco. In Poland, this tango Oración (Prayer) was popular under the name Grzech (Sin) www.ushmm.org/exhibition/music/detail. php?content=treblinka. For more examples of camp songs based on tangos, see Werb (2014: 164–178). 51  Journalist Nardo Zanko told that Eduardo Labougle, an omnipotent minister and philo-Nazi, organized a barbecue in Berlin in honor of the Führer at which the orchestra of Bianco played. However, Isodoro Gilbert notes that it is not known if Bianco played his tango Plegaria there. See: El tango de la muerte. Clarin, November 17, 2010. 52  Lloica Czackis, Tangele: The history of Yiddish tango. The Jewish Quarterly 2003, 6 note 1. http://lloicaczackis.com/documentation/The_history_of_Yiddish_Tango_by_Lloica_Czackis.pdf.

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purpose in the death camps,53 along with other tangos which were also called “Death Tango.”54 At the Belzec camp, a fiddler was forced to play the tango Plegaria.55 Nonetheless, there is evidence that Plegaria was indeed used for that purpose in the death camps,56 along with other tangos which were also called “Death Tango.”57 According to the original version of the story, Jews in the Janowska camp waiting to be selected for execution were forced to hear a well-known fiddler by the name of Schatz play Plegaria.58 However, Schatz was not the composer of the tango (Reznik 2014: 215–216).59 According to Friedman (1945), the musicians, among them Yakub Mund, had been forced to compose the “Death Tango.” However, the “Death Tango” was based on Plegaria by Eduardo Bianco and merely arranged by the composer and former conductor of the Lvov opera, Yakub Mund.60 3. A third version of the story relates the “Death Tango” to the Polish composer of popular music Jerzy Petersburski (1895–1979). This story comes originally from Igor Malishevsky who collected information about the Janowska camp, wrote a screenplay about the “Death Tango” and, together with the Spanish director Arnaldo Fernandez, created the documentary film “Eight bars of forgotten music” (1982).61 In the film, senior musicians from the city of Lviv are being interviewed and asked if they know the tune that the orchestra in the Janowska camp played as the “Death Tango.” Most of them did not remember. Only Janowska camp survivor Zygmund Samsonovich Leiner claimed that he actually had seen and heard the camp orchestra play the “Death Tango.”62 In the film, Leiner says: “Yes, I saw, and heard them. Twice. But from afar since our part of the camp was separated by barbed wire. They played different tunes. Tango was also played. I remember that. I remember the songs of our barrack (sings) and then there was the tango ... If I only would have known that the tune of that tango must be remembered!”  “Reliable sources record the macabre use of Plegaria in the camps of Janowska, Auschwitz and Maidanek, among others.” Isidoro Gilbert, El tango de la muerte. Clarin, November 17, 2010. 54  Paul Bottomore, Today’s tango is Plegaria—Eduardo Bianco c. Mario Visconti 03-1937. Posted January 23, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGfcYb9R-mA. 55  https://www.fold3.com/page/286021450-janowska-concentration-camp/stories. 56  “Reliable sources record the macabre use of Plegaria in the camps of Janowska, Auschwitz and Maidanek, among others.” Isidoro Gilbert, El tango de la muerte. Clarin, November 17, 2010. 57  Paul Bottomore, Today’s tango is Plegaria—Eduardo Bianco c. Mario Visconti 03-1937. Posted January 23, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGfcYb9R-mA. 58  Kulisiewicz Collection, USHMM, RG-55.003.0. 59  Schatz supposedly played an arrangement made by himself (Beyssade 2018: 86) or by someone else. 60  United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Record ID: Collections: 1990.135.2. 61  https://ihffilm.com/44017.html. 62  In an interview with the Lviv newspaper Vіlna Ukraina. 53

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In the film, Malishevsky shows a snippet of paper with eight bars of music from the archive in Lviv to Stepan Yakovlevich Kharina, an elderly man who taught for many years in the musical pedagogical school. Kharina recognizes the notes and exclaims: “Who does not know this? This is the Macabric Tango which, actually, had another name: Ta ostatnia niedziela. The composer of this music? Petersburski!” So, on the basis of the “eight bars of forgotten music” the tune was identified as To ostatnia niedziela (The Last Sunday). In another documentary film The last klezmer: Leopold Kozlowski, his life and music (1994), Holocaust survivor Kozlowski mentions the tango Ostatnia Niedziele (Last Sunday) as the “Death Tango” that he was forced to play during executions in the Kurowice (Kurovychi) and Jáktorow (Yaktoriv) concentration camps in the Lviv region (Oblast). The Kurowice (Kurovychi) and Jáktorow (Yaktoriv) concentration camps were satellites of the Janowska death camp in Lviv which is probably why Kurovychi was also called “the Lemberg concentration camp.”63 We are being told64 that in the Kurowice (Kurovychi) camp, when SS officials learned of Kozlowski’s skill as a composer, they ordered him to compose a “Death Tango.”65 However, it seems more likely that Kozlowski made an arrangement of Ostatnia Niedziele (Last Sunday) which was called “Death Tango” because the musicians were forced to play the popular tango “every time that Jews were led to their execution.”66 In an interview, Kozloswki explained that in the Jáktorow concentration camp the SS “forced me a few others to play this Death Tango, even when we had no more physical or emotional strength. We played the Death Tango as prisoners were led to execution. We played as they took their last steps.”67 More recently, in 2012, Yuri Vinnichuk, the author of the novel Танґо смерті (Death Tango),68 has claimed that he “talked to the people who were in the concentration camp and they recalled that melody precisely.” It was the nostalgic tango “To ostatnia niedziela” which was extremely popular in the 1930s. In the Janowska

 Michael Bischoff, Mit Akkordeon und Kalaschnikow. Polens Klezmer: Ein Filmdokument über die Lebensstationen des jüdischen Musikers Leopold Kozlowski. Nürnberger Nachrichten 16 Mai 1994, p. 30. 64  Jordan Kutzik, The Extraordinary Life Of Leopold Kozlowski, The Last Klezmer Of Galicia. The Jewish Forward of May 10, 2019. The article originally appeared in the Yiddish Forverts of March 22, 2019. 65  Jordan Kutzik, The Extraordinary Life Of Leopold Kozlowski, The Last Klezmer Of Galicia. The Jewish Forward of May 10, 2019. The article originally appeared in the Yiddish Forverts of March 22, 2019. 66  Jordan Kutzik, The Extraordinary Life Of Leopold Kozlowski, The Last Klezmer Of Galicia. The Jewish Forward, May 10, 2019. 67  Interview with Leopold Kozlowski, op.cit. Quoted in Yale Strom (1994), The Book of Klezmer: The History, the Music, the Folklore from the 14th Century to the 21th. Chicago Review Press, 2002, 139. 68  Винничук, Юрій (2012) Танґо смерті (Ukranian) Укр. Видавництво; 13 editions published between 2012 and 2015 in 3 languages; Polish translation: Wynnyczuk, Jurij (2018) Tango smierc. Warsaw: Kolegium Europy Wschodniej. 63

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camp, this tango was played by the orchestra at the request of the concentration camp authorities like other popular compositions: “Without words, only music.”69 According to Vinnichuk, the very name of the “Tango of Death” dates back to the 1930s when to the sounds of this tango, young lovers used to shoot themselves. In the Wikipedia biographical notes of the composer Jerzy Petersburski, it is claimed that in Poland Ta ostatnia niedziela became widely known as the “Suicide Tango” because suicide was so strongly alluded to in the lyric describing the final meeting of former lovers who are parting.70 However, in the Wikipedia biographical notes of the violinist Artur Gold, who co-directed a popular orchestra with Petersburski, it is claimed that the song is sometimes nicknamed the “Suicide Tango” because in the 1930 when the tango became popular, young, disillusioned Polish officers shot themselves in the head.71 In the third version of the story, the “Death Tango” is To ostatnia niedziela, a tango composed in 1936 by the Polish piano player and composer of popular music Jerzy Petersburski.

12  Fact and Fiction Again The three versions of the Death Tango story are complementary. They are complementary as—in the first version—the music and the composer may have been unknown until—in the second and third version—they were identified as the Argentinian tango Plegaria composed by Eduardo Bianco (1892–1959) and the Polish tango To ostatnia niedziela composed by Jerzy Petersburski (1895–1979). They are also complementary since the tangos the Janowska camp orchestra played during selections or executions may have been the tango Plegaria (the tune of which the prisoners also sung with the new words that Anna Muzyczka remembered and Kulisiewicz recorded), the tango To ostatnia niedziela (“without words”) or yet another tango, known or unknown that was called “Death Tango.” Probably, the unknown tango was not an original composition but also an arrangement of an existing popular tango, maybe even an arrangement of either Plegaria or Ostatnia Niedziele. There is no reason to believe that either one of them was the “Death Tango” since they may have been played in different camps when Jews were led to their execution and, therefore, both be called “Death Tango.” Finally, only one of these tangos could have been played during the last performance of this tango when the members of the Janowska camp orchestra were shot one by one. However, there is reason to believe that the elaborate version of the story that during the last performance of this tango the members of the orchestra

69  http://www.bbc.co.uk/ukrainian/entertainment/2012/11/121116_book_2012_interview_ vynnychuk_ek.shtml. 70  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerzy_Petersburski. 71  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artur_Gold.

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were shot one by one is a fiction because, in fact, “nothing like that happened” (Vynnychuk 2019).72 At the Nuremberg trial, Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Lev Smirnov claimed—on February 14, 1946—that “the Germans shot all the members of the orchestra” without providing further details of how the musicians were killed, at least not according to the record of the trial.73 What the Soviet councilor had charged was reported as: “Nazi torture and murder of thousands of Russian Jews to the macabre strains of a ‘Death Tango’ composed, directed and played by Jewish musicians, who were later … slaughtered in a huge ditch at the Janowski camp.”74 Clearly, the Soviet councilor did not claim that the musicians were shot one by one while the orchestra was playing the “Death Tango.” That story comes from a trial which took place in Krasnodar, June 1–8, 1965, against so-called Trawniki men75 who were charged as “collaborators in the mass extermination of Russian citizens in fascist death camps.”76 Three of the defendants in this trial—N. Matvienko, V. Belyakov, and I. Nikiforov—were accused of having taken part in mass shootings of prisoners at the Janowska death camp in 1942–1943.77 A retired military jurist and war veteran Major General of Justice Mikhail Tokarev wrote about this trial78 in a book entitled Inescapable retribution (Tokarev 1976). The book is a collection of essays based on historical documents of trials against “traitors of the Motherland.”79 In a chapter entitled “In a closed circle”

72  http://www.bbc.co.uk/ukrainian/entertainment/2012/11/121116_book_2012_interview_ vynnychuk_ek.shtml. 73  Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German major war criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450–451. 74  The Jewish Telegraph Agency, February 17, 1946. 75  These men were Central and Eastern European collaborators who were trained by German SS and police at a training facility adjacent to the Trawniki concentration camp southeast of Lublin. They were recruited at prisoner-of-war camps from soldiers of the Soviet Red Army who could speak Polish, Ukrainian, and other languages of the Nazi-occupied territories. After their training, they served as Hiwis (German abbreviation for Hilfswilliger, literally “those willing to help”) at the extermination camps where they took a major part in the execution of the Nazi plan to kill the Jews. 76  The military tribunal was chaired by Major General of Justice GG Nafikov. The state prosecution in the case was led by the military prosecutor, Major General N. Afanasyev. The defendants were: N.  Matvienko, V.  Belyakov, I.  Nikiforov, I.  Zaitsev, V.  Pidenok, F, Tikhonovsky. Case against Matvienko et al., Criminal case No. 4, Archival file No. 100366. Arkhiv federal noi sluzhby bezopasnosti Rossiiskoi Federatsii (AFSB) Krasnodar, Russia. 77  The other three defendants were tried for their part in the extermination, V.  Podenok and F. Tikhonovsky in the Belzec camp and I. Zaitsev in the Sobibor camp. 78  In fact, Tokarev wrote about “a trial” before a military tribunal (Tokarev 1976: 154). 79  It is claimed that: “All the essays are written on the basis of historical documents, undeniable facts and give a vivid idea of the important role played by the Soviet court in the struggle of the peoples of our country against their enemies.” It is also claimed that the book “will help commandants and political workers, propagandists and agitators in their work to teach the Soviet soldiers feelings of hatred for the imperialists and high political vigilance. This book teaches high revolutionary vigilance and will undoubtedly contribute to the education of Soviet soldiers and all our

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Tokarev claimed that the accused, witnesses, official documents, and conclusions of the State Commission for Investigating the Atrocities of the Hitlerite Occupants that were verified by the military tribunal, “reveal the history of the creation and death of the camp band” (1976: 154).80 Given that Tokarev’s chapter is supposedly based on historical documents, it is remarkable that it is written as if it were a firsthand eye witness report of the trial. It is, for example, suggested by the author that he sensed “the tense silence when the indictment sounded in the courtroom which was packed with local residents, representatives of public organizations and the press” (Tokarev 1976: 150). Other examples of writing “as if he were there” are lively descriptions of defendants and witnesses; e.g., “Matvienko scowls at his feet, nervously fingering the button on his jacket” and “Edmund Seidel, a short, fragile man with sad, deeply sunken eyes speaks in a low, even voice while one feels the deep excitement that overwhelms him.” While that these depictions clearly are to lend credibility to the narrative, it is remarkable that Tokarev has given no description of Anna Pojtser who as “the only surviving eyewitness of this fascist crime” told the court “with a documentary accuracy” about what she saw from the window of the soldier’s kitchen of the Janowska camp where, during the occupation of the city, she had worked as a dishwasher (Tokarev 1976: 156). ‘I saw how all the forty musicians stood in a closed circle in the camp yard … encircled by a narrow ring of guards armed with carbines and submachine guns. “Music!” The commandant commanded furiously. The members of the orchestra raised their instruments and the “Death Tango” sounded over the barracks. On order of the commandant, standing in the middle of the circle, the musicians left one by one, undressed, and were shot by the SS men.’

After this description of what she claims to have seen, the witness tells what she can only have believed to have happened. ‘As more and more musicians fell under the fascists’ bullets, the music died down, but the survivors tried to play louder, so that at this last moment the Nazis would not think that they had managed to break the spirit of the doomed. So in the eyes of the doomed the Nazis saw not fear, but hate and contempt for the murderers.’

Finally, the unbroken spirit of the musicians is exemplified by what the witness states about the conductor of the orchestra, professor Stricks: “I can imagine how difficult it was for the professor to see how his friends, alongside whom he had lived for several decades, were dying. But outwardly Stricks showed nothing of this. When his turn came, the professor straightened, resolutely stepped into the middle of the circle, lowered the violin, raised the bow over his head and sang in German a Polish song: You will be worse off tomorrow than we are today.”

people in the spirit of selfless devotion to the Motherland and hatred of its enemies. At the same time, it will serve as a warning to all those who have not learned the lessons of history, who are plotting a new war against the Republic of Soviets, against the countries of the socialist community” (Foreword). 80  “Hitlerite” is a label the Soviets used for the Nazi Germans as well as their supporters (Hirsch 2008: 710).

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Almost a decade later, Sergey Trofimovich Kuzmin wrote about the same trial81 in his memoir as a member of the Extraordinary State Commission (Kuzmin 1985). His report of the trial is similarly constructed as a firsthand eye witness account of what took place in the courtroom. For example, as if he had seen her in person,82 he described key witness Anna Pojtser as “a prematurely gray-haired woman with traces of severe mental anguish and suffering on her gaunt face [who] spoke in a small, broken voice, when a lump came up to her throat, about what she had seen from the window of the soldier’s kitchen.” In order to add credibility to her testimony, Kuzmin adds that “she seems to have photographed every episode of the drama that took place at the campsite, when the Nazis began to liquidate the musicians.” Like Tokarev, Kuzmin narrates what the witness supposedly said about the 40 members of the orchestra standing in a circle surrounded by armed guards,83 the commandant “furiously” shouting “Music!”, the musicians playing tango,84 trying to play louder and louder as fellow musicians undressed one by one before being shot by SS men until the last one, professor Stricks, started singing a Polish song in German. However, regardless of what the key witness told the court—“with a documentary accuracy”—there are differences with Tokarev’s report, some of which are quite remarkable. For example, in Kuzmin’s report “It was the conductor of the Lviv Opera, Mund, who fell first from the bullets of executioners” while the conductor of the orchestra, professor Stricks was the last one when “by order of the commandant, one of them shot the professor.” Another difference is that in Kuzmin’s report an explanation is given for why the musicians—“realizing that this time they perform the requiem to themselves”— were murdered: “They know too much about the fascist atrocities. Therefore, not one of them will be left alive by the fascists, sweeping away the traces of their crimes.” The most significant difference, however, is in the imagination of the perversion of both the commandant and the SS. In Kuzmin’s report, the commandant supposedly said “with a smirk”: “Professor, it’s your turn. Thank you for making music, it gave us real pleasure.” The SS, in Kuzmin’s imagination, “laughed merrily, seeing how the living ring of musicians around the professor melted, and they giggled even more loudly when he was alone in front of them, continuing to perform the ‘Death Tango’.” And when, as the last one to be shot, “the proud old man” sang a Polish song in German, in Kuzmin’s imagination the “gloomy smiles disappeared from the guards’ faces.”  Kuzmin called it “a trial that was conducted in our country in the summer of 1965 of a group of traitors who, as was established during the trial, participated in five mass shootings of the prisoners of the Janowska camp.” 82  We may wonder why the Extraordinary State Commission, of which Kuzmin was a member, did not take a statement of this key witness in the first place. 83  But no mention is made of carbines and submachine guns. 84  While in Tokarev’s version “the ‘Death Tango’ sounded,” in Kuzmin’s version “the sounds of ‘tango’ continued to sound.” 81

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Kuzmin ends his rendition of what witness Anna Pojtser had told the court by stating that this story for some reason reminds him of Haydn’s “Farewell Symphony”: “It is performed by the light of the candles installed in front of each music stand. Having finished his part, the musician extinguishes the candle and leaves the stage. Finally, there is one performer who, after the final chords, knocks the flame of the candle with a bow and leaves under the applause of the hall. In the Yanovsky camp, there were no candles or applause. But the lives of prisoners were extinguished under fascist bullets with the same inevitability as the lights above the music stands in the performance of Haydn’s symphony” (Kuzmin 1985: 16).85 This procedure for the shooting of the musicians, Kuzmin speculates, has “undoubtedly” been chosen by “some SS music connoisseur” who, in his view, “also outraged the memory of the great composer who in his works called upon people to fight for the triumph of light over the darkness” (Kuzmin 1985: 16).86

13  Myth Building and Propaganda The myth that in the Nazi death camps Jewish musicians were forced to perform a “Death Tango” as men, women, and children were led to the gas chambers, has been constructed as a paradigm of the viciousness of the Nazis. The original source of the story was the report of “Extraordinary State Commission investigating the German-Fascist Atrocities in the Lvov Region.”87 Materials, documents, testimonies, statements, etc. were collected by members of the ChGK traveling around the country and sent by the various local auxiliary commissions to headquarters in Moscow where the Reports of the Extraordinary State Commission (ChGK) were compiled. The key figure in the process of compiling the reports was Andrei Vyshinskii, a former Stalinist public councilor, who was the Deputy People’s Commissar of Foreign Affairs and Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars. As the unofficial chief editor and censor of the reports, Vyshinskii demanded precision and accuracy in those details that could be easily checked while, at the same time, he did not hesitate to engage in falsification of the facts (Sorokina 2005: 825–827).

 Note that, originally, at the end of this symphony, there were just two muted violins left, played by the composer and conductor Haydn himself and by his concertmaster Luigi Tomasini. In this story, only violinist and conductor Stricks stayed until the end. His concertmaster, violinist, and also conductor of the orchestra, Mund, was killed first. 86  Darkness, the embodiments of which were the fascists and their accomplices. (Ibid.) 87  In its report, the commission stated that: “The Germans conducted their tortures, beatings and shootings to the accompaniment of music. For this purpose they organized a special orchestra of prisoners. They forced Professor Stricks and the well-known conductor Mund to lead this orchestra. They told composers to write a special tune, which they called ‘The Death Tango.’ Not long before the camp was liquidated the Germans shot all the members of the orchestra.” 85

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From the beginning, the Soviet regime envisioned Nuremberg as a “show trial”… and made a significant effort to control the Soviet legal team (Hirsch 2008: 710, note 36). Under Vishinskii’s leadership a secret Commission for Directing the Nuremberg Trials88 attempted to micromanage all aspects of the Soviet participation in the IMT by approving89 all Soviet lawyers, political advisers, journalists, artists, translators, stenographers, and other personnel for Nuremberg, by finding and grooming witnesses for the Soviet prosecution, by screening all written and visual materials for use in the trials, and by working with the Soviet prosecution to select documents (from captured German archives and other sources), newsreel footage, and photographs to be introduced as evidence of the Nazi intentions and Nazi crimes (Hirsch 2008: 712). During the course of the trials, Vyshinskii traveled several times to Nuremberg to give direct orders to the Soviet legal team.90 For Vyshinskii, there was a strong link between the Moscow Trials of 1936–1938 and the Nuremberg Trials which were to be an exercise in education and enlightenment—“a show trial extraordinaire” (Hirsch 2008: 713) “intended to bring ‘the Hitlerites’ (a label that included Nazi Germans as well as their supporters) to justice” (Hirsch 2008: 710). At the Trial of the Major War Criminals before the International Military Tribunal, the Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Smirnov charged that “the German thugs invented the most vicious methods for exterminating human beings” while claiming that what took place in the Yanov (Janowska) camp “was in no way exceptional,” he framed the story of the “Death Tango” as evidence that “the German-fascist administration behaved in exactly the same manner in all the death camps in the occupied area of the Soviet Union.”91 Concerning the “atrocities” in the Yanov (Janowska) camp, the councilor specified the name of the witness and the way in which his testimony was taken and by whom.92 More specifically, the councilor claimed that the witness had “personally  Details about the Vyshinskii Commission and its attempts to direct the Nuremberg Trials have come to light only recently (Hirsch 2008: 712). 89  “Stalin recruited for Nuremberg some of the same judges and prosecutors who had served during the Moscow Trials. Principal members of the Soviet team at Nuremberg … had made their careers by helping Vyshinskii” and “USSR’s chief prosecutor at Nuremberg, Roman Rudenko, had gotten similar experience between 1936 and 1938 as the chief prosecutor for a series of show trials … in Ukraine” (Hirsch 2008: 710). 90  “He made such trips in his role as deputy commissar of foreign affairs, since his commission was secret and he had no official connection to the IMT.  Back in Moscow, Vyshinskii reported to Molotov and Stalin on a regular basis, seeking their opinions on matters large and small” (Hirsch 2008: 712). 91  Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German major war criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450–451. 92  “The Tribunal has already received the document registered as Exhibit USSR 6/c(8). This document is one of the appendices to the report of the Extraordinary State Commission on German atrocities perpetrated on the territory of the region of Lvov. It is the testimony of the witness Manusevitch interrogated at the special request of the Extraordinary State Commission by the senior assistant to the prosecutor of the Lvov region. The minutes of the interrogatory are recorded in conformity with the legal code of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. The Tribunal will find these minutes on Page 48 of the document book.” 88

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witnessed” these atrocities and that his testimony had been confirmed by the Extraordinary State Commission.93 Speaking about the orchestra and the “Death Tango,” however, the councilor could not specify a name of such an eye witness since in the Report of the Extraordinary State Commission no source of this story had been disclosed. Many years later, in his memoir as a member of the “Extraordinary State Commission investigating the German-Fascist Atrocities in the Lvov Region,” Kuzmin (1985) wrote about how he first learned about and became fascinated by “the ‘Death Tango’ story” in the summer of 1944. He describes how he tried to recover the score of this tragic tune or find persons who could restore the notes from memory. The attempts to collect testimonial evidence had to be abandoned because “when we asked former prisoners to reproduce, even approximately, the theme of the composition, they did not have the strength to force themselves to indulge in terrible memories” (Kuzmin 1985: 16). All one survivor remembered was that: “The blood was stiff in my veins and my heart was pounding when the orchestra performed the ‘Death Tango’” (Kuzmin 1985: 16). According to Kuzmin all the agonizing hopelessness of the existence of the prisoners of the Yanov (Janowska) camp was expressed by the composer in a tune the prisoners called ‘Death Tango.’ It was a mourning melody full of deep tragedy, literally a cry of a desperate human soul (Kuzmin 1985: 16). This sounds hardly like the “sweet melody” that for “thousands and thousands of prisoners … was the last sound of the world.”94 The only survivor claiming to have personally witnessed the ‘Death Tango” being played by members of the orchestra at their own execution was Anna Pojtser. According to both Tokarev (1976) and Kuzmin (1985), this witness testified that what she described she had seen from the window of the soldiers’ kitchen at the Janowska camp. However, there are reasons why her testimony should not simply be taken for granted. In order to fully appreciate, Anna Pojtser’s statement, we must take into account that “members of the People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs (NKVD) … interviewed witnesses to the crime (and, more ominously, to have those witnesses prove their own innocence of the crimes).” This may have been a reason for Anna Pojtser to tailor her statement in 1944. However, there are additional reasons for doubt. First, maps and aerial photographs of the camp95 show that from the window of the soldiers’ kitchen where Anna Pojtser worked it was impossible to see what took

 “The testimony of the witness Manusevitch, which I have read into the record, was fully confirmed by the official report of the Extraordinary State Commission of the Soviet Union entitled, ‘German Atrocities Perpetrated in the Lvov Region.’” Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German Major War Criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450. 94  Janowska camp survivor Zygmund Samsonovich Leiner in the documentary film Eight bars of forgotten music (1982). 95  See number 17 on the 1944 aerial photograph overlaid with composite labels from multiple historical sources by Waitman Wade Beorn at https://waitmanbeorn.wixsite.com/waitmanwadebeorn/ janowska-project. 93

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place on the Appellplatz.96 Moreover, the event the eye witness described probably did not take place at the camp yard but at the execution site outside the camp. After Hauptsturmführer (captain) Friedrich Warzok took over the command from SS-Untersturmführer (lieutenant) Gustav Wilhaus, as of 1 July 1943, executions in the camp grounds were no longer allowed (Pohl 1997: 334). This would mean that the members of the orchestra were not executed on the Appellplatz as the eye witness claims to have seen, but outside the camp at the execution area in the Piaski Sands. This seems to be confirmed by the newspaper report on the afternoon session of the Nuremberg trial on February 14, 1946 which claimed that “the orchestra itself was slaughtered in a huge ditch at the Janowski camp.”97 Second, one would expect the document with the testimony of the witness Anna Pojtser to be one of the appendices to the report of the Extraordinary State Commission on German atrocities perpetrated on the territory of the region of Lvov and, like the testimony of witness Manusevitch, to have been included in Exhibit USSR-6 submitted by councilor Smirnov. But unlike Manusevitch’s statement, Pojtser’s testimony was not mentioned by the Soviet council. We do not know why. What we do know, however, is that in her testimony she used the word “tango” not even once. She stated that the musicians were ordered to play “German music” and that when they were shot they had to sing and play “songs.” Third, the claim that the Janowska camp orchestra had to play the “Death Tango” during their own executions is what Anna Pojtser supposedly said in her eye witness testimony in 1965 at a trial before a military tribunal against defendants who were seen and treated as “traitors of the Motherland.” This was more than 20 years she had given her first testimony. It is generally known that memories of an eye witness should not simply to be taken at face value. People can easily forget or mix up details of events when their memory has been contaminated by erroneous information. This can occur easily, and without any intention to deceive when, for example, the wording of a question leads a witness to incorrectly remember a small but crucial detail. More serious memory errors like, for example, remembering a building that wasn’t there or an event that never happened, also occur but they are to be considered as false memories (Laney and Loftus 2019). A question still not answered is whether Anna Pojtser really testified in person, as claimed by Tokarev (1976) and Kuzmin (1985) or that they for propagandistic purposes fabricated narratives as if Pojtser testified in person in court on the basis of a scanty interrogation of her in 1944. During the trial against Matvienko et al. in Krasnodar in June 1965, a total of 44 witnesses were summoned to the court, ­including former prisoners of fascist concentration camps (Sovetskaja Kuban June 5, 1965; Tazhidinova 2017: 113). However, among the documents of the Matvienko et al. trial no record of a statement by Pojtser has been found.98 The documents only

 Unless the events took place at what is called the “old roll call area.”  The Jewish Telegraph Agency, February 17, 1946. 98  David Alan Rich went through the 25 volumes of the Matvienko et al. trial selecting all the wit96 97

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included the protocol of the interrogation of Anna Korelovna Pojtser by prosecutor Micheev of the city of Lvov on September 12, 1944.99 However, even though no record of a more recent statement by Pojtser has been found among the documents of the trial100 it cannot be completely ruled out that Pojtser did in fact testify.101 But if indeed she testified, it seems likely that part of Anna Pojtser’s testimony has been imagined by the witness herself and part by those who were not themselves present at the trial102 but later in their publication narrated what Pojtser supposedly had said according to the protocol of the interrogation on September 12, 1944 and the proceedings protocol or a report of the trial in June 1965 put together by the KGB.103 The open trial, which was held at the Cultural Center of the Krasnodar Electrical Measuring Instruments, was staged as a “demonstration trial” (Hilger 2006: 471). As such, the trial was part of a propaganda effort to demonstrate and communicate a lesson to the people. What the lesson might have been can be inferred from the introduction to the book Inevitable Punishment (1976) in which Tokarev’s chapter was published. In this introduction, the publisher claims that the book is intended “to help commandants and political workers, propagandists and agitators in their work to teach Soviet soldiers high revolutionary vigilance and feelings of hatred for the imperialists and to educate all people in the spirit of selfless devotion to the Motherland.” Similarly, in a preface “To the Reader” by Professor V.  Ivanov, Kuzmin’s book No Statute of Limitations (1985) is praised as “another book about the bestial form of Hitler’s fascism” from which “the reader once again learns about the anti-human nature of fascism, about his bestial face” (Kuzmin 1985: 1–2). Like the newspaper coverage of the trial, the book publications and, more specifically, the chapters by Tokarev (1976) and Kuzmin (1985) were “targeted at Soviet people (raising their awareness about the different approaches to war criminals, taken in the USSR and in the capitalist West, which once again shows the fundamental discrepancy between the two systems)” (Tazhidinova 2017: 115). Taken together, they are an example of how “during the first post-war decades, under the influence of the Cold War events, the ‘stories’ about WWII and the Nazi occupation of the Soviet Union became … an important tool in state propaganda”

ness statements for copying, about 2500 pages of material and assured me that “if there were a 1960s re-interrogation of Pojtser, I would have copied it” (Personal Communication). 99  Case against Matvienko et al., Criminal case No. 4, Archival file No. 100366. Arkhiv federal noi sluzhby bezopasnosti Rossiiskoi Federatsii (AFSB) Krasnodar, Russia. 100  David Alan Rich went through the 25 volumes of the Matvienko et al. trial selecting all the witness statements for copying, about 2500 pages of material and assured me that “if there were a 1960s re-interrogation of Pojtser, I would have copied it” (Personal Communication). 101  In order to completely rule out that possibility, her absence would have to be confirmed by the trial proceedings protocol in which the witnesses are identified and their testimonies summarized. Unfortunately, this document has not yet been provided. 102  Even though, as we have seen, Kuzmin went as far as describing Anna Pojtser’s physical appearance. 103  Dieter Pohl, personal communication.

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(Baranova 2016: 1). In this context, the story of the “Death Tango” had to be constructed as not just tragic but also heroic and evidence of “German” viciousness needed to be combined with examples of “Russian” heroism. It is the combination of perpetrator perversion with victim dignity, which explains why the story of the “Death Tango” had—and still has—such a strong appeal to audiences in Eastern and Western Europe alike, not to mention the other parts of the world. The perversion of the perpetrators is exemplified by the idea that musicians were forced to play the “Death Tango” at their own execution while the dignity of the victim is embodied in the person of the courageous professor challenging the Nazis at the very last moment of his life by showing his moral superiority and predicting their downfall. In this way, the myth creates an almost unbearable combination of, on the one hand, life in the form of tango music which tends to be associated with “passion” and, on the other hand, death in the form of execution which, in the context of the Holocaust, means extermination of the European Jewry.

14  Conclusion In this chapter, a critical look has been taken at the stories that have been and continue to be told about the “Death Tango” and an attempt has been made to sort out what these stories tell us about the role of music in the modus operandi of the Holocaust. Given the conflation of stories circulating an attempt has been made to separate fact from fiction. Most concentration and extermination camps had musical ensembles ranging in size from a duo or trio to a full-size symphony orchestra with over 120 musicians. The Janowska camp sported an orchestra of about 40, mostly professional, musicians from the opera orchestra and the conservatory of Lviv. Like other camp ensembles, the orchestra at Janowska was forced to play during roll-call and at the gate as the marching columns of prisoners left the camp or returned from their work as slave laborers. However, tango music may have been played on other occasions such as executions. The repertoire of the camp orchestras could include anything from classical music, opera, and operetta melodies to marches, songs, film music, parlor music, light music, dance music, and hit-tunes. Tangos were on the repertoire of the camp orchestras as tango music was popular in the 1930s, not only in Argentina and France but also in Germany and Poland. This could explain why the Janowska camp orchestra played tangos and, given its popularity, also the tango Plegaria and why prisoners sang this popular tango in their own words. But no special composition called the “Death Tango” has ever been identified.104

 It is, therefore, confusing to claim that: “In the Nazi version, with the title changed to … The Death Tango, it was played with new words” (Naliwajek-Mazurek 2012: 220). 104

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This idea refers to an arrangement of Plegaria and/or To ostatnia niedziela which were called the “Death Tango” by the prisoners because the musicians were being forced by the SS to play this melody during selections and executions. Given their popularity, the tangos Plegaria and To ostatnia niedziela may also have been played by orchestras in other death camps, along with other tangos which too may have been called “Death Tango.” It has even been claimed that the name “Todestango” was used for any music played when groups of prisoners were executed.105 However, it is a myth that Jewish musicians were being forced to play a specially composed “Death Tango” as men, women, and children were led to the gas chambers, just as it is a myth that Wagner’s music was played on these occasions. In this chapter, we have taken a critical look at how the myth of the “Death Tango” was created. The story about the “Death Tango” has from the beginning been constructed as a prime example of the viciousness of the Nazis. The original source of this story was the report of the Extraordinary State Commission investigating the German-Fascist Atrocities in the Lvov Region. In the report it is stated that: “By order of the Nazis, the orchestra played an especially composed melody called the ‘Death Tango.’ The Nazis carried out torture, torture and execution under this music. The whole orchestra was shot by the Nazis.”106 It is not stated in the report that this “Death Tango” was played by members of the orchestra at their own execution. By suggesting that this actually might have happened a first step was made in the process of “epic concentration,” i.e., combining singular events in the construction of a singular narrative. Over time and as a result of this process of “epic concentration,” the myth was created that the members of the orchestra in the Janowska camp during the last performance of this tango were shot one by one in the spirit of the Wagnerian mysteries and in imitation of Haydn’s “Farewell Symphony.” It is notable that there are many inconsistencies in the different versions of the story of the ‘Death Tango.’ There is, for example, no consensus with regard to the name of the conductor. According to Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Smirnov, Professor Stricks and the famous conductor Mund were forced to conduct this orchestra.107 Other sources refer only to Leon Schtriks as the conductor of the orchestra (Friedman 1945) or claim that the orchestra was led by the conductor of the Lviv opera, Munt (Naliwajek-Mazurek 2012: 220). SS men were also seen as conducting the orchestra. Survivor Wilhelm “Willi” Ochs, for example, who made several drawings of the orchestra at the Janowska camp, wrote on one of the ­drawings: “The orchestra, under the baton of the SS-man Biermann.”108 Simon Wiesenthal remembered that SS-Untersturmführer (lieutenant) Richard Rokita, who had “only one ambition—to lead a band” (Wiesenthal 1998), sometimes “con Gail Holst-Warhaft. See https://www.celan-projekt.de/materialien-felstiner.html.  Extraordinary Commission (ChGK), Hitler crimes against peaceful population, 521. 107  Colonel Smirnov also spoke of an orchestra conducted by Professor Stricks, an internee in the camp, together with his concertmaster, Mund. Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German major war criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, 450–451. 108  Lvov May 1943. Ghetto Fighters House Archives Art\4239\ ‫ פורת‬.jpg 105 106

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ducted evening concerts of Bach, Grieg, and Wagner for the SS cadre” (Wiesenthal quoted in Levy 1993).109 If Soviet Assistant Prosecutor Colonel Smirnov110 is right that both Professor Stricks and the famous conductor Mund were forced to conduct this orchestra, the question remains who was conducting the orchestra in the iconic photograph (Picture 1)? In 1982, Igor Malishevsky collected information about the Janowska camp, wrote a screenplay about the “Death Tango” and created, together with the Spanish director Arnaldo Fernandez, the documentary “Eight bars of forgotten music.”111 In the film, old Lviv musicians are being interviewed. When a small photocopy of the Nuremberg photo was shown to them, the old choirmaster pointed to the photocopy confidently and said: “This is Mund! Exactly, Yakub Mund!”112 The inconsistencies and contradictions between the different versions of what happened in the Janowska camp may be considered as characteristic of false or “fictional memory.” However, in order to better understand their meaning we have to take into account that memories are constructed in the first place to make the past seem meaningful and plausible. As a myth, the stories about the “Death Tango” fulfil a deeply felt need to morally condemn and distance oneself from the Holocaust without having to face all the shocking details of what actually took place. A striking example of the power of the myth of the “Death Tango” is to be found in the film “Tango: A History with Jews” (Judkovski and Pomeraniec 2009). In this documentary, the tango Plegaria is being sung and played as if it were Klezmer music.113 The players are sitting around the singer like the musicians in the iconic photograph of the “orchestra of death” were standing around the conductor. And, as if they were playing Haydn’s Farewell symphony, the musicians disappear one by one, leaving their instrument on their chair. In this way, the “Death Tango” is presented not only as a powerful symbol of the horrors of the Holocaust, but as “an everlasting pact, a blood pact with Tango” (Judkovski and Pomeraniec 2009).

 According to survivor Browicz, Rokita was “reportedly the director of a jazz orchestra before the war” (Reznik 2014: 224) but according to Simon Wiesenthal Rokita “had been a violinist in a Silesian café.” 110  Smirnov also spoke of an orchestra conducted by Professor Stricks, an internee in the camp, together with his bandmaster, Mundt. Nuremberg Trial Proceedings. The Trial of German Major War Criminals, Vol. 7, Thursday, 14 February 1946, p. 450–451. 111  https://ihffilm.com/44017.html. 112  At the end of the film, the names of those who were identified in the photo are mistakenly named as Yakub Strix, conductor and Cuba Mund, the first violin instead of violinist Leonid Stricks and conductor Yacub (“Cuba”) Mund. 113  Apparently the fact that the tango composer Bianco had fascist sympathies is no reason to refrain from playing his music, not even in commemoration of the Holocaust. 109

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Illustration 1  Zeev Porath: “Review with orchestra”—a testimony drawing from the Janowska camp Review with orchestra. Pencil drawing. Inscription in Polish: “Wilhaus reviews a brigade of camp people accompanied by an orchestra.” Ghetto Fighters House Archives: Catalog No. 4251

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The Music Act of “Kosovo” and Its Semantic Resonances in International Criminal Trials: An Oral Epic Poetry Case Study Toward a Cognitive Approach to Analysis, Investigations, and Prosecutions Predrag Dojčinović

To admit that music can become an instrument of evil is to take it seriously as a form of human expression (A. Ross, “When Music is Violence,” June 27, 2016, The New Yorker. .). Alex Ross

1  An Overture “Music is language-like” (Kivy 2007: 222) and “language is music,” (Hawthorne 2012; Niecks 1969) or sometimes as part of the same phrase, “music is language and language is music,” (Sparling 2003) all belong to some of the sweeping statements occasionally found in scholarly literature dealing with various aspects of these two distinct, but cognitively related (Rebuschat et  al. 2012; Swaab 2015), I would like to express special appreciation to Brianna Dyer, my former student at the University of Connecticut, without whose comments and suggestions this chapter would never have reached this level of precision and theoretical accuracy. This chapter presents an amalgamation of existing as well as ongoing research and publications on the elements and role of cognitive science in international criminal law. From 1998 until 2017, apart from teaching the hybrid courses between cognitive science and international law, the author worked on a series of investigations and prosecutions of cases involving various forms of propaganda and speech crimes at the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) and had an ICTY-based advisory role on the case of Rwandan singer-songwriter Simon Bikindi prosecuted at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR). P. Dojčinović (*) University of Connecticut, Storrs, CT, USA © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_11

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forms of human expression and communication. Both music1 and language2 have inspired a wide range of definitions,3 many of them connected by the notion of “sound,” or, as inherently implied, intentionally produced sound. Thus, based on various divergent and convergent descriptions of music and language (Sundberg et al. 1990), it can be reasonably proposed that music acts, as linked and related to linguistically conceptualized acts, or, more specifically, speech acts, can ultimately be described as primarily “physical and intentional manifestation of human behavior” (Dojčinović 2012: 73). Physical manifestations of intent are, however, generally determined by the reasons (Mercier and Sperber 2017) incorporated in words and sounds as transmitters of the speaker’s intent. The role reasons play in the description of intentional actions is critical. Reasons can be described as the fuel pumps of intent that may or may not drive internal modes of intent toward action with a specific range of conceivable and foreseeable consequences as the next phase in the process (Dojčinović 2020: 2). As philosopher Donald Davidson succinctly phrased it, “Someone who acts with a certain intention acts for a reason; he has something in mind that he wants to promote or accomplish” (Davidson 2001: 83). The key to intent as a state of mind is thus its purposeful actionability and specific consequences emerging from that process (Dojčinović 2020: 2). Both speech acts and music acts share that general process feature of intent and intentional action in the form of outcome as its causal inevitability. Both can be recognized as indicators and predictors of various types of criminal intent. In line with the above, this chapter will first lay out the conceptual foundations of the newly proposed concept of music acts within cognitive scientific and international criminal legal frameworks. It will then present an oral epic poetry case study based on the music acts, as defined by the noun “Kosovo” and its conceptual relatives “Turks” and “poturice,” both explicitly and implicitly present in the 1992 ­documentary film Serbian Epics by Pawel Pawlikowski,4 which was introduced as evidence in several trials before the International Criminal Tribunal of the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). The chapter will ultimately situate “music acts” as a potentially  As defined by Merriam-Webster, music is (a) the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity; (b) vocal, instrumental, or mechanical sounds having rhythm, melody, or harmony. . 2  As defined by Merriam-Webster, language is (a) the words, their pronunciation, and the methods of combining them used and understood by a community; (b) audible, articulate, meaningful sound as produced by the action of the vocal organs. . 3  “(…) cognitive operations (and neural mechanisms) underlying music- and language-processing indicate that ‘music’ and ‘language’ are different aspects, or two poles, of a single continuous domain. I refer to this domain as music-language continuum” (Koelsch 2013: 244). 4  It is to be noted that Pawel Pawlikowski was interviewed by the Office of the Prosecutor (OTP) as a potential fact witness in relation to the evidence emerging from his film Serbian Epics (1992). For more on Pawlikowski, see and . 1

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useful analytical, investigative, and prosecutorial concept within the context of international criminal law and justice as a whole.

2  S  peech Acts and Music Acts: Between Intent and Intentionality5 The most pragmatic approach to the analysis of cognitive types of evidence in international war crimes investigations and related trials may be the model emerging from the strong resonances of the speech act theory.6 With its foundations in the philosophy of language, the speech act theory has been known and applied both in legal theory and practice.7 Referring to the American law of evidence, the originator of the speech act theory, J.L.  Austin, indicated a linguistic and legal distinction between the utterances as acts (or actions) on the one hand and the utterances as acts (or actions) with semantic content and its impact on the other hand (Austin 1962: 13). As Austin initially emphasized, “by saying something we do something” (Austin 1962: 91). At the heart of this process, however, lies the cognitive concept of intent. This essential feature of speech acts was again well described by Donald Davidson, “Saying that one intends to do something, or that one will do it, is undeniably an action and it has some of the characteristics of forming an intention” (2001: 90). In a distinct style, the poet W.B. Yeats intuitively described the physicality of this occurrence as “a mouthful of air” (1994: 55).8 The philosopher who further developed and refined Austin’s basic speech act framework, John Searle, refers to the same phenomenon as “acoustic blasts” (Searle 1969: 3) or speech acts, the “minimal units of linguistic communication” (idem.: 16). Or, as stated by the cognitive philosopher and scientist Riccardo Manzotti, “Words […] are external objects that do things in the world and, like other objects, they produce effects in our brains and thus eventually, through us, in the world” (Manzotti and Parks 2017). Both the poet and the philosophers seem to suggest that the power and meaning of words can be as natural as breathing. If uttered audibly, the sounds of speech acts can be treated as the second key component of its physical manifestations. Some “acoustic blasts” deprived of specific semantic content, like booing or cheering, can be an indication of a response to the “meaning intention” and “communication intention” (Searle 2008: 169) transmitted through an entire speech, or a single speech act. In all cases in which “meanings” are attributed or attached to the speech acts as acoustic blasts,  In philosophy and  cognitive science in  general “intending” is seen as  just one class or type of “intentionality.” “Intentionality is that property of many mental states and events by which they are directed at or about or of objects and states of affairs in the world.” J.R. Searle, Intentionality: An essay in the philosophy of mind, Cambridge University Press, 1999b, p. 1. 6  The most advanced model of speech act theory is offered by the philosopher Searle (1969, 1999a: 149, 150). 7  For most recent examples, see Wilson (2017: 26, 56–67) and Dojčinović (2012: 15, 81, 83). 8  See also Burgess (1992). 5

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one cannot speak of “meaninglessness” anymore. That is the moment when a “meaningless” speech act is admitted into a network of other “meaningful” concepts. The “acoustic blasts” can thus be a sign of affirmation, rejection, confusion, or any other type of meaningful, intentional response. Similarly, the sound of a music act can be regarded as an integral component of the same cognitive process. There may thus be a ground upon which it can be argued that a parallel and converging concept of “music acts,” if juxtaposed with speech acts, exist as a cognitively correlated form of human expression and communication. Some scholars believe that, however different it may be from its conceptual relative known as linguistic semantics, “a formal semantics for music can be developed” (Schlenker 2018). In combination with some of the universal elements of music, such as pitch, timbre, loudness, duration, spatial location, and texture (Burton 2015) as well as the contextual, culturally determined elements of music,9 we may consequently define specific “music acts” as intentional, meaningful acts of communication. It can be said that, according to cognitive musicologist Arnie Cox, “musical meaning emerges via combination of feeling and thinking in response to musical actions and sounds” (Cox 2017: 2). Such music acts are intentional and produced in order to convey a meaning or a set of cognitively processed embodied meanings with specific results. The steadily growing research in this area of cognitive science strongly indicates that, notwithstanding the differences with some of the narrowly defined domains of linguistic concepts, and the fact that emotion may be at the heart of virtually every music act and its impactful radius,10 “music can activate certain semantic concepts” (Patel 2008: 334).11 A study of ballad singers, for example, showed that “the music and words constrain each other” (Neisser and Winograd 1995: 283–310). Thus, similar to, and along with, the speech act theory, as we shall show through the specific case study examples from the Serbian oral epic poetry performed during the series of 1991–1999 armed conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, music acts could, and perhaps should, too be situated and employed within the framework of international criminal investigations, prosecutions, and trials.

 “(…) the listener may draw upon his stock of culturally established images (…)” (Meyer 1956). “Our brains learn a kind of musical grammar that is specific to the music of our culture, just as we learn to speak the language of our culture” (Levitin 2006: 108). 10  “Composers imbue music with emotion by knowing what our expectations are and then very deliberately controlling when those expectations will be met, and when they won’t. The thrills, chills, and tears we experience from music are the result of having our expectations artfully manipulated by a skilled composer and the musicians who interpret that music” (Levitin 2006: 111). 11  Particularly relevant in this area of research is the work of Stefan Koelsch at the Max Planck Institute for Human Cognitive and Brain Sciences and the University of Bergen. For more, see . 9

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3  T  he Cognitive Elements of a Guilty Mind: Linguistic and Tonal (Patel 2013: 347) 3.1  Mens Rea It may be worth reminding that one of the most critical concepts of criminal law, the concept of mens rea, or “guilty mind,” stems from the Latin maxim Et actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea (Coke 2003: 972), that is, “an act does not make a person guilty unless the mind is also guilty.” In the course of the past century, various faces and manifestations of mens rea have been identified and frequently placed under the strict examination of legal scholars and philosophers of law. The convolutedness of the ongoing discussion is indicated by the broad range of descriptions like “enigma” (Badar 2013: 1), “chameleon” (Sayre 1934: 399, 411) or “form and shades” (Cassese 2008: 56) that have been utilized to explain the notion of mens rea. In the first half of the twentieth century, observing that “mens rea, chameleon-­ like, takes on different colors in different surroundings” (Sayre 1934), Francis Sayre12 proposed a considerable change when he introduced its plural form, mentes reae. In fact, Sayre may have instinctively anticipated the new category of contextual or, more specifically, cognitive evidence which emerged from post-World War Two international criminal proceedings as the many expressions of mens rea, or mentes reae, all conceived in highly complex and distinct historical, political, social, and cultural environments. Forms of music expression, particularly if offered as a combination of sounds and words, that is as music acts, may well fall within the ever-growing and diverse ambit of Sayre’s basic concept of mentes reae.

3.2  Intent The key building block of mens rea, as known inside the strict confines of criminal law, is the element of intent (dolus directus). In his textbook International Criminal Law, Antonio Cassese explains the concept as follows: “By intent or intention (dolus directus) is meant awareness that by engaging in a certain action or by omitting to act I shall bring about a certain result (such as, for example, the death of a civilian) coupled with the will to cause such result” (Cassese 2008: 60). However, as one of the requirements of a mental state for a particular crime, and “depending on the legal tradition to which it belonged, each court has placed its own interpretation on the notion of intent” (idem.: 56), noted Cassese. There is no definitive or authoritative legal definition of intent in either national or international legal documents. The manifestations of intent as a mental state in criminal conduct can be so diverse and complex that it is most likely impossible to establish a single definition  Williams College, Special Collections, Williams History, Sayre, Francis B. (1885–1972). . 12

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or set of definitions. Writing about the development and evolution of the concept of mens rea, Mohamed Badar makes note of the two alternative types of intent identified in 1991 by the International Law Commission in its Draft Code of Crimes against the Peace and Security of Mankind: The first alternative is intent stricto sensu, whereas the second alternative of intent covers ‘situations in which the user knew of the devastating effects on the environment, yet went ahead and used methods or means in question.’ The two levels of intent became known in the sphere of international criminal law as direct intent (dolus directus of the first degree) and indirect intent (dolus directus of the second degree) (Badar 2013: 284).

One of the most recent attempts to define intent can, however, be found in Article 30 (2) (a) (b) of the Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC) under the heading Mental Element, which states that “a person has intent where: (a) In relation to conduct, that person means to engage in the conduct; (b) In relation to a consequence, that person means to cause that consequence or is aware that it will occur in the ordinary course of events” (emphasis added).13 The transitive verb “to mean,” as broad as it, cognitively speaking, may be, remains entirely open in this definition. It can be said that outside strict, national and international, legislative frameworks, such is the cognitive fluidity of the concept that is more often than not left to the discretionary right and power of the judges to determine what the element of intent is and whether, when and how it can be applied in various criminal cases. As the warp thread of mens rea, into which other elements of responsibility and culpability can be woven, intent appears to be the most critical and yet not fully understood strand of a much larger, particularly international, legal tapestry. Although we might all think we know how to recognize the manifold indicators of intent, contrary to this intuition, this author will try to offer serious consideration to some of the manifestations of music acts as one of the aspects of a broader cognitive range and impact of intent. Be that as it may, as well as the category of general intent described in criminal law as intent to commit an act without additional purpose or intention, the category of “specific intent,” or “special intent” (dolus specialis), is an absolute requirement for the crime of genocide, including the crime of direct and public incitement to commit genocide as stipulated by Article III of the Genocide Convention.14 It may be worth pointing out that the element of specific intent is also required for the crime of persecution as a crime against humanity. As Cassese clearly spells out, the crime of persecution would in this case entail “a discriminatory intent (…) namely the will to discriminate against members of a particular national, ethnic, religious, racial, or other group” (2008: 66). The overlap in definitions between genocide and persecution is self-evident, and the strongest link between them is the element of specific intent. Each trial chamber expressed the role of specific intent in slightly

 International Committee of the Red Cross . 14  United Nations Office on Genocide Prevention and the Responsibility to Protect . 13

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different ways,15 but regardless of the relative dissonance in the voices of deliberation, one can conclude that this level of evidentiary complexity has so far been handled relatively well in the international criminal jurisprudence. The true complications, as noted earlier, may have actually begun with the recognition of new types of cognitive evidence, such as meaningful and intentionally produced combinations of sounds and words, or music acts, which is customarily described as distinctly contextual. This type of evidence may have, almost imperceptibly, played the key role in the form of contributing factors or forms of incitement and/or instigation as part of substantive crimes or related modes of liability. In line with the existing international case law and jurisprudence relating to the contextual and culture-­ specific elements of language, or speech acts, one of these crimes may have indeed been direct (or rather “indirect”) and public incitement to commit genocide. In the ICTR’s Akayesu and Nahimana et al. findings, the judges, inter alia, stated, that “in light of the culture of Rwanda and the specific circumstances of the instant case, acts of incitement can be viewed as direct or not, by focusing mainly on the issue of whether the persons for whom the message was intended immediately grasped the implication thereof” and “it does not matter that the message may appear ambiguous to another audience or in another context” (emphasis added).16 In this regard, the forms of musical expression or, more specifically, music acts, such as those presented in the ICTR’s case against the Rwandan singer-songwriter Simon Bikindi,17 ought not to be treated as fundamentally different from speech acts misguidedly regarded as exclusively linguistic forms of communication. Albeit the fact that the prosecution at the ICTR has judicially failed to prove the charges relating to Bikindi’s music in the conditioning and execution of the genocidal acts, the particular relevance and impact of the cognitive, historical, political, social and culture-­ determined manifestations of both speech and music acts concealed in the messages communicated by Bikindi’s music to the génocidaires has never been denied by experts, nor has it been effectively refuted by the ICTR judges (Gordon 2010:  “Genocide is distinct from other crimes inasmuch as it embodies a special intent or dolus specialis. Special intent of a crime is the specific intention, required as a constitutive element of the crime, which demands that the perpetrator clearly seeks to produce the act charged. Thus, the special intent in the crime of genocide lies in “the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such.” The Prosecutor Versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Trial Judgment, Case No. ICTR-96-4-T, 2 September 1998, para. 498. “(…) the specific intent of the offence, which is described as the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such.” Prosecutor v. Radoslav Brđanin, Trial Judgment, Case No. IT-9936-T, 1 September 2004, para. 681. 16  The Prosecutor Versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Trial Judgment, Case No. ICTR-96-4-T, 2 September 1998, paras 557–558. Ferdinand Nahimana, Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze v. The Prosecutor, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-99-52-A, 28 November 2007, paras 698–699, 700–701, 711. 17  Topical analysis of the Songs Twasezereye: We bade farewell; Nanga abahutu or Akabyutso: I hate the Hutu or The Awakening; and Bene Sebahinzi or lntabaza: The descendants of Sebahinzi or The Alert by Simon Bikindi, exhibit no. 73(E), admitted February 13, 2007, tendered by Prosecutor, Joint Expert Report of Gamaliel Mbonimana and Jean de Dieu Karangwa, The Prosecutor v. Simon Bikindi, Case No. ICTR-01-72-T. 15

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625–630; Street 2012: 3). As recently concluded by two Rwandan sociolinguists, Évariste Ntakirutimana and Marie-Claire Uwamariya, “Simon Bikindi’s songs can certainly be recognized as a significant contributing factor to the incitement of genocide committed against the Tutsi in Rwanda in 1994” (Ntakirutimana and Uwamariya 2020: 259).

4  T  he Cognitive Resonances and Inferences of the Music Act of “Kosovo” in the Documentary Film Serbian Epics: An Oral Epic Poetry Case Study18 In 1992, during the early stages of the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Polish-born British film maker Pawel Pawlikowski directed and produced the documentary film Serbian Epics. Pawlikowski’s film revolves around the portrait of Radovan Karadžić, the Bosnian Serb political leader,19 the figure placed at the center of a complex historical, political, and cultural narrative woven from the strands of the real war events and against the mythological backdrop of the Serbian war enterprise. As the title of the film indicates, Serbian oral epic tradition, conveyed through the combination of music and epic poetry, or speech acts and music acts, offers the key to understanding the Serbian mindset, and particularly the origins of the culture-determined mens rea of Radovan Karadžić and other members of the joint criminal enterprise (JCE)20 exposed through this film. Taken together, they constitute a cognitively critical niche of semi-public records, particularly those created by mouth-to-mouth communication in the intimate environments created by kinship and other traditional and patriarchal bonds. Such oral habitats often hold the key to the myths, legends, and fables kept alive by traditional storytelling, which all form part of the collective memory of tribal, ethnic, and national communities. If the relevance and probative value (Martin et al. 2003: 106, 107) of this evidence has been successfully tested against the backdrop of the relative reliability of their sources, their voices and statements can serve the forensic purposes of judicial procedure almost as well as recording devices. Indeed, in some cases, such evidence can be assessed as relevant and admitted into evidence at face value (Combs 2010).

 Serbian Epics, a documentary film by Pawel Pawlikowski. . 19  For more on the trial of Radovan Karadžić (MICT-13-55), see . On March 20, 2019, the Appeals Chamber of the International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals (IRMCT) sentenced Radovan Karadžić to a sentence of life imprisonment. . 20  Joint criminal enterprise (JCE), a legal doctrine and mode of liability, is “a means of assigning criminal liability to individuals for activities carried out by a collective.” K.  Gustafson, (2007) Journal of International Criminal Justice, 5 (1): 134–158. Prosecutor v. Duško Tadić, Appeal Judgment, Case No. IT-94-1, 15 July 1999, para. 226. For more on JCE, see Prosecutor v. Radoslav Brđanin, Appeal Judgment, Case No. IT-99-36-A, 3 April 2007, paras 363–364. 18

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This offers part of the explanation as to why specific parts of Pawlikowski’s film were subsequently used as supporting evidence in the indictment against Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić,21 as well as evidence in several Bosnian political and military leadership JCE-related trials.22 However, the presence of a multifaceted content of the epic songs in the film, chanted and narrated by a singer in military uniform, conveyed on the gusle,23 a single string instrument traditionally used by the Serbs and Montenegrins, but also Bosnians and Croats, throughout the region, goes well beyond its basic cinematic representation. The Serbian epic songs constitute the leitmotiv of Pawlikowski’s documentary film from the opening to the closing scenes. It must be noted that Pawlikowski’s singer on the gusle epitomizes a long, voluminous and dominant lineage in literary history and oral epic poetry in the Balkans, which essentially leans on the Homeric tradition as represented in the Iliad and the Odyssey. The principle study in this regard remains The Singer of Tales24 by Albert B.  Lord, a classical philologist and professor of Slavic literature from Harvard University, who conducted field research into the history, structure, content, and impact of this genre in the region between the mid-1930s and late 1950s. The Singer of Tales, first published in 1960, inter alia accentuates the temporal aspect of oral epic poetry as part of a centuries-old uninterrupted living tradition in the territory of the former Yugoslavia. Some key features of this genre are its relatively fixed form, formulaic structure, and thematic fluidity which blends the dimensions of time and space while developing the contemporaneous events into an epic, typically heroic, theme as an unfolding present moment in time. As a recognized artistic procedé, relevant for the general education and cognitive conditioning of the Serbs, this form of expression and communication of particular narratives has been continued and further popularized by the propagandists and local Serbian performers of the genre throughout the armed conflict in the 1990s (Čolović 2002: 60–62, 69, 149–151; Čolović 2018: 20–23, 62–63, 159, 264).

 The Prosecutor v Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić, ICTY Case No. IT-95-18-R61, Rule 61 hearings, Monday, 8th July 1996. (pages 901–904) 22  The Prosecutor versus Mićo Stanišić and Stojan Župljanin, ICTY Case No. IT-08-91-T, Monday, 14 September 2009. (pages 219–221), and The Prosecutor versus Mićo Stanišić and Stojan Župljanin, ICTY Case No. IT-08-91-T, Friday, 29 January 2010. (page 5812, line 21—page 5816, line 23). The Prosecutor versus Momčilo Krajišnik, ICTY Case No. IT-00-39-T, Tuesday, 19 July 2005. (pages 16694–16699). 23  For more on gusle, see the UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage entry: . 24  A.B. Lord, The Singer of Tales, Third Edition, Center for Hellenic Studies, 2019. . 21

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The singer on the gusle as captured by Pawel Pawlikowski in Serbian Epics, 1992

The dominant themes of these narratives are key events from the past, such as the 1389 Kosovo Battle, generally recognized as the major formative moment and myth in the Serbian and Montenegrin history and culture.25 Notwithstanding the lack of reliable historical sources, it is known that the Kosovo battle was fought on St. Vitus’ Day, June 28, 1389, between the Christian, predominantly Serb-led forces, against the forces of the Ottoman Empire. It is also known that the grossly outnumbered Christian Serb forces were eventually defeated by the Ottomans. The narratives of honor, sacrifice, and heroism of the Serb nobility and knights, but also cowardice, betrayal, and desire for revenge against the Ottomans, entered Serbian mythology and became the strongest force of historical, political, military, and artistic inspiration among the Serbs to this day.26 In Serbian historiography and art, the battle of Kosovo has become an everlasting battle against the Muslims or, as colloquially and pejoratively known among the Serbs, “Turks” and poturice (Islamic converts, connoting also renegades and traitors). This semantic shift may have become one of the cognitive keys to unlocking the intentional and evidentiary aspects of the crimes committed by the Serb forces against the Muslim population in the series of armed conflicts between 1991 and 1999 (Elias-Bursać 2015). This analysis will focus on the relevance of the Kosovo narrative as presented by Pawlikowski in Serbian Epics and, more specifically, the meaning, role and reso For the most thorough analysis of the impact the Kosovo battle and its mythological, historical, political and cultural framework had throughout the former Yugoslavia, and particularly in Serbia, see Čolović (2016). 26  See, for example, Kosovo 1389–1989, Serbian Literary Quarterly 1989, 1–3, Special Edition on the occasion of 600 years since the Battle of Kosovo, Belgrade: The Association of Serbian Writers, in collaboration with the International October Meeting of Writers, the Agency of Yugoslav Authors - Serbian Agency and Serbian P.E.N. Centre. 25

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nances of the concepts of “Kosovo” and “Turks” in the lyrics, as documented in five separate but related segments of epic songs, including a modern folk song, integrated into the film.27 Prior to the more substantive analysis of the two above-­ mentioned concepts, contextualizing commentaries will be provided for each segment, followed by the excerpts from a modern Serbian folk song used in the film.

5  The Singer on the Gusle, Segment 1 This segment establishes the historical and cultural importance of gusle as a unique conveyor of emotions, memories, and stories of the “Serbian tribe.” One of the first shots in this segment depicts a uniformed performer with the image of Petar II Petrović Njegoš, the nineteenth-century Montenegrin Bishop and poet, engraved in his music instrument. The overwhelming emotional power of the gusle occupies the central place in the first part of the segment. In his narrative, the performer places Serbs in the context of Christianity, the medieval period of the Serbian imperial history and ultimately calls the present-day Serbs to join the continuing Kosovo battle against the enemy, “the Turks.” In the cognition of the performer and his intended audience, both place and time, “Kosovo” and “1389,” cease to exist in their historical context. As such, they are firmly placed in the reality of the 1992 armed conflict and the performative moment. The main building blocks of the narrative are the concepts of gusle, Christian faith, imperial fatherland, Kosovo and Turks. The gusle singer opens his narration as follows:28 (Timestamp: 01:20) Hey, gusle, beloved music-maker, you have always accompanied the Serbian tribe, ever since the Slavs came to the Balkans the gusle has been the Serb’s best friend, since I took you, gusle, in my hand how often have I had to wipe my eyes remembering the words of my great tribe. (Timestamp: 02:40) Serbs, brothers, wherever you are, with the help of Almighty God, for the sake of the Cross and the Christian faith and our imperial fatherland I call upon you to join The battle at Kosovo To defend the good name of Serbia

 It must be noted that the translation of the lyrics in Pawlikowski’s film falls short of a fully accurate and complete translation. Some words are incorrectly translated and some audible parts of the songs are not translated at all. However, a general sense of the meaning of the songs is preserved and can be used for the purposes of this analysis. 28  Duration: 00:00–41:38, Serbian Epics . 27

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P. Dojčinović The Turks are waiting on the Field of Blackbirds (…) (with the last verse missing from the transcript) (Timestamp: 03:30)

6  The Singer on the Gusle, Segment 2 While placing the emphasis on the key virtues of sacrifice, bravery, and heroism, this segment defines the roles of some of the historical protagonists as positioned within the 1389 Kosovo narrative and myth in the Serbian tradition. The vocal narration on the gusle is coupled with the surrounding images of the slaughtering of a lamb and drinking of a group of Serb paramilitary forces and other combatants as the surrounding audience. (Timestamp: 09:57) Queen Militsa, wife of King Lazar had tears in her eyes. She approached her youngest brother, Boshko, “Boshko, apple of my eye, for your beloved sister’s sake don’t go into battle, don’t leave me alone. I have entreated the king and he says you need not go pass the banner on to a warrior of your choice, Boshko, you are my only treasure.” The noble lord pushed his sister from him, “Do not speak to me in that fashion, Lady Militsa (…) (Author’s note: with verses missing from the transcript, such as …they will be gouging my eyes out (…) If I fail to go to Kosovo with my brothers People will say I am a coward (…) (Author’s note: with the last verse missing from the transcript) (Timestamp: 11:25)

7  The Singer on the Gusle, Segment 3 Same as Segment 2, this segment opens with the images of the slaughtering of a lamb or a pig. The main themes of this segment are the conversion of the Bosnian Muslims from Islam to Christianity or, more specifically, the Serbian Orthodox faith in combination with the siege of Sarajevo by the Bosnian Serb forces. The singer refers to the subject of his short narrative, a young Bosnian Muslim female, as “Turk,” which is a strong derogatory term used by the Bosnian Serbs to signify the Muslims of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The last two verses in this stanza indicate that

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the city of Sarajevo is under siege by the Bosnian Serb forces. The two themes—the conversion of the Bosnian Muslims and the siege of Sarajevo—offer indirect evidence of intent to persecute Bosnian Muslims on religious grounds and hold the city of Sarajevo and its civilian population under the military siege and, as a result, takeover a part or the entirety of the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Both themes from this segment were subsequently documented, corroborated, and adjudicated in the cases of all Bosnian Serb leaders tried by the ICTY.29 (Timestamp: 23:52) Oh, beautiful Turkish daughter (…) our monks will baptize you Sarayevo30 (…) in the valley The Serbs have encircled you. (Timestamp: 24:50)

8  The Singer on the Gusle, Segment 4 This segment opens with the images of Radovan Karadžić, his wife and a Bosnian Serb political delegation leaving Bosnia and Herzegovina for a peace conference in Geneva. The singer glorifies the Bosnian Serb political leader, comparing him to Đorđe Petrović a.k.a. Karađorđe (“Black George”), a legendary nineteenth-century “leader of the Serbian people in their struggle for independence from the Turks and founder of the Karadjordjević (Karađorđević) dynasty.”31 Placing the scene of the Serb struggle for independence in the Swiss city of Geneva in 1992, the emphasis in this segment is on the strong political leadership of Radovan Karadžić as an extension of the Serbian historical, military and religious struggle against Ottoman empire and other external enemies. (Timestamp: 27:49) Hey, Radovan You man of steel… (…) the greatest leader since Karadjordje Defend our freedom and our faith…  One of the key exhibits introduced in all ICTY Serb leadership cases is the Bosnian Serb “Decision on Strategic Objectives of the Serbian People in Bosnia and Herzegovina.” This document, adopted on May 12, 1992, at the Bosnian Serb Assembly Session, and subsequently published in the Official Gazette of the Republika Srpska, the self-proclaimed independent state of the Bosnian Serbs, formalized the plan for physical ethnic separation between the Serbs and nonSerbs, particularly Muslims in BiH, carried out forcibly and by military means. Objective No. 5 reads as follows: “Division of the city of Sarajevo on Serbian and Muslim part and creation of the efficient state authority in both parts.” For more, see also R.J. Donia, Radovan Karadžić: Architect of the Bosnian Genocide, Cambridge University Press, 2015, pp. 204–207. 30  The correct spelling should read “Sarajevo.” 31  Encyclopædia Britannica For more on “Karađorđe,” see C. Jelavich and B. Jelavich, The Establishment of the Balkan National States, 1804–1920, University of Washington Press, Fourth Printing, 2000, pp. 29–37. 29

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9  The Singer on the Gusle, Segments 5(a) and 5(b) These two related segments indicate the strategic political and military significance of Mount Romanija for the Bosnian Serbs in 1992. The Bosnian Serb forces, such as the Sarajevo-Romanija Corps and particularly the paramilitary formations attached to the Bosnian Serb Army (VRS), had their recruiting and training grounds in the Serb villages on Mt. Romanija (Burg and Shoup 2000: 33). Moreover, one of the five so-called “Serb Autonomous Regions” (SAO), proclaimed by the Bosnian Serbs in November 1991, was called “SAO Romanija and Birač” (Toal and Dahlman 2011: 106, 108). While Segment 5(a) presents the voice of a single singer, ending with a slowly moving camera shot showing a piece of artillery barrel overlooking Sarajevo from the hills above the city, Segment 5(b) presents a group of combatants as polyphonic vocalists.

9.1  Segment 5(a) (Timestamp: 29:50) Romanija mountain, if I were to lose you, if I were to lose you, the entire Serb world would collapse. (Timestamp: 30:10)

9.2  Segment 5(b) (Timestamp: 33:45) Whichever mountain starts the fight (…) (…) our mountain Romanija will win in the end. (Timestamp: 34:17)

10  Modern Folk Song, Segment 6 While relating the First World War event and Serbian victory against the Bulgarian attack, commonly interpreted as a betrayal of a Slavic-Orthodox bond committed by the Bulgarians, this segment stands separately from the previous epic narrative.

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Emphasis is placed on the historical strength and heroism of the Serbs and their ultimate pledge to the Serbian state. As part of an act of military celebration, this segment shows long columns of Bosnian Serb conscripts taking a solemn oath and joining the regular VRS units. (Timestamp: 37:50) In 1914, the Bulgars invaded Serbia, in 1918, the Serbs won the fight. Who is the liar, who dares say, Serbia is small? She is not small, she’s not small, she’s been to war three times, and again and again (…) (Author’s note: with the last verse, …she will not be a slave…, missing from the transcript) (Timestamp: 38:35)

11  T  he Music Act of “Kosovo,” Between Framing and Priming Within the framework of war crimes investigations and trials relating to former Yugoslavia, the name of the former Yugoslav autonomous province of “Kosovo,”32 its extended name “Kosovo and Metohija,” or its contraction “Kosmet,” as used in Serbia, is an example of a concept with multidimensional, temporal and spatial, cognitive semantic and broader semiotic resonances. The etymology of the name of Kosovo is most likely derived from the noun kos, which in Serbo-Croatian means “blackbird.” The name of Metohija, however, roughly means “monastic” or “church” land in Greek, connoting an Orthodox, mainly Serbian, religious and cultural setting. The conceptual resonances of these words in Serbia penetrate the political, historical, cultural, military, demographic and other cognitive, semantic fields and frames. All of them, separately and together, constitute the structures and processes known in social cognitive science as “framing.”33 As stated by George Lakoff, one of the leading cognitive scientists in this area of research, “framing can have m ­ assive systemic effects” (Lakoff 2014: 82). For this case study, the following four modes of framing are relevant: 1. A political framing of the concept “Kosovo” would, for instance, usually be placed within the field of Serbian territorial integrity, its statehood, and the idea

 The name of this region is spelled as “Kosovo” in Serbo-Croatian and as “Kosova” in the Albanian language. The use of the spelling or pronunciation of this word, differing in only one letter, identifies ethnic and cultural origin of the speaker. 33  “(…) framing implies relationships among elements in a message, because those elements have been organized by a communicator (…)” (Reese et al. 2001: 86). 32

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known as “all Serbs in one state.”34 Segments 3, 5, and 6 from Pawlikowski’s film, for example, are both indicative of the Serbian territorial aspirations. 2. A historical framing would be directed toward the Kosovo battle the Serbs fought against the Ottoman empire in 1389 as a defining moment in the development of the Serbian national identity. In Segment 1, the singer on the gusle refers to the “imperial fatherland,” thus indicating the possibility of an ultimate victory over the “Turks” and the renewal of the Serbian medieval empire in the 1990s. 3. A cultural framing would address the importance of the Serbian Orthodox churches, monasteries, frescoes, and art in general as part of its spiritual life. If Steven Mithen’s inference that “the intention of the speaker can be gained from the prosody alone” (2005: 69, 72) is correct, the cognitive conditioning in the repetitive melodic, prosodic, and formulaic references35 to the “gusle,” “the Cross,” and “the Christian faith” in Segment 1, for example, would fall under the general ambit of cultural framing. Segments 3 and 4 both emphasize the importance of religion for the realization of the Serbian cause. 4. A military framing would revolve around courage and sacrifice, including the narrative of cowardice and betrayal, as shown during the Kosovo battle. In Segment 2, the singer on the gusle narrates how “Queen Militza, wife of King Lazar,”36 tried to persuade her beloved brother Boshko not to go to the Kosovo battle. However, Boshko, a noble warrior, brutally rejects his sister’s proposal as an act of cowardice. The Serbs, as intended recipients of these messages, would, more often than not, perceive these frames as a single conceptual package colored with a wide spectrum of emotions and feelings (Damasio 2003: 28). The conceptual resonance of those frames, a blending of speech acts and music acts, can be compared to the rattling and cocking of armaments following a call, or appeal, for a collective response. In Segment 1, the singer on the gusle makes his call for the battle explicit: “I call upon you to join/The Battle of Kosovo/To defend the good name of Serbia/The Turks are waiting on the Field of Blackbirds.” The resentment and hostility this call can produce against the “Turks,” that is, Bosnian Muslims, is inextricably linked to the feelings of deep empathy and sympathy for the Serbs. This type of cognitive process is a powerful conceptual generator and resonator of love and hate in the neural circuits of the Serbs.  This phrase was one of the key components in the indictment of Slobodan Milošević, Case No. IT-02-54, “Kosovo, Croatia and Bosnia.” . It was later integrated into virtually all Serb leadership cases tried before the ICTY within the legal doctrine of “joint criminal enterprise” (JCE). 35  In epic poetry, formula is “a group of words which is regularly employed under the same metrical conditions to express a given essential idea.” M.  Parry, “Studies in the Epic Technique of Oral Verse-Making. I: Homer and Homeric Style,” HSCP, 41:80 (1930). . 36  In the Kosovo mythology, Prince Lazar Hrebljanović was the most heroic of all Serb rulers who participated in the 1389 Kosovo battle. It is colloquially said that, as opposed to the traitor such as Vuk Branković, Prince Lazar heroically chose “the empire of heaven” in 1389. This creates a twofold paradigm: first, it promotes Serb noble heroism and sacrifice beyond earthly values, and, second, it defines Serbs as “a people of God (…)” (Wachtel 1998: 35). 34

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The utilization of the speech act and music act of “Kosovo,” often employed as a repetitive technique of messaging (Margulis 2014), can also be viewed as an example of “priming.” This is a process in which a single word or sound can lead us into one or several related semantic fields or even an entire web of memories and feelings in a world made of words and sounds. In cognitive science, and social psychology in particular, as Jerome Feldman reminds us, “the priming effect is essentially the same as our common experience that one word will often make us think of semantically related words” (Feldman 2006: 89). The phenomenon of priming produces the same or similar results through visual, tonal, and various other types of controlled stimuli. Depending on the type and course of priming, or framing, these actions may vary from extremely aggressive to manifestly nonviolent. One of the leading researchers of the priming phenomenon, the social and cognitive psychologist John A. Bargh, writes that “the passive activation of behavior (trait) concepts through priming manipulations increases the person’s tendency to behave in line with that concept, as long as such behavior is possible in the subsequent situation” (Bargh 2005: 39). The conceptual framing and priming of “Kosovo” has therefore been a powerful device in the hands of the apologists of war and violence among the Serbs. The position, role, and message of the singer on the gusle in Serbian Epics epitomizes the potential effects of framing and priming of his audience. The center of narrative gravity in this regard remains the 1389 Battle of Kosovo. Noel Malcolm, a British historian and chronicler of the Balkan events, is correct in saying that “the battle of Kosovo has become a totem or talisman of Serbian identity” (Malcom 1998: 59). It is therefore not the historical narrative based on research and evidence, but the myth of Kosovo that has played the key role in the formation of the Serbian national identity. In fact, it is a cluster of false beliefs and misinterpretations that jointly shaped the perceptions of the Kosovo battle among the Serbs. As a multifaceted myth and narrative, “Kosovo” was strategically and powerfully introduced into the public life of Serbia in the early 1980s by a wide range of intellectual and institutional authorities, the academicians, historians, writers, journalists, artists, politicians, and others (Slapšak 1994). Numerous studies have been produced on the role and effects of the Kosovo battle and its mythological framework on the Serbs, including its impact on the crimes committed during the 1991–1999 series of armed conflicts (Mertus 1999). In the case of “Kosovo” as a single speech act, or a single music act, seen from the perspective of Searle’s theory of speech act-generated social ontology, a distinction can be made between two basic types of institutional facts. One is “Kosovo” the speech act (or music act) as institutional fact, based on Searle’s argument that “speech acts are themselves institutional fact” (Searle 1996: 116) and the other is the status or authority of the individuals who may have personally advocated or ­supported specific aspects of this conceptual frame. In Serbian Epics, the role of authority is established through the “Kosovo” narrative as sequence of performative music acts, as well as through the central role of the Bosnian Serb political and military leader Radovan Karadžić, himself a poet (Surdukowski 2005). Nevertheless, as Searle frequently accentuates, the bottom-line claim is that “you cannot have institutional facts without language. And once you have a shared language you can cre-

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ate institutional facts at will” (Searle 2010: 63). The same thing can be said of music acts. Thus, if recognized and generally accepted as means of communication, both types of institutional facts fall under the category of what Searle calls “collective intentionality.” Apart from “singular intentionality,” Searle says that we can “share intentional states such as beliefs, desires, and intentions” (Ibid). A solid argument has been made in the philosophy of law that “only groups that collective reason can properly have intentions” (Naffine et al. 2001). The intent and effects of the utilization of “Kosovo,” analyzed as part of the given political or military conflict, can be explained in terms of “collective intentionality.” In legal terms, “shared intent” is the closest conceptual relative of “collective intentionality.” In other words, by sharing specific speech acts and/or music acts, as indicated by the evidence in Serbian Epics, some of the JCE members undeniably shared at least part of the same reasoning, common plan and purpose and, ultimately, the same specific intent.37 In brief, the specifics of their speech acts and/or their music acts exposed the details of their specific intent. This, of course, reveals only a small fragment of the view on the “Kosovo” framing, the linguistic and music-based institutional facts and the status or authority-based institutional facts, both of which are instrumental in creating the Serbian social and cognitive habitat and, as one of the possible consequences, the emerging requisite element of specific criminal intent. It should be noted that prior to the 1980s, the myth of Kosovo survived mainly in the Serbian oral and literary tradition of Serbian epic and modern poetry. In fact, more often than not, it has been the case in Serbian scholarly and cultural tradition that historiography and politics on the one hand, and art and poetry on the other hand, live a symbiotic life. One of the most illustrative examples in this regard is a special issue of the Association of Serbian Writers periodical entitled Kosovo 1389–1989. This publication brought together some of the most exposed representatives of the Serbian intellectual elite at the time. The following short passage from the introductory remarks points at some of the typical elements of the “Kosovo” framing, as phrased by the editors of the special volume, “the oldest and most sacred part of Serbian soil, the ancient homeland of the Serbs, the cradle of their culture and civilization—Kosovo” (Idem.: 41). On several convergent metaphorical levels, this excerpt suggests the territory of “Kosovo” and the Serbs are inseparable biologically, historically, politically, and culturally. The reality of Kosovo metaphors, such as the reference to “the cradle” of Serbian culture and civilization, implicitly points at a key element of the origin, existence, and survival of an entire nation. It is suggested, as is often the case with the organicist views of human society and culture, that without direct links to the past, like a part of the territorial context of the heritage in the case of “Kosovo,” there is no future for the Serbs as a whole. In their seminal work on metaphors, Lakoff and Johnson write: “Metaphors may create realities for us, especially social realities. A metaphor may thus be a guide for future action. Such actions will, of course, fit the metaphor” (Lakoff and Johnson

 “(…) the accomplice who knows of the principal offender’s intent and who assists or encourages must necessarily share the genocidal intent” Schabas, Genocide, p. 302 (Schabas 2001). 37

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1980: 156). Metaphors have the potential of setting our cognition in motion. Similarly to the singer on the gusle from Serbian Epics, and moving one step closer to the self-fulfilling prophecy of the metaphors employed in Kosovo 1389–1989, the quoted excerpt is further integrated into the string of references to terrorism, rape, destruction of cultural and historical monuments, desecration of graves, the reduced number of Serbs in Kosovo, etc. Such practice in writing and thinking, starting with what Lakoff and Johnson call “cross-domain mappings in the conceptual system” (1999: 499) offers a description of the process of blending conceptual metaphors within the Kosovo myth as a grand narrative. The historical characters, places, and events on the one hand, and a speech act, or a music act, type of framing, or priming on the other hand, word by word, sound by sound, can become an embodied cognitive experience. They become the reality. Recognized as the most powerful myth among the Serbs (Ibid), the resonances of the “Kosovo” conceptual framing, or priming, appealed to the greatest majority of the Serbs, their fears and their pride equally, conditioning them to act in various ways—mental and physical—and at various, but specific, moments. This phenomenon can affect the temporal dimension in the minds of people who, as a result, may begin to believe they are still active participants in the Kosovo battle more than six centuries after the actual event. This is precisely the role of the singer on the gusle in Serbian Epics. On the spot, “the singer of tales”38 first connects and then eliminates the points in time (Čolović 2000) between 1389 and 1992. As a model of persecutory and genocidal policy against an ethnic minority, that is, the predominantly Muslim Kosovo Albanians, a series of measures and strategies were instituted by the Serbian and Yugoslav authorities and President Slobodan Milošević in the 1980s. Using the NATO intervention against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) between March and June of 1999 as a pretext and justification, the cumulative oppression in Kosovo erupted in an extremely violent and brutal military, paramilitary, and police campaign against Kosovo Albanian civilians. Describing this campaign as a fight against terrorists, that is the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), a well-armed and well-organized Kosovo Albanian paramilitary organization, the serious violations of international humanitarian law were subsequently committed by the Serbian and Yugoslav forces against the Kosovo Albanian civilian population. The critical difference between the enemy forces as potentially legitimate targets on the one hand and the civilians on the other hand ceased to exist. The speech act, or music act labels, such as “Kosovo” and “Turks,” eventually became the shooting targets. Several of these cases resulted in ICTY indictments, including an important component of the case against the then Yugoslav President Slobodan Milošević.39 A timely analysis of the cognitively complex communications relating to Kosovo would have indicated that the crimes committed under the supreme command of President Slobodan Milošević were initially introduced into the Serbian  Ibid, Lord, The Singer of Tales . 39  Milošević, Slobodan, Case No. IT-02-54, “Kosovo, Croatia and Bosnia.” (accessed 1 January 2011). 38

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society as part of the conceptual framing mechanism packaged under commonly known and frequently used nouns such as “Kosovo,” “Kosovo and Metohija,” or “Kosmet.” In brief, the actions of the Yugoslav and Serbian forces and their crimes, including the Kosovo Albanian response, could have been anticipated by identifying the speech and music act patterns in cognitive framing, or priming, of the Serbian society based on the analysis of the use of the Kosovo myth and the narrative as a whole.

12  The Music Act of “Turks” The noun Turk, as used by the non-Muslim population of BiH, and particularly the Serbs, is one of the oldest and most commonly employed derogatory references to the Bosnian Muslims. This term can be regarded as a single token containing the resonances of all other strong pejorative anti-Muslim concepts, such as poturica (a convert to Islam), or balija (a derogatory term for a simple and ignorant Muslim peasant; a Muslim in general).40 The word Turk has been the common denominator of all genocidal and persecutory speech acts, often under the veil of music acts, emerging from the ICTY’s Bosnian Serb trials. One of the most telling examples in this regard is the television footage of General Ratko Mladić during the takeover of the Bosnian town of Srebrenica in July 1995. While making his way into the town, Mladić is recorded as saying: Here we are on 11 July 1995 in Serbian Srebrenica. On the eve of one more great Serbian holiday [Saint Peter and Paul, one of Serbian Orthodox Patron Saints Days, celebrated on July 12 every year], we present this town to the Serbian people. After the rebellion against the Dahis, the moment has finally come for us to take revenge on the Turks here (emphasis added).41

Given the non-presence of the Turkish forces in Srebrenica, the only thing General Mladić could possibly have in mind at that moment was a continuation of the Kosovo battle against the Turks from 1389. A phase of that battle, extended in physical time and timeless in the Serbian mythology, was waged under the direct military command of General Mladić. As the evidence in all ICTY Srebrenica-­ related trials show so far, a consequence of Mladić’s beliefs was the killings of thousands of Muslim men and boys in and around Srebrenica in July 1995.

 Rečnik srpskohrvatskoga književnog jezika, Matica Srpska, Matica Hrvatska, 1967, p. 133. “In fact, balija is such an offensive word that non-Muslim defendants have generally avoided using it in the courtroom,” or, as shown in the testimony of the Bosnian Serb General Radislav Krstić, “have even denied ever using it.” Ibid., Elias-Bursać, Translating Evidence, p. 145. 41  Some of the examples include the following ICTY trials: Krstić, Case No. IT-98-33, “Srebrenica”; Popović et  al., Case No. IT-05-88, “Srebrenica”; Blagojević & Jokić, Case No. IT-02-60, “Srebrenica”; and several other cases. See also Prosecution Opening Statement (2000) in the trial of Radislav Krstić. . 40

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In the Mladić trial, the prosecution explained the meaning of the term “Turk” through the viva voce testimony of the historian Robert Donia, a fluent speaker of the local language. Here is how the expert witness contextualized this word for the judges: …in the course of the 20th century, and possibly even a little bit before, it [“Turk”] began to be used by those peoples who had lived under the Ottoman Empire pejoratively to describe the empire that they regarded as having oppressed them in the 19th century and before. So that by the time the—let’s say the elections of 1990 came along, the term “Turk” had acquired severe pejorative connotations and Bosnian Serbs and Bosnian Croats began to use it to refer to the Muslims of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and that then brought with it the negative connotations of the Ottoman Empire’s behaviour toward other peoples and also associated the term with, broadly speaking, Turkish ambitions which they believed existed in the region.42

Having thus provided an abridged historical account of the semantic evolution of the term in the region, Donia concluded that during the relevant period it was “a pejorative term that implied enemy, an enemy that posed a direct and immediate threat to the very existence of the Serb people.”43 The key to this explanation is offered in the suggested link between the repeated, and therefore intentional, use of the term Turk by Mladić and his military and political associates, and the connotations suggested by the expert witness. It is worth noting at this point that Pawlikowski’s film contains a scene from a war cabinet meeting with the top Bosnian Serb political and military leadership—Radovan Karadžić, Ratko Mladić, Momčilo Krajišnik, and Biljana Plavšić—looking over the maps and discussing the ethnic division of Bosnia and Herzegovina. During the meeting, Karadžić states, “We must prove to international opinion that we are not besieging Sarajevo, but defending our own territory. This map clearly shows that Sarajevo is built on Serb land and that the area around Sarajevo is Serbian.”44 This moment indicates the intent of Bosnian Serb leadership and is reminiscent of Segment 1 with the singer on the gusle referring to “our imperial fatherland.” Moreover, the music act in Segment 3 makes a direct reference to a “Turkish daughter” and the siege of Sarajevo by the Bosnian Serb forces under the command of Radovan Karadžić and his military subordinates. All of the leaders from this scene repeatedly used the word “Turk” in their utterances, and all of them were indicted, tried and convicted by the ICTY as members of the same joint criminal enterprise. All of their cases incorporated a variety of contextual categories of evidence, as Pawlikowski’s documentary shows, including the cognitive resonances of the Serbian literary and music heritage as an element of their mens rea.

  Open Session (2013). Online. Available HTTP: (accessed 23 January 2015). 43  Ibid. 44  Timestamp: 24:50–27:47. . 42

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13  The Music Act of “Poturice” In a highly symbolic and meaningful image for any local Serb, the opening scene in Segment 1 of Serbian Epics shows the gusle of the singer with the engraved image of the nineteenth-century Montenegrin Bishop and Prince Petar II Petrović Njegoš, the author of the epic poem The Mountain Wreath, considered to be the most influential work of literature in Montenegrin and Serbian literary tradition. The poem’s main theme is a struggle against Ottoman rule and, more specifically, the poturice (converts to Islam). The poem also relates to a historically uncorroborated event known as istraga poturica, which can be translated in its archaic form as “annihilation” (or extermination, or eradication) of the poturice. The best known use of the word poturica (singular of poturice) in Montenegrin and Serbian culture is recorded in The Mountain Wreath. Along with the references to “Turks” or “Balijas,” and as part of the three conjoined derogatory or pejorative semantic references to the Muslims of BiH, the use of the term poturica by the Serbs is derived from the period under the Ottoman Empire, when a number of Slavs, mainly Christians (Serbs and Croats), were forcibly or willingly converted to Islam. ICTY trial records contain numerous references to The Mountain Wreath. Mladić used the term poturice in a 1993 interview at a time when his subordinates were actively involved in committing mass atrocity crimes against Bosnian Muslims: We all know who the Turks are. As a matter of fact, these Muslims are not even Turks, they are converts [poturice in the original]. They have betrayed the Serb people and repressed them for 500 years. They are the worst scum—the Serb people who changed their religion. To change a religion means to betray one’s own people, to betray oneself.45

Ultimately, the Mladić Trial Chamber (TC) correctly, but somewhat inadequately, considered this term to merely imply a discriminatory intent.46 Such simplistic classification could, for example, be decisive in shifting and relegating the characterization of an act with specific intent from the crime of genocide to persecution as a crime against humanity. On one occasion, in the trial of Radovan Karadžić, both the accused and a defense witness made multiple explicit references to The Mountain Wreath. The prosecution seized the moment during the cross-examination and, having read a transcript of large parts of the poem to the court, asked whether the witness was reminded of “the fact that this poem celebrates the killing of Muslims, the destruction of their homes, and destruction of their mosques?”47 On this occasion, the prosecution clearly sought to establish the element of specific intent of the accused shifting the burden of mens rea evidence toward the crime of genocide. As cognitive elements of mens rea, all of the aforementioned speech acts and music acts, both symbolically and factually, blend together during the performance of the singer on the gusle in Serbian Epics. As the first judgment issued by the ICTR in  Prosecutor v. Ratko Mladić, Case No. IT-09-92-PT, 16 December 2001, exhibit no. P07719.  The Prosecutor v. Ratko Mladić, Judgment, Volume 3, Case No. IT-09-92-T, 22 November 2017, para. 3275. 47  Prosecutor v. Radovan Karadžić, Case No. IT-95-5/18, exhibit no. P06666. 45 46

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1996 in the Akayesu case clearly stated, “the direct element of incitement should be viewed in the light of its cultural and linguistic content. A particular speech may be perceived as ‘direct’ in one country, and not so in another, depending on the audience.”48 The relevant music acts of the singer on the gusle from Pawlikowski’s film, as understood by the intended audience, may thus constitute a new category of contextual evidence within analytical, investigative, and prosecutorial framework of international criminal trials.

14  The Mens Rea of Music Acts and International Criminal Law Given the nature, role, and potential impact of music acts, as presented in this analysis, there are two substantive crimes in international criminal law that music acts as evidence might, broadly speaking, fit into: persecution as a crime against humanity and direct and public incitement to commit genocide. More specifically, as indicated earlier, the international case law and jurisprudence places different forms of intent at the center of various modes of liability and substantive crimes, such as discriminatory intent required for persecution as a crime against humanity,49 and specific intent for both crimes of persecution and genocide.50 Both types of intent, as shown through the examples of derogatory51 music acts, can be discriminatory in nature. As part of the same conceptual constellation, hate speech, whose status remains unsettled within customary international law (Cohen 2014), has been positioned as some sort of fluid go-betweener (Dojčinović 2020: 5) in all of the above-listed offenses.52 While establishing hate speech as an

 As quoted in Schabas, Genocide, p.  331. See also The Prosecutor Versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Trial Judgment, Case No. ICTR-96-4-T, 2 September 1998, para. 556. As noted by Schabas, see also The Prosecutor v. Simon Bikindi, ICTR-01-72-T, Judgment, 2 December 2008, Decision on Defence Motion for Judgment of Acquittal, Rule 98 bis of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence, 26 June 2007, para. 29. 49  The Prosecutor Versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Appeal Judgment, Case No. ICTR 96-4-A, 1 June 2001, paras 464–469. 50  The Prosecutor v. Clement Kayishema and Obed Ruzindana, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-95-1-A, 1 June 2001, para. 138. Prosecutor v. Vidoje Blagojević and Dragan Jokić, Appeal Judgment, Case No. IT-02-60-A, paras 122–123. Prosecutor v. Radovan Karadžić, Rule 98bis Judgment, Case No. IT-9S-SI18-AR98bis.l, 11 July 2013, paras 79–80. 51  In The Prosecutor v. Sylvestre Gacumbtsi, Trial Judgment, Case No. ICTR-2001-64-T, 17 June 2004, para. 252, the ICTR held that “[i]t is possible to infer the genocidal intent inherent in a particular act charged from the perpetrator’s deeds and utterances considered together, as well as from the general context of the perpetration of other culpable acts systematically directed against the same group (…).” 52  Ferdinand Nahimana, Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze v. The Prosecutor, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-99-52-A, 28 November 2007, paras 692–693, 986–988. See also The Prosecutor v. Simon Bikindi, ICTR-01-72-T, Judgment, 2 December 2008, paras 381–382, 386–394. 48

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act of discrimination in regard to the most fundamental human rights such as dignity and security of individuals as members of the targeted group, the Nahimana et al. Appeals Chamber (AC) stated that it is “not satisfied that hate speech alone can amount to a violation of the rights to life, freedom and physical integrity of the human being.”53 The same AC also drew a distinction between hate speech and direct and public incitement to genocide, attributing to hate speech the status of an underlying act of persecution,54 as such potentially relevant within a broader framework of direct and public incitement to genocide. However, given the factual and legal elements of the Nahimana et al. case, the issues discussed by the TC revolved primarily around the conceptual roles and interplay of incitement and hate speech (Timmermann 2015: 17–53, 144–198) as relevant within the framework of this case. Other relevant discussions on the criminalization of hate speech can, for example, be found in the case of Rwandan singer Simon Bikindi.55 The examples from Pawlikowski’s film, such as “Turks” and “poturice,” as sang and performed by the singer on the gusle, would both fall under the category of hate speech as an underlying act of persecution. The concept of incitement (as substantially distinguished from instigation),56 may, however, be the key concept residing within the framework of music acts and its far-reaching range of evidentiary resonances. Music acts can be viewed as direct, or, given their inherent culture-specific nature, indirectly direct forms of public incitement to commit genocide. As earlier indicated, the “directness” of such music acts can be found in their implicit content and meanings as directly understood by the intended audiences.57 This satisfies the required element of directness for the crime of direct and public incitement to commit genocide. Furthermore, as shown  Ferdinand Nahimana, Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze v. The Prosecutor, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-99-52-A, 28 November 2007, paras 986–988. 54  “The Appeals Chamber accordingly finds that the hate speeches and calls for violence against the Tutsi made after 6 April 1994 (thus after the beginning of a systematic and widespread attack on the Tutsi) themselves constituted underlying acts of persecution.” Ferdinand Nahimana, JeanBosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze v. The Prosecutor, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-99-52-A, 28 November 2007, para. 988. 55  The Prosecutor v. Simon Bikindi, Case No. ICTR-01-72-T, paras 381–382, 385–397. 56  “Unlike instigation, incitement is a crime, not a mode of participation in a crime. It does not require the act of incitement to be followed by the actual commission of genocide,” concluding that “incitement is thus an inchoate crime” (Cassese 2008: 373). The same publication defines “instigation” as “a form of criminal responsibility recognized under customary international law. It is generally understood as ‘urging, encouraging or prompting’ another to commit a crime, where the actions of the instigator may be shown to have been causal to the actual commission of the crime.” (Idem: 375). See also Timmermann (2006: 838–843). 57  “(…) even implicit messages or utterances may amount to incitement, as long as the addressees immediately grasp the implications of the message in light of its cultural and linguistic content.” Ibid., Cassese, International Criminal Law, p.  229. See also The Prosecutor Versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Judgement, Case No. ICTR-96-4-T, 2 September 1998, para. 558. The Prosecutor v. Juvénal Kajelijeli, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-98-44A-T, 1 December 2003, para. 853, and Prosecutor v. Ferdinand Nahimana, Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze, Case No. ICTR-9952-T, Trial Chamber Judgment, 3 December 2003, paras 1004–1006. 53

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through the examples from Serbian Epics, communicated mainly on public occasions, such as community celebrations, holidays, festivals, political and military conventions, rallies, media appearances, or similar events, when containing “indirect” or otherwise direct messages indicating specific intent (Timmermann and Schabas 2013: 155, 156) the act of performance of music acts may thereby also satisfy the element of being public, as stipulated by the definition of the crime of direct and public incitement to commit genocide and subsequently established by the existing international case law and jurisprudence.58 Moreover, the nature of music acts can also be placed within the framework of genocide as an inchoate offense. The AC in the Nahimana et al. case stated that the inchoate offense “is consummated simply by the use of a means or process calculated to produce a harmful effect, irrespective of whether that effect is produced.”59 Inchoate offenses (Cassese 2008: 220) lie at the heart of prevention and not only the prosecution of the actus reus of genocidal acts. All music acts, such as those offered by the singer on the gusle in Pawlikowski’s film, are always intentionally and repeatedly performed meaningful acts of communication. The investigations and prosecutions of music acts as a form of human expression and communication should thus open a discussion on an issue relevant for both the prevention and punishment of the “specific intent” offenses that currently fall within the broader ambit of persecution as a crime against humanity and particularly the crime of direct and public incitement to commit genocide.

References Austin, J. (1962) How to Do Things with Words. Harvard University Press Badar, M. (2013) ‘The Mens Rea Enigma,’ The Concept of Mens Rea in International Criminal Law: The Case for a Unified Approach, Hart Publishing Bargh, J. (2005) Bypassing the Will: Toward Demystifying the Nonconscious Control of Social Behavior, in: Hassin, R., J. Uleman & J. Bargh (eds) The New Unconscious. Oxford University Press Burgess, A. (1992) A Mouthful of Air: Language and Languages, Especially English, Hutchinson

 “A review of the travaux préparatoires of the Genocide Convention confirms that public incitement to genocide pertains to mass communications. The travaux préparatoires indicate that the Sixth Committee chose to specifically revise the definition of genocide in order to remove private incitement, understood as more subtle forms of communication such as conversations, private meetings, or messages, [The Genocide Convention: The Travaux Préparatoires, p.  986 (Hirad Abtahi & Philippa Webb, eds. 2008) (‘Genocide Convention’)] from its ambit. [Genocide Convention, pp. 1549, 1552]. Instead, the crime was limited to ‘direct and public incitement to commit genocide,’ understood as incitement ‘in public speeches or in the press, through the radio, the cinema or other ways of reaching the public’.” Callixte Kalimanzira v. The Prosecutor., Case No. ICTR-05-88-A, 20 October 2010, para. 158. 59  Ferdinand Nahimana, Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Hassan Ngeze v. The Prosecutor, Judgment, Case No. ICTR-99-52-A, 28 November 2007, para. 720. See also Nzabonimana Callixte, Appeal Judgment, Case No. ICTR-98-44D-A, 29 September 2014, para. 234. 58

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Burg, S. & P. Shoup (2000) The War in Bosnia-Herzegovina: Ethnic Conflict and International Intervention, M.E. Sharpe Burton, R. (2015) The Elements of Music: What Are They, and Who Cares?, in: Music: Educating for Life: Adelaide, 30 September – 2 October, ASME XXth National Conference Proceedings Cassese, A. (2008) General Features of the Subjective Element, in: International Criminal Law, Second Edition, Oxford University Press Cohen, R. (2014) Regulating Hate Speech: Nothing Customary About It,’ Chicago Journal of International Law, vol. 15, no. 1 Coke, E. (2003) Selected Writings of Sir Edward Coke, Liberty Fund Čolović, I. (2000) The Renewal of the Past: Time and Space in Contemporary Political Mythology, in: Other Voices, vol. 2, no. 1, on: http://www.othervoices.org/2.1/colovic/past.php Čolović, I. (2002) The Politics of Symbol in Serbia: Essays in Political Anthropology, translated from the Serbian by Celia Hawkesworth, London: Hurtst & Company Čolović, I. (2016) Smrt na Kosovo polju, Belgrade: Biblioteka XX vek Čolović, I. (2018) Ethno: Stories about World Music on the Internet, translated from Serbo-­ Croatian by Vladimir Arandjelović, Belgrade: Biblioteka XX vek Combs, N. (2010) Fact-Finding Without Facts: The Uncertain Evidentiary Foundations of International Criminal Convictions, Cambridge University Press Cox, A. (2017) Music and Embodied Cognition: Listening, Moving, Feeling, and Thinking. Indiana University Press Damasio, A. (2003) ‘Of Appetites and Emotions,’ Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow, and the Feeling Brain, Orlando: Harcourt Davidson, D. (2001) Essays on Actions and Events. Oxford University Press Dojčinović, P. (ed) (2012) Propaganda, War Crimes Trials and International Law: From Speakers’ Corner to War Crimes. London: Routledge Dojčinović, P. (ed) (2020) Propaganda and International Criminal Law: From Cognition to Criminality, London: Routledge Donia, R. (2015) Radovan Karadžić: Architect of the Bosnian Genocide, Cambridge University Press. Elias-Bursać, E. (2015) Translating Evidence and Interpreting Testimony at a War Crimes Tribunal: Working in a Tug-of-War, Palgrave Macmillan Feldman, J. (2006) From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language, The MIT Press Gordon, G. (2010) Music and Genocide: Harmonizing Coherence, Freedom and Nonviolence in Incitement Law, in: Santa Clara Law Review, vol. 50 no. 3, pp. 625-630 Hawthorne, M. (2012) Language is Music, in: New Yorker, August, 13, on: https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/language-is-music Jelavich, C. & B. Jelavich (2000) The Establishment of the Balkan National States, 1804-1920, University of Washington Press Kivy, P. (2007) Music, Language, and Cognition: And Other Essays in the Aesthetics of Music Oxford: Oxford University Press Koelsch, S. (2013) Brain and Music. Wiley-Blackwell Lakoff, G. (2014) The All New Don’t Think of an Elephant! Know Your Values and Frame the Debate Second Edition, Chelsea Green Publishing Lakoff G. & M. Johnson (1980) 'Metaphor, Truth, and Action,’ in: Metaphors We Live By, The University of Chicago Press Lakoff, G. & M. Johnson (1999) Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought. Basic Books Levitin, D. (2006) This is Your Brain on Music: the Science of Human Obsession. Penguin Books Malcom, N. (1998) The Battle and the Myth. Kosovo: A Short History, Macmillan Manzotti, R. & T.  Parks (2017) Consciousness: Where Are Words?, in: The New  York Review of Books, December 27, on: https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2017/12/27/ consciousness-where-are-words/ Margulis, E. (2014) On Repeat: How Music Plays the Mind, Oxford University Press

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Martin, M., D.  Capra & F.  Rossi (eds) (2003) New York Evidence Handbook, Second Edition, Aspen Publishers, pp. 106-107 Mercier, H. & D. Sperber (2017) The Enigma of Reason. Harvard University Press Mertus, J. (1999) Kosovo: How Myths and Truths Started a War, University of California Press Meyer, L.B. (1956) Emotion and Meaning in Music. University of Chicago Press Mithen, … (2005) The Singing Neanderthals: The Origin of Music, Language, Mind and Body, Phoenix Naffine N., R. Owens & J. Williams (eds) (2001) Intention in Law and Philosophy, Routledge Neisser, U. & E. Winograd (eds) (1995) Remembering Reconsidered: Ecological and Traditional Approaches to the Study of Memory, Cambridge University Press Niecks, F. (1969) Programme Music in the Last Four Centuries. New  York: Haskell House Publisher Ltd. Ntakirutimana, É. & M.-C. Uwamariya, Song as a propaganda tool in the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda, in: Dojčinović, P. (ed) (2020) Propaganda and International Criminal Law: From Cognition to Criminality, London: Routledge Patel, A. (2008) ‘Meaning,’ Music, Language and the Brain. Oxford University Press Patel, A. (2013) Sharing and Nonsharing of Brain Resources for Language and Music, in: Arbib, M. (ed) Language, Music, and the Brain: A Mysterious Relationship, The MIT Press Rebuschat, P., M. Rohrmeie, J. Hawkins & I. Cross (eds) (2012) Language and Music as Cognitive Systems. Oxford: Oxford University Press Reese, S., O. Gandy, Jr. & A. Grant (eds) (2001), Framing Public Life: Perspectives on Media and Our Understanding of the Social World, Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc./Routledge Sayre, F. (1934) The Present Signification of Mens Rea in the Criminal Law, in: Harvard Legal Essays, pp. 399- 411 Schabas, W. (2001) The Jelisić Case and the Mens Rea of the Crime of Genocide,’ in: Leiden Journal of International Law, vol. 14, no. 1, pp. 125–139 Schlenker, P. (2018) ‘Prolegomena to Music Semantics,’ May 11, in: Review of Philosophy & Psychology on: lingbuzz/002925 Searle, J. (1969) Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge University Press Searle, J. (1996) The Construction of Social Reality, Penguin Books Searle, J. (1999a) Mind, Language and Society: Philosophy in the Real World. Phoenix Searle, J. (1999b) Intentionality: An essay in the philosophy of mind. Cambridge University Press Searle, J. (2008) Fact and Value, 'is' and 'ought,’ and reasons for action, in: Philosophy in a New Century: Selected Essays, Cambridge University Press Searle, J. (2010), Making the Social World: The Structure of Human Civilization, Oxford University Press Slapšak, S. (1994) Some Mechanism of Making Stereotypes: The Belgrade Daily Politika and its Section ‘Echoes and Reactions,’ January-July 1990 – An Analysis of National Themes, Related to Serbs, Albanians and Slovenians, in: Ogledi o bezbrižnosti. Radio B92 Sparling, H. (2003) Music is Language and Language is Music: Language Attitudes and Musical Choices in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, on: https://www.erudit.org/en/journals/ ethno/2003-v25-n2-ethno719/008052ar/ Street, J. (2012) Music and Politics, Cambridge University Press/Polity Press Sundberg, J., L. Nordand & R. Carlson (eds) (1990) Music, Language, Speech and Brain. Springer Verlag Surdukowski, J. (2005) Is Poetry a War Crime? Reckoning for Radovan Karadžić the Poet-Warrior, in: Michigan Journal of International Law, vol. 4, no. 18 Swaab, D. (2015) We Are Our Brains: From the Womb to Alzheimer’s, Penguin Books Timmermann, W. (2006) Incitement in International Criminal Law, in: International Review of the Red Cross, vol. 88, Number 864, pp. 838-843 Timmermann, W. (2015) Incitement in International Law, Routledge

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Timmermann W. & W. Schabas (2013) Incitement to Genocide, in Behrens P. & R. Henham (eds), Elements of Genocide, Routledge, pp. 155–156. Toal, G. & C.  Dahlman (2011) Bosnia Remade: Ethnic Cleansing and Its Reversal, Oxford University Press Wachtel, A. (1998) Making a Nation, Breaking a Nation: Literature and Cultural Politics in Yugoslavia, Stanford University Press Wilson, R. A. (2017) Incitement on Trial: Prosecuting International Speech Crimes. Cambridge University Press Yeats, W. (1994) The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Poetry Library

Jihadi Anashid, Islamic State Warfare and the Agency of Sound Luis Velasco-Pufleau

1  Introduction On the morning of 10 November 2017, Islamic State (IS) supporters hijacked the Malmo frequency of the Swedish radio station Mix Megapol, one of the most important commercial radio stations in the country. They broadcasted for approximately 30  min a loop of “For the sake of Allah”,1 an IS English-speaking jihadi nashid (“Islamic chant” or “recitation”, pl. anashid). People from Malmo called the radio station after listening to a melodic chant for male voices without instrumental accompaniment with lyrics supporting armed jihad and war. Part of the sophisticated IS global online propaganda and released by the IS media arm al-Hayat at the beginning of September 2015, this popular chant of IS militants urged individuals to fight for IS values and goals. It is the recitation of a “blood vengeance poem” (Fakhro  2020) which incites violence and urges the accomplishment of a jihadi obligation: For the sake of Allah we will march through the gates, of the paradise where our maidens await. We are men that love death just as you love your life, we are soldiers that fight in the day and the night. Going forth, preparing to roar, are the brothers of the light with kuffar in sight. Their ranks are many and weapons are heavy

 In most cases, jihadi anashid are recognised and referred to by their incipit (the opening words of their text). 1

L. Velasco-Pufleau (*) University of Bern, Bern, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_12

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L. Velasco-Pufleau but the soldiers of Allah are more than ready. Defending the pride of our sisters who have cried, for fearing none but the almighty as one Their voices motivated the men who migrated, to fulfil the duty of making God’s words the greatest. Oh my brothers jihad is the way, to bring back the honour of our glorious days. The promise of Allah will always remain, that fighting for his sake is the ultimate gain. Now the time has come for the battles to be won, shahadah on our tongues as our hearts beat as one. The sunnah is alive, Khilafah on the rise, the flag of tawheed shining bright before our eyes.

Mainstream media depicted the IS nashid as a “pop-style song” used in IS propaganda videos “to try to lure fighters from the West to Iraq and Syria” (BBC 2017). However, this sort of depiction does not much help us to understand why an international criminal organisation which banned all kinds of music and musical instruments from their self-declared caliphate produce and broadcast jihadi chants across the globe. Militant anashid constitutes “one of the most prominent elements of jihadi culture” (Hegghammer 2017a: 18). They are considered by Islamic scholars and jihadi militants as recitation of poetry rather than “music”—which, as I examine later, is forbidden by extremist Islamic ideology. The origins of militant anashid go back in particular to Islamist groups in 1970s Egypt and to jihadi armed groups in 1980s Afghanistan. However, as I develop in the next section, several influential Islamic scholars root militant anashid in Prophet Muhammad’s military practices. Currently, it could be argued that a great variety of militant anashid are used, chanted and listened to by almost every jihadi armed group in the world. However, while most of these groups borrow militant anashid from a large historical corpus, part of IS propaganda and state-building strategy involves producing an original collection of jihadi anashid. This fact has “turned a new page on the role of anashid in jihadi culture” (Pieslak and Lahoud 2020: 281). One of the particularities of IS jihadi anashid production is their multiple languages. IS structured their production in several media arms or branches: since 2013 Ajnad has produced most Arabic anashid and Qur’an recitations, while al-Hayat, al-Furqan and Furat have produced dozens of anashid in more than ten languages. These jihadi anashid in foreign languages are not translations from those in Arabic: they are written, composed and chanted by native speakers. Most of IS jihadi anashid have Arabic rhythms and musical elements,2 but anashid in other languages present musical elements from singers’ and composers’ musical cultures. However, their distribution strategy is generally the same: they are released first as stand-alone mp.3 audio files on the internet and later they are used in several kinds of IS propaganda videos, targeting in particular the countries speaking the language of  For an analysis of the musical profile of 17 IS Arabic jihadi anashid, see Pieslak and Lahoud (2020: 288–291). 2

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these videos and anashid.3 When anashid are integrated into propaganda videos— e.g. video-nashid, statement or execution videos—their sonic features are expanded with diegetic sound (human voices, Qur’an recitation, background sounds such as explosions, gunfire, shouting), voice-over and sound effects. What are the beliefs behind this kind of sound composition? What is their role in the sacralisation of IS non-negotiable values? Do they encourage crime and violence? In this chapter I will address these questions. In order to do so, I first examine how the issue of the sacred nature of jihadi anashid has been developed in recent Salafi-related Islamic scholarship and how these discourses legitimise both the formal interdiction of music and the permitted use of jihadi anashid in warfare. I argue that the collective beliefs on the sacred nature of jihadi anashid are based on a particular conceptualisation of sound and its agency, which assumes that both music and Islamic anashid are able to influence the body and soul of listeners. Secondly, I explore testimonies on the role of jihadi anashid in IS warfare. While the banning of music by IS strengthens and perpetuates conflict, jihadi anashid listening and chanting are involved in the process of enemy identification, in coordinating militant practices and in the justification of violence. A careful examination of categories, beliefs and experiences behind the cultural-aesthetic dimension of jihadi ideology is central for understanding the rationale, values and commitment of jihadi militants.

2  B  anning Music, Chanting Jihadi Anashid: Why Does Sound Matter? For Islamic State leaders, the ban of all musical practices from the territories they controlled was a priority. When IS militants took control of Raqqa in January 2014, they issued a statement prohibiting all kinds of music and songs in private and public spaces. Just as other Islamist armed groups did in the past two decades,4 they argue that music and songs “are forbidden in Islam, as they prevent one from the remembrance of God and the Qur’an, and are a temptation and corruption of the heart” (El-Khoury 2014; Al-Tamimi 2015). IS extremist ideology is in line with most rigorist views on music and singing in Islam, in particular Salafi and Wahhabi traditions. As Jonas Otterbeck points out, conservative and Islamist “hardliners” advance two main types of arguments against music. The first one is that “music destroys public morals”, leading to chaos and the breakdown of society. The second is that  They are a few exceptions to this rule. The IS video released after the Barcelona terrorist attacks in 2017, threatening Spain with more attacks, used IS jihadi anashid in French and not in Spanish (El País 2017). The reason could be that the IS did not have any Spanish jihadi anashid to put in the video at that time. 4  Such as the Taliban in Afghanistan in 1996 (Baily 2004), and AQIM, MUJAO or Ansar ud-Dine in northern Mali in 2012 (Morgan 2013). 3

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music is “an evil distraction created by Satan and should be avoided altogether” (Otterbeck 2008: 223). These two arguments are developed through studies of the Qur’an, Sunna and the works of earlier Islamic scholars. Among recent scholars mobilised as authoritative sources in this topic, we find the Jordanian Muhammad Nasir ad-din al-Albani and the Canadian convert Abu Bilal Mustafa al-Kanadi. Both Islamic scholars legitimise the interdiction of music and singing, presenting all musical practices as “useless activities taking time from the worshipping of Allah” (Otterbeck 2008: 224). Furthermore, they assert that music has immense power over the human soul and argue that music in itself incites sinning.5 The critical issue here is the agency attributed to music and musical practices. Music, as an agent, is seen “as initiating causal sequences of a particular type” (Gell 1998: 16).6 In The Music Made Me Do It, a recent book published in Riyadh adhering to most conservative Islamic views on music, the author states that “music temporarily paralyzes and hypnotizes our minds just like narcotics such as alcohol, opium, heroin and cocaine” (Mushtaq 2011: 82). The prohibition of music and singing is justified because, among countless reasons, “there is a profound relationship between music and fornication” (p.  74), “singing has specific characteristics that weaken the heart, causing hypocrisy” (p.  81) and “music can successfully brainwash and condition its listener” (p. 95). Since agency is relational and interactional, these beliefs are ontological assumptions which reveal values and norms, organising complex relationships with music and sound in everyday life. More generally, the practices and prohibitions that result from these ontological assumptions are part of what Durkheim calls the “negative cult”: a set of prohibitions which have the function of defining and separating what belongs to the domain of the profane and what is sacred (Durkheim 1912: 428). If music incites sin, what about jihadi anashid? The rationale used by Islamic scholars to differentiate jihadi anashid to music is essential for the understanding of the use of jihadi anashid in violent confrontation and warfare. Both al-Albani and al-Kanadi advanced two interconnected types of arguments in order to justify anashid listening and chanting while prohibiting music listening. The first kind of argument, of an ontological type, is that anashid do not belong in the musical

 It is interesting to note here, in regard to the relationship between music and crime, that these arguments have similarities with those recently developed in the United States against specific kinds of music, such as hip-hop. In the context of “culture wars” (Bolton 1992; Ferrell 1999) since the 1980s and early 1990s, music has been accused of being a source of evil and criminal behaviour. “Is it fair to blame a musical composition for the increase in racial tension and the shooting incidents?”, rhetorically asked the President of the National Association of Chiefs of Police, Dennis R. Martin. His answer was that “music has the power both to ‘soothe the savage beast’ and to stir violent emotions in man. […] Yet the trend in American rock music for the last decade has been to promote ever more vile, deviant, and sociopathic behaviors” (Martin 1993: 159). For a discussion and refutation of the rationale behind this case, see the studies of Mark S. Hamm and Jeff Ferrell (1994) and Johnson and Cloonan (2009: 111–12). 6  My analysis here owes a debt to discussions I have had with Victor A. Stoichita. In a recent article on sound agency in violence, he develops the hypothesis that music constitutes an agentive resource for engaging different kinds of confrontation in combat situations (Stoichita 2020). 5

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domain but in the domain of recited poetry when unaccompanied by musical instruments. This idea goes back to the origins of the genre and its development in Islamic societies but has been subjected to important debates depending on the historical context and doctrines.7 The second argument, of a moral and contextual nature, relates to the beneficial effects on the listeners: the usefulness of the chants within the purifying religious enterprise in which the believers are engaged. Jihadi anashid “can incite the souls to defend Islam and encourage Jihad” (Al-Athari 2013: 146). Thus, Abu Bilal Mustafa al-Kanadi considers jihadi anashid as notable exceptions to the rule of prohibition of singing, and listening to music, not because anashid are not “music” but because of their value in militant jihad. According to this Islamic scholar, “during jihad and other struggles in the way of Allah, battle songs are of great spiritual and moral benefit to the warriors. In these circumstances, song incites heroism and valor and excites the Muslim people to ‘take up the sword’ for the cause of Allah” (Al-Kanadi 1986: 46). Furthermore, al-Kanadi gives to jihadi anashid a sacred dimension by linking them directly to the practices of the Prophet Muhammad and some of his companions, who allegedly used them “to rouse up the feelings of the mujahidin before or on the way to combat” (Al-Kanadi 1986: 46). In particular, al-Kanadi asserts that the Prophet himself “raised his voice” to motivate and unify the hearts of mujahidin (fighters of jihad) during the Battle of the Ditch, which took place in 627 against the inhabitants of Mecca. At that time, the Prophet’s chant “united the hearts of the believers and gave them courage and determination”, allowing the victory of 2000 Muslims against 24,000 “enemies of Islam” (Al-Kanadi 1986: 48). The sacred dimension of jihadi anashid, rooted in the Prophet’s warfare practices, unifies the ontological argument and the moral argument mobilised to justify anashid listening. Neither music which corrupts hearts, nor chants that would distract believers from the truth of the Qur’an, jihadi anashid are a sacred sound that can be used both to encourage the mujahedin in the path of jihad and to weaken the hearts of the enemies of Islam. In IS propaganda, this idea has been conveyed on many occasions, for example, at the beginning of the IS video-nashid “Haya Alal-­ Jihad” [Let’s go for jihad] produced by al-Hayat, the following statement is made: “Make supplication in order that Allah accepts, and this nashid may bomb the kuffar for real”. From this perspective, anashid could be considered as sonic weapons that can reach and wound the enemy since militants are re-enacting the Prophet’s warfare practices. This idea sheds new light on the Swedish radio frequency hijacking, giving to it a warfare dimension which is not evident for a “western” auditory. Different kinds of music-making demarcate who belongs to the jihadi community and who is the “enemy”. As Alenka Barber-Kersovan asserts, specific forms of music-making and singing provide “a communal basis for social relationships, and at the same time [they] also draw demarcation lines between different social

 On this topic see the studies of Amnon Shiloah (1995), Kristina Nelson (1985: 38–51), Nelly Lahoud (2017: 43–48), Jonathan Pieslak (2017: 63–69), and Pieslak and Lahoud (2020). 7

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agglomerations, whereby ‘we’ are mostly connoted in a positive sense and ‘the others’ in a negative sense” (Barber-Kersovan 2004: 7). As a result, musicians became a target inside and outside of IS territories. It was confirmed on many occasions, such as when the French jihadi militant Rachid Kassim called for attacks on, among others, “rappers and musicians”. He argued that they are “Islam’s enemies” because “all they do is manipulate the truth” (Amarasingam 2016). Music is a mark of the enemy.

3  Jihadi Anashid and IS Warfare If the ontology of jihadi anashid is related to the sacred, what are the social and emotional conditions in which militants are chanting and listening to them? Several testimonies suggest that jihadi anashid are listened to and chanted during combat and training, as a part of IS warfare. In a documentary on Islamic State (IS) child soldiers, Muhammad, a 13-year-old boy from Raqqa, tells how he was recruited for his voice after he won a local anashid contest. The contest was organised by an Iraqi IS operative known as Abu Muhammad al-Baghdadi and aimed to enrol munshidun (reciters, sg. munshid) to chant on the frontline. Muhammad won the contest because of his capacity to reach out and move the auditory with his voice, joining the IS and taking the nom de guerre (kunya) Abu Al-Abbas Al Raqqawi. He learned IS jihadi anashid and chanted them during combat in order “to raise the fighters’ morale” (Dandois and Trégan 2017). Muhammad asserts that when fighters hear a jihadi nashid on the frontline, “it lifts their spirits: they feel confident, and important” (Dandois and Trégan 2017).8 This use is rooted in late twentieth century jihadi military practices and warfare. In recent contributions to the study of jihadi anashid, Jonathan Pieslak and Nelly Lahoud noted that the use of anashid in fighters’ training and preparation for attacks goes beyond the recent use by IS militants. Regarding attacks related to Al-Qaida, Khalid al-Awhali, one of the two suicide bombers of the US embassy attack in Nairobi in 1998, was listening to a nashid “for motivation in preparing to die on the way to the embassy” (Lahoud 2017: 51; Pieslak 2015: 44). Tsarnaev brothers, the authors of the Boston Marathon bombing, listened to militant anashid in the car hijacked on 18 April 2013 during the manhunt following the attack (Pieslak and Lahoud 2020: 275). Similarly, Thomas Hegghammer recounts the case of Hammad Khurshid, a Danish citizen who produced explosives with the intention of carrying out a bomb attack in 2007, while listening to and chanting jihadi anashid (Hegghammer 2017b: 189). Media and intelligence agencies have noticed the relationship between jihadi anashid and the preparation of IS related recent terrorist attacks. After the terrorist

 For an examination of the main themes developed in IS jihadi anashid, see the studies of Nelly Lahoud (2017), Jonathan Pieslak and Nelly Lahoud (2020), and Henrik Gråtrud (2016). 8

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attack in the Brussels metro station on 22 March 2016, police investigators found on the computer of the suicide bomber Khalid El-Bakraoui “many chants and videos to the glory of jihad” (AFP 2016). Similarly, the examination of the Internet browser history of Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel, the author of the lorry attack of the evening of 14 July 2016 in Nice, showed that for several weeks he had carried out almost daily searches on “videos of recitation of Qur’anic verses and anashid—religious chants that jihadi terrorist organisations, including Daesh [IS], use as propaganda material” (Molins 2016). The connexion in Lahouaiej-Bouhlel case between jihadi anashid and the Qur’an recitation is significant. Rooting jihadi anashid in the Prophet’s sonic practices connect them to the Qur’an recitation and tajwid—the system of rules regulating its correct elocution. According to Kristina Nelson, the tajwid “is believed to be the codification of the sound of the revelation as it was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, and as he subsequently rehearsed it with the Angel Gabriel. Thus, the sound itself has a divine source and significance, and, according to Muslim tradition, is significant to the meaning” (Nelson 1985: 14–15). This sacred origin of sound gives to Qur’an recitation a strong transformative power, which could be considered as morally opposite of the corruption of the sound of music. Jihadi anashid find their legitimation as lawful sound in regard to this particular sound ontology. The combination of jihadi anashid with Qur’an recitation in warfare is not new. Older jihadi testimonies suggest that militants have combined anashid listening and chanting with Qur’an recitation on a daily basis, training camps often offering courses on tajwid. It seems that jihadi militants have even used Qur’an recitation in combat, such as in 1980s Afghanistan when a group of Arabs “recited the Qur’an on loudspeakers as a form of psychological warfare against the enemy”, or in Somalia around 2006 when the Al-Qaida operative Fadil Harun “recited the Qur’an to boost the morale of his own men” (Hegghammer 2017b: 184). These listening and performing practices indicate that jihadi militants constitute a community of listeners, which can share an “auditory culture” (Kane 2015), values and ontological assumptions about sound. Islamic State propaganda continues these practices and actively promotes the narrative that IS militants combined jihadi anashid listening and chanting with Qur’an recitation as part of their training for combat and suicide attacks. This narrative is mobilised in an article published in the second issue of the IS magazine Rumiyah about the attack at the Holey Artisan Bakery in Dhaka (Bangladesh) on 1 July 2016. The article asserts that, during his training for the suicide operation he carried out, the leader of the five suicide attackers Abu Rahiq al-Bengali used to recite Qur’an daily and pray the night prayers regularly, despite the tiredness from the heavy work-out session at night and the obligatory fast in the days of the blessed month of Ramadan. He used to get very moved by the famous Islamic State nashid “Qariban, Qariban” [Soon, soon] and would read the lyrics during the training period and say, “it is exactly what we will do to the Crusaders, bi idhnil-lah” (Rumiyah, n° 2, p. 10).

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This narrative seeks to reinforce the idea of the sacred nature of their actions, warfare and goals. Furthermore, the IS jihadi nashid might be considered as an explicit “performative utterance” (Fischer-Lichte 2008: 24), since it anticipates and performs the actions of combatants, while justifying and sacralising their retaliation acts as a part of a global war. It is significant that the IS media arm Ajnad Foundation has been responsible for producing and distributing both jihadi anashid and Qur’an recitation, highlighting the connexion between the two sorts of sacred sound which have been systematically used in IS audiovisual propaganda. A recent study on a sample set of 755 propaganda videos released by IS media in 2015 confirmed the use of anashid and Qur’an recitation (live or recorded) in more than 85% of the videos (Pieslak et al. 2019). Among these videos, anashid were far more prevalent than Qur’an recitations, being more than 88% of all “soundtrack events” (Pieslak et al. 2019: 3). Frequently, Qur’an recitation or oral quotes introduce IS execution videos or audio statements, claiming the divine nature of IS actions and retaliation acts. This is the case of the video staging the public execution of 25 Syrian soldiers in Palmyra’s Roman Theatre in May 2016, which is introduced by a recitation of verse 14 of the surah “At-Tawbah” (The Repentance): “Fight them; Allah will punish them by your hands and will disgrace them and give you victory over them and satisfy the breasts of a believing people”. As I discussed in a previous article, this is also the case of the IS audio statement of the 2015 Paris attacks, where two oral quotes from Qur’anic verses are inserted before and after the speech, introducing and closing the spoken voice on a French jihadi nashid background (Velasco-­ Pufleau 2015). The first Qur’an quote in this IS declaration is an excerpt from verse two of the surah “Al-Hashr” (The Exile): “And they thought that their fortresses would protect them from Allah; but [the decree of] Allah came upon them from where they had not expected, and He cast terror into their hearts [so] they destroyed their houses by their [own] hands and the hands of the believers. So take warning, O people of vision”. The second Qur’an quote, which closes the speech and is followed by the nashid, is an excerpt from verse eight of the surah “Al-Munafiqun” (The Hypocrites): “And to Allah belongs [all] honor, and to His Messenger, and to the believers, but the hypocrites do not know”. The function of uttering these Qur’anic verses is to establish a symmetrical relationship between the IS terrorist attacks and key events of the Prophet’s life in order to give the former a teleological meaning. It could be argued that IS jihadi anashid have been used both for “sacralising” IS actions claimed in their propaganda and for bringing forth the situations they are referring to.

4  Conclusion Social actors use music and sound as symbolic resources in order to make sense of their actions and situations in which they are engaged. Jihadi anashid are performative utterances which construct a social reality. Further examination of the

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significance of jihadi anashid in jihadi militancy and warfare would need larger empirical studies. However, it is possible to assert that militants use jihadi anashid as resources for constituting their subjectivity, since these chants play a certain role in defining the boundaries of who belongs to the group of “righteous” and who are the enemy. Jihadi militants chant and listen to jihadi anashid to frame and stage their engagement in specific kinds of confrontation, as it has been examined for other combatants’ musical practices in contemporary armed conflicts (Daughtry 2015; Nuxoll 2015; Stoichita 2020). When thinking about the relationship between music and crime, it is more useful to think about music as a symbolic resource which people can mobilise than as an object affecting human will by itself. Music provides specific affordances, it is a resource for “world building” (DeNora 2000: 44). Therefore, it is fundamental to analyse the process of appropriation of music as a resource, particularly people’s musical practices, material conditions of listening and interaction rituals in which music and sound are embedded. This process is relational, involving particular sound ontologies and values shared by a community of listeners. Through the analysis of the musical and sound practices of jihadi militants, the fields of musicology and ethnomusicology can contribute to the understanding of militants’ sacred values, the uses of sound in warfare as well as the dynamics of identity construction of “devoted actors” in contexts of violent conflict (Atran 2016). This knowledge is essential in order to comprehend the rationale for justification and the mechanisms of bringing about extreme violence.

References AFP (2016) ‘Khalid El-Bakraoui, qui s’est fait sauter dans le métro de Bruxelles, avait été arrêté... mais relâché!’ La Capitale. 5 June on: http://www.lacapitale.be/1589840/article/2016-06-05/ khalid-el-bakraoui-qui-s-est-fait-sauter-dans-le-metro-de-bruxelles-avait-ete-ar. Al-Athari, A. (2013) Singing & Music in Islamic Perspective. Riyadh: Darussalam, on: http:// darussalam.com/singing-and-music-in-islamic-perspective.html. Al-Kanadi, Abu Bilal M. (1986) The Islamic Ruling on Music and Singing: In Light of the Quraan, the Sunnah and the Consensus of Our Pious Predecessors. Jeddah: Bilal M.  Al-Kanadi & Broths Al-Tamimi, Aymenn Jawad (2015) ‘Statement Concerning the Prohibition on Music, Singing and Photos on Shops’. Archive of Islamic State Administrative Documents, on: http://www.aymennjawad.org/2015/01/archive-of-islamic-state-administrative-documents. Amarasingam, A. (2016) ‘GUEST POST: An Interview with Rachid Kassim, Jihadist Orchestrating Attacks in France’, in: JIHADOLOGY (blog). 18 November, on: http://jihadology.net/2016/11/18/guest-post-an-interview-with-rachid-kassim-jihadist-orchestratingattacks-in-france/ Atran, S. (2016) ‘The Devoted Actor: Unconditional Commitment and Intractable Conflict across Cultures’, in: Current Anthropology vol. 57 (S13), pp.  192–203, on: https://doi. org/10.1086/685495 Baily, J. (2004) ‘Music Censorship in Afghanistan before and after the Taliban’. In: Korpe, M. (ed) Shoot the Singer!: Music Censorship Today, pp. 19–28. London; New York: Zed Books

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Barber-Kersovan, A. (2004) ‘Music as a Parallel Power Structure’. In: Korpe, M. (ed) Shoot the Singer!: Music Censorship Today, pp. 6–10. London; New York: Zed Books BBC (2017) ‘Swedish Radio “Hijacked by IS Propaganda”’. BBC News, 10 November, sec. Europe, on: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-41946784. Bolton, R. (ed) (1992) Culture Wars: Documents from the Recent Controversies in the Arts. 1st ed. New York: New Press Dandois, T. & F.-X. Trégan (2017) Ashbal - Les Lionceaux Du Califat. France: Memento & Arte, on: http://www.arte.tv/fr/videos/071376-000-A/ashbal-les-lionceaux-du-califat Daughtry, M. (2015) Listening to War: Sound, Music, Trauma, and Survival in Wartime Iraq. New York: Oxford University Press DeNora, T. (2000) Music in Everyday Life. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Durkheim, E. (1912) Les Formes Élémentaires de La Vie Religieuse. Paris: Félix Alcan El País (2017) ‘ISIS Warns of More Attacks in Spain in First Spanish-Language Video’. El País, 24 August 2017, sec. Inenglish, on: https://elpais.com/elpais/2017/08/24/inenglish/1503561689_277218.html El-Khoury, J. (2014) ‘ISIS Bans Music, Imposes Veil in Raqqa’. Al-Monitor. 21 January, on: http:// www.al-monitor.com/pulse/security/2014/01/isis-raqq-ban-music-smoking-impose-veil.html. Fakhro, D. (2020) Tracing the Movement of the Blood Vengeance Theme within Arabic Poetry: From the Classical Poetic Tradition to the Present, in: British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies vol. 47, no. 3, pp. 402-422, on: https://doi.org/10.1080/13530194.2018.1500270. Ferrell, J. (1999) Cultural Criminology, in: Annual Review of Sociology vol. 25, pp. 395–418 Fischer-Lichte, E. (2008) The Transformative Power of Performance: A New Aesthetics. Abingdon: Routledge Gell, A. (1998) Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press Gråtrud, H. (2016) Islamic State Nasheeds As Messaging Tools, in: Studies in Conflict & Terrorism vol. 39, no. 12, pp. 1050–70, on: https://doi.org/10.1080/1057610X.2016.1159429 Hamm, M. & J. Ferrell (1994) Rap, Cops, and Crime: Clarifying the “Cop Killer” Controversy, in: ACJS Today vol. 13, no. 1, pp. 1, 3, 29 Hegghammer, T. (2017a) Introduction: What Is Jihadi Culture and Why Should We Study It?, in: Hegghammer, T. (ed) Jihadi Culture. The Art and Social Practices of Militants Islamists, pp. 1–21, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Hegghammer, T. (2017b) Non-Military Practices in Jihadi Groups, in: Hegghammer, T. (ed) Jihadi Culture. The Art and Social Practices of Militants Islamists, pp. 171–201. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Johnson, B. & M.  Cloonan (2009) Dark Side of the Tune: Popular Music and Violence. Farnham: Ashgate Kane, B. (2015) Sound Studies without Auditory Culture: A Critique of the Ontological Turn, in: Sound Studies vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 2–21, on: https://doi.org/10.1080/20551940.2015.1079063. Lahoud, N. (2017) A Cappella Songs (Anashid) in Jihadi Culture, in: Hegghammer, T. (ed) Jihadi Culture. The Art and Social Practices of Militants Islamists, pp. 42–62. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Martin, D. (1993) The Music of Murder, in: William & Mary Bill of Rights Journal, vol. 2, no.1, pp. 159–63 Molins, F. (2016) Conf. de Presse Du 18 Juillet 2016 Du Procureur de La République de Paris, F. Molins, France 3 Côte d’Azur. 18 July, on: https://youtu.be/lT7sYZBr5-U Morgan, A. (2013) Music, Culture and Conflict in Mali. Copenhagen: Freemuse Mushtaq, G. (2011) The Music Made Me Do It. An in-Depth Study of Music through Islam and Science. Riyadh: International Islamic Publishing House Nelson, K. (1985) The Art of Reciting the Qur’an. Austin: University of Texas Press Nuxoll, C. (2015) “We Listened to It Because of the Message”: Juvenile RUF Combatants and the Role of Music in the Sierra Leone Civil War, in: Music and Politics vol. IX, no. 1, on: https:// doi.org/10.3998/mp.9460447.0009.104

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Otterbeck, J. (2008) Battling over the Public Sphere: Islamic Reactions to the Music of Today, in: Contemporary Islam vol. 2, no. , pp. 211–28, on: https://doi.org/10.1007/s11562-008-0062-y Pieslak, J. (2015) Radicalism and Music: An Introduction to the Music Cultures of al-Qa’ida, Racist Skinheads, Christian-Affiliated Radicals, and Eco-Animal Rights Militants. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press Pieslak, J. (2017) A Musicological Perspective on Jihadi Anashid, in: Hegghammer, T. (ed) Jihadi Culture. The Art and Social Practices of Militants Islamists, pp. 63–81. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Pieslak, J. & Lahoud N. (2020) The Anashid of the Islamic State: Influence, History, Text, and Sound, in: Studies in Conflict & Terrorism vol. 43, no. 4, pp. 274–299, on: https://doi.org/1 0.1080/1057610X.2018.1457420. Pieslak, J., B. Pieslak, & A. Lemieux (2019) Trends of Anashid Usage in Da‘esh Video Messaging and Implications for Identifying Terrorist Audio and Video, in: Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, January, pp. 1–16, on: https://doi.org/10.1080/1057610X.2018.1545828 Shiloah, A. (1995) Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-Cultural Study. Detroit: Wayne State University Press Stoichita, V. (2020) Affordance to Kill: Sound Agency and Auditory Experiences of a Norwegian Terrorist and American Soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, in: Transposition, no. Hors-série 2, on: https://doi.org/10.4000/transposition.4065 Velasco-Pufleau, L. (2015) Après les attaques terroristes de l’État islamique à Paris. Enquête sur les rapports entre musique, propagande et violence armée, in: Transposition, no. 5, on: https:// doi.org/10.4000/transposition.1327.

Part V

Music as Resistance

The Malleable and Inevitable Path of Demonizing (Sub)Culture: The Case of Greek Rebetiko Vassilis Gerasopoulos

1  Introduction Finding a way to properly introduce a cultural artifact so rich, so politically contested, so socially embedded as the rebetika songs are for the Greek society is a notable task. What should be the point of demarcation? The history, the slang, the singers, the biggest advocates, or the most vehement opponents? Even more, how can the experience of listening to rebetiko music and the texture, subtleties, and undertones of the lyrics be mediated to the reader, especially one who is not fluent in Greek? For decades, “the genre was scorned by puritans, nationalists, official state ideologues, and dogmatic Leftists, all of whom regarded it as an undesirable Anatolian residue of the Ottoman Empire and an immoral product of the urban underworld” (Zaimakis 2010: 2). In his widely popular, albeit somewhat controversial, work on rebetiko music, Petropoulos (1979) argued that rebetika songs are simple tunes sung by simple people.1,2 He believes that, while rebetika were in principle love songs, they are in their essence songs of social character and content (ibid: 12). Many factors have

 Translated (or transliterated—to follow the terminology by rebetika scholars) words will be italicized upon first mention only. Given that the word rebetis and rebetiko will be mentioned repeatedly in the article, it should also be acknowledged that some writers prefer the “rembetika” pronunciation (see for example Holst 2006; Gauntlett 1991 for a short—albeit strongly substantiated—defense of the simpler pronunciation). 2  For a critique on the validity and objectivity of Petropoulos’ work, see indicatively Gauntlett (1991: 26) or Schorelis (in Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1973: 3). 1

V. Gerasopoulos (*) Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_13

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been influential in the forming and development of rebetika. The tradition of folk songs (δημοτικά τραγούδια), the Eastern tunes and the tunes of the “ταβέρνα” (tavern), the lamenting amanedes, the byzantine psalms, the Greco-Turkish war of 1897—culminating in the catastrophic events in Asia Minor in 1922—and the consequent influx of refugees in Greece, the life in prison and in the hashish dens.3 In the broadest of terms, the history of rebetiko music throughout the twentieth century is a history of doubt, controversy, and contradiction—with political, intellectual, and societal ramifications. The genre has come to symbolize in the beginning of the twenty-first century an indispensable aspect of the Greek identity. However, before that widespread acceptance, rebetika and rebetes have endured a vicious criminalization process that I wish to unpack in the ensuing analysis. On the one hand, the seductive and eastern character of the music was accused for “contaminating” the venerable, pure tradition of Greek folk music. Greek society was highly resistant in accepting, and much less glorifying, the sounds of the Orient— for historical and political reasons. Respectively, the rebetes, as representatives of the genre and embedded in its subculture, were seen as dangerous, immoral, sickly deviant figures. They were vilified for decidedly indulging in what was perceived as a sinful life, a life of drugs, women and petty crime. There is no ultimate truth about the genre. Many of the scholars that wrote about it in the 1960s and the 1970s claim to have a grip on the genre’s content and essence by virtue of their involvement with the rebetiko subculture—which has already been mediated, altered, sanitized, and transformed to a significant degree by that time. Those who conducted research later on attempted to produce more methodologically sound results by delving in comprehensive analyses of newspaper articles and official (e.g., legal) texts. What we are left with in the early twenty-first century is an abundance of perspectives—some of them quite opinionated, sensational, or unsubstantiated. There is a multitude of “memories” of those who lived within or around the rebetiko culture in the pre- and post-WWII era, a constant dynamism in the role and connotations of this music genre in relation to national identity. Therefore, Greek identity shall be the backbone and connective thread of the theoretical exploration that follows.4 I am, certainly, not the first to realize the importance of this connection. Risto Pennanen (2004) underlined how a national identity is always defined in contrast to, or as a complement to, that of other nations. In poignant—if slightly generalizing—fashion, a summary of cultural conflict that rebetika ignited can be expressed by a simple dynamic: “the songs were admired to  In late August 1922 after a series of unfavorable—for Greece—political and diplomatic developments, the Turkish army initiated a successful offensive that drove the Greek troops to the Mediterranean Sea. Smyrna, the last fort of the Greeks, was invaded on September 9th. Kemal’s army pillaged the properties, set fires across the city and completely destroyed the Greek and Armenian quarters. 4  As mentioned, the analysis on the axis of (imagined) national identity is capitalizing on the concept of criminalization and the Occident-Orient binary. However, it does not escape the author that the relation between Greekness and rebetiko is, undoubtedly, also gendered and sexualized— parameters that are not properly explored due to thematic focus and space. 3

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the extent that they were seen as Greek, and despised when considered foreign” (Holst 2006: 10). Bearing that thought, my aim in this paper is to explore the ­following: Which are the challenges that rebetika have raised against the boundaries of the (imagined) national identity? By imagined I allude here to what was considered as a, morally, culturally and politically defined, acceptable national identity. This contribution will, therefore, problematize the place that rebetika are “allowed to occupy” in Greek culture—as Gauntlett (1991) eloquently phrased. My aim is to bridge the bludgeoning literature on rebetika from the past decades with the comprehensive focus of critical/cultural criminology in processes of criminalization and moral panic as these occur in the most simple and mundane platforms of everyday life. I will attempt to break down and follow the course of demonization of the rebetes, as deviant figures and anomic subjects, and the rebetika—as a music genre, as a language style, and as a shared experience of a “second life” (Bakhtin 1984). The zealous opposition (sometimes expressed in scorching declarations of the malignance of the subculture by journalists and cultural leaders but often materialized as outright policing and censorship by the State) unleashed against rebetika from the 1930s until even the 1970s constitutes a perfect exercise for tracing the construction of a “moral panic” (Cohen 2004) aiming to entrench and fortify Greekness against perceived perilous influences. The subsequent turn towards the commercialization and commodification of the genre is a potent metaphor for the fate of cultural landmarks that were once deemed threatening for their potentially transformative effect. In that sense, the theoretical armory of cultural criminology lends itself as most appropriate in the study of the perceptions, discourses, and mediations around a cultural artifact rather than the artifact itself.

2  Inviting Panic Under this section, my aim is to briefly follow the trajectory of the rebetiko in its formative years and its eruptive popularity. The rationale for tracing this process is exactly because it distinctly reflects all the aspects of rebetiko—all those acts, words, sounds, clothes, habits that were, fairly or arbitrarily, associated with the rebetiko—that stood as a thorn to the side of the State and its authorities, the intelligentsia, and the various conservative forces of Greek society. In other words, here the reader can identify the triggers, the excuses, the prima facie “reasons” for the panic, the censorship, and the demonization that ensued. Unless specified otherwise, most of the sociocultural dynamics explored hereafter describe the realities of rebetiko and rebetiko life in the pre-war era. As most scholars agree, after the dictatorship of Ioannis Metaxas and the World War II, a part of rebetiko never recovered (Holst 2006; also Vlisidis 2004).

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2.1  Sociocultural Fermentations: The Merging of the Styles During the early 1920s, in the aftermath of the catastrophic Greco-Turkish War, the Lausanne Treaty dictated the exchange of populations (based on the criterion of religion) between the two countries (see Holst 2006: 33). As most scholars agree, rebetiko could—at that time—be divided into two paradigms. The former was the Piraeus/teke style, usually accompanied by “humble” musical instruments (bouzouki, baglama), performed in hashish dens by manges.5,6 “Mangas” is one of the adjectives describing the rebetes—verifying their toughness, their code of ethics, their relationship with and connection to the underworld. The latter paradigm was the café-aman style (otherwise, the “smyrneika” style), played with a different set of instruments (ud, santouri, violin), introduced to Greek urban centers by dislocated musicians arriving from Asia Minor.7 About 1.5 million refugees brought with them a profuse cultural heritage of music and song. Local Greeks seemingly regarded the Anatolian amanedes with contempt (Zaimakis 2010). As Pappas (1999) describes, the refugees were equally startled to realize that the majority of Greeks were still significantly bound to rural folk songs (dating back to the 1821 Revolution against the Ottoman Empire) that bore little relevance to the hardships of urban life. Simultaneously, they encountered the poor and destitute pariahs playing stringed instruments similar, but not identical, to theirs and singing “crudely crafted songs about social dislocation and drug dependency” (ibid: 354). The cosmopolitan background of the refugees (many of them came from affluent families and had grown up in culturally vibrant cities of commerce and trade in the Minor Asia coast) hardly positioned them within the ranks of the underworld. However, their social standing in Greek society was fairly marginal. Predictably, many of them joined the rebetes or manges in their “loosely organized subculture” as rebetiko music became the bridge “that permitted intercourse between two otherwise different communities” (Pappas 1999: 363).8 The social contact between the groups was inevitable. The shared economic plight and suffering only facilitated the transfer of musical  While the performative and linguistic modalities of the rebetiko life are explored in depth later, it should be mentioned that the “title” of mangas was associated with disreputable living and pleasure-seeking, he used a distinctive slang and dressed in a distinctive way (Zaimakis 2010: 3). Other similar titles were: vlamidhes, koutsavakia/koutsavakidhes, tsiftes (see indicatively Petropoulos 1979; Holst 2006—though their definitions are slightly clashing). For Petropoulos, the title vlamidhes denoted a very close, protective friendship while for Horst vlamidhes were the tough men and tsiftes originally meant mates. Steadily, all these words were subsumed under the umbrella terms mangas/rebetis (Holst 2006)—not without dissenting voices who opposed to identify even with the title of “rebetis” arguing for the negative connotations that the etymology of “rebetis” evokes (see analysis in section 2.3—or indicatively in Vlisidis 2004: 183). 6  “Tekes” has come to denote the hashish den. The word is of Turkish etymology and originally referred to the places where dervishes of the Sufi fraternity would aggregate. 7  The “smyrneika” style: the musical tradition that flourished in Izmir. 8  As Pappas argues “[i]n the lower-class communities, the refugees found a curious audience that, unlike their wealthier compatriots, were not obsessed with dismissing Greek musical styles of Anatolia as a mere offshoot of Turkish culture” (1999: 359). 5

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interaction and skills, resulting in influence, competition, and the occasional cooperation (Pappas 1999). Gradually, a new proletarian audience embraced these “lowbrow” songs that entertained poverty, nostalgia, hashish-smoking, and the disreputable living (Holst-Warhaft 1998 in Zaimakis 2010). In Pappas’ words: “This sudden and abrupt incursion of eastern Greek musical culture into mainland Greece was to revolutionize mainstream Greek music—so much so that it may be postulated that a great deal of Greek music today would scarcely have become what it is without it… it was upon the launching pad of the newly imported music of the Mikrasiátes [people of Asia Minor] that they sprang to prominence” (1999: 354).

Until 1936, during the period of dominance of the café-aman in Athens, the music of the rebetes of Piraeus achieved an unprecedented popularity and a respectability while significantly broadening the narrow constrictions of their repertoire. However, the ramifications of this process of exchange were a double-edged sword for the smyrneika style. Despite establishing itself within the Greek recording industry for the better part of a decade, the café-aman performers were forced to abandon essential qualities of their songs (the overt oriental musical framework, the Turkish argot, the returning theme of praising the virtues of hashish—without necessarily linking it to the underworld, the Anatolian instrumentation and vocal style) (Pappas 1999: 359–60). While the café-aman songs were arguably more respectable, during 1933–1934 a number of bouzouki-accompanied rebetika from the widely popular rebetes Markos Vamvakaris and Yiorgos Batis were recorded (Holst-Warhaft 1990). By the late 1930s, the café-aman style had mostly perished, paving the way for the next era of the genre—an era of widespread popularity of rebetes and the dominance of bouzouki. Nonetheless, some of its characteristics (such as the modes and rhythms of the Smyrna style or the tradition of female singers performing alongside manges) were absorbed by the rebetika (Holst 2006).

2.2  Τ  ο “κολλέγιο” κι ο “λουλάς”: (Alleged) Components of the Rebetiko and the Rebetiko Life9 A number of “rebetologists,” most notably Petropoulos (1979, 2000), had been fervently supporting that the womb of rebetika have been jail and hashish dens—yet not without significant opposition. Indicatively, Georgiadis countered: “In reality, the songs… were born in the innards of the [recording] industry, with its recording studios, record presses, artistic and production workforce” (2006: 192). It is undeniable, though, that the themes of prison and drug-taking are recurring in the rebetika. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Greek prisoners have been spending their hours of “enforced idleness” playing or manufacturing musical instruments

 Κολλέγιο (literally translated to college) is a slang term used for prison, while λουλάς (loulas) is the name of the bowl of a narghile, as well as one of the many synonyms for hashish. 9

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such as the infamous bouzouki (Gauntlett 2016: 150).10 The jail songs continued to be sung outside the prisons, quickly becoming popular in the underworld circles of Greek cities—despite being censored and banned (as will be explicated in later sections). Meanwhile, one of the most typical features of the marginalized society of manges and ex-prisoners was the smoking of hashish in small, equally discreditable establishments—tekedes (tekes in singular) (Holst 2006: 31–2).11 The pre-war rebetika scene in Piraeus is largely, but not exclusively, hashish music—it flows outward from the tekedes of the port into the surrounding society (ibid: 37). Realistically, “the gamut of themes can be summarized here sufficiently as: complaints at the hardships of prison life, the brutality of officials, and the injustice of the prisoner’s sentence; accounts of drug use and acts of violence perpetrated by prisoners; and appeals to a mother-figure to intercede with the appropriate authorities to secure an early release. In contrast to the beneficent mother-figure, female lovers are depicted as responsible for the unjust plight of the prisoner” (Gauntlett 2016: 158).

The defiant posture of the manges was quite evident in the relations with the police. Beyond protesting the ill-treatment, the rebetes were to a degree taking pride in having “eaten wood” (being beaten up) and served time (Holst 2006). These adventures come as a consequence of their refusal to change their way of life or to submit to the authorities or lose their sense of humor.12 Similarly, the bourgeois society, with “its emphasis on money and its inability to enjoy itself” is frequently mocked by rebetes (idem.: 56). Adding to the array of themes, Gauntlett (2003) argues that rebetika lyrics are seldom seen to represent the East, as a fairy-tale setting of carnal temptations, recreational drugs and opportunities of enrichment and leisure among “compliant hordes of subjugated women—and as we shall explore shortly, it is exactly this enamored courtship with the East that became a red flag for critics. For Zaimakis, the subject matter of rebetika is fairly wide, including love, pain, sorrow, and hedonism, colored by the idiomatic slang of manges (2010). Petropoulos (1979) in his comprehensive anthology and categorization of rebetika songs classifies them in under no less than 20 categories. These categories range from songs of love—seldom unrequited, songs of heartbreak and separation, songs of the underworld, songs of prison and songs of poverty to songs of the tavern, songs of army and war, songs of exile, and songs praising various towns and their inhabitants—with the former of course accumulating a much larger list of titles than the latter.  Many rebetes have postulated that even holding a bouzouki, especially during the years of Metaxas’ dictatorship, was enough to be considered drug addicts, representatives of the underworld and reason enough for police officers to arrest them (see indicatively Vlisidis 2004: 195–7). 11  In Greece, laws against the consumption and sale of hashish were promulgated in the 1890s but weren’t strictly enforced for almost 30 years, until the 1930s—and, even more, in the years of the Metaxas dictatorship during which the police were rigorous in cracking down hashish dens in the old quarter of Piraeus (see Holst 2006). 12  Holst employs the lyrics of some famous rebetika songs to support her point. In “The Pickpockets” (written by Papazoglou in 1933), the singer pleads “Mr. Policeman, don’t beat us because you know very well that this is our job…it’s only hunger we mind, so we pick pockets and manage to have a swell time.” 10

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Gauntlett wisely posited that both music and language are claimed to be primary defining characteristics of the Greek culture—to the point that when either of the two appears to be in crisis, the implications for Greek identity are of grave and general concern (1991: 11). As it becomes evident by the title of this subsection, the language of rebetika not only denotes but also connotes (Hall 1997). In other words, the linguistic modalities and particularities of the genre are inextricably linked to the essence and experience of the music, they are a core feature of it—the words are more than words, they hold an intrinsic role in communicating the subculture. Being a non-Greek speaker who attempted to delve in the culture of rebetika, Gail Horst paid significant attention to the issue of rebetika slang. “Slang was once used by the rebetes, as it is by other marginalized groups as a deliberate barrier intended to resist comprehension by the society at large” (Holst-Warhaft 1990: 184). Originating in “communicative situations that are under some kind of stress or even oppression” (Sornig 1981: 1 in Horst), the slang expressions of rebetika are never composed in an entirely cryptic argot that other subcultures might employ. Conversely, while the language was a strategy, purposefully utilized by hashish-smoking manges “whose safety and exclusivity once depended on a secret terminology for the paraphernalia of smoking, for thieving or for referring to the police,” its meanings are revealed to us, the audience (Holst-Warhaft 1990: 186). However, the slang is in a constant state of change and variation, to make sure that the true meaning of the words remains hidden to the “enemies”—hence the existence of multiple synonyms for certain words. In any case, being privy to these linguistic peculiarities, understanding or maybe even reproducing the rebetika slang is a mark—as much for the original rebetes of the 1930s as for the later generations of listeners—inducing a sense of belonging to an anti-establishment minority (Holst-Warhaft 1990). As a consequence, the strength of the prejudice against the rebetika by middle class Greeks and intellectuals tended to have a strong linguistic component up until the 1970s (idem.: 192).

2.3  T  he Anomic Subject: The (Self)Attributed Qualities of a Rebetis What, subsequently, warrants further scrutiny, after the last few sentences, is exactly the unpacking and substantiation of the proposition according to which rebetes (and the devotees of rebetiko) are perceived (or maybe perceive themselves) as part of an anti-establishment collective. This process though comes across significant obstacles from an early stage. As futile as it is to seek a definition of rebetika as a genre, it is maybe more frustrating to search for a coherent delineation of the rebetis archetype. Rebetis “denotes a broad range of stereotyped postures which people periodically assume, or others cast them in; criteria… are thus always provisional and infinitely reworked over time, place and interpreter” (Gauntlett 1991: 10). The rebetis has been defined as a

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criminal, an underworld spiv or a maladjusted psychopath (Papayiannis 1977: 46), a Robin Hood-like figure (Ioannou 1986: 56) or an upstanding citizen taking a therapeutic walk on the wild side (Gauntlett 1983: 84–91). Rebetis is a man of some degree of waywardness and non-conformity, the opposite side of the spectrum from the νοικοκύρης (nikokyris: the responsible, law-abiding householder) (Gauntlett 1991). He is a prodigal, dealing with life’s major and minor frustrations—particularly his misadventures with the opposite sex and the law—or the pleasures of intoxicants (idem.: 7). A considerable number of biographies and autobiographies of rebetes were published in the 1970s and 1980s. Contemporary scholars underline that autobiographical accounts of rebetes are largely mediated by a subtle attempt to upgrade rebetiko, in response to the growing supply regarding the “appeal” of the genre. It is also argued that the original narrative of the contributors of the genre is distorted and mediated by those who “codified” the spoken histories in text. The detrimental effect of this process is a collection of biographies and autobiographies that were composed and influenced deeply by an effort of civilizing kai cleansing rebetiko (see Vlisidis 2004). Still, Vlisidis supports the idea that these texts still contain original narrative representations of the rebetiko world and also fragments of authentic rebetiko discourse (idem.: 169). Bearing these limitations in mind, I turn to these accounts of rebetes in order to construct a—potentially filtered, indeed—puzzle of the rebetis figure; and more importantly, why this figure can be considered an anomic subject. Referring to the early years of rebetiko popularity, Kostas Roukounas, a famous rebetis, provides some nuancing on the concept of mangas arguing that “back then being mangas was a big thing. It was what you’d say today a true gentleman. In order to tell it to someone, he had to be a respectable figure” (Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1974: 27). Schorelis, representing a much less flamboyant figure of the rebetis, advocated against Petropoulos’ sensationalism, paying attention to the public image of the respectable surviving proponents of the genre. Rebetis, he argues, “doesn’t mean underworld nor rebetiko is its song; this misunderstanding is intentional and mischievous. It has been cultivated by friends and foes” (Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1973: 3 in Gauntlett 2016). In turn, Michalis Yenitsaris, another famous rebetis, scornfully underlined in his memoirs that “to be a rebetis you have to have lived as a rebetis… heroes of the rebetika are Batis, Markos, Stratos, Keromytis, Yenitsaris,...—we, who wrote from 1930 to 1940 got beaten up because of the bouzouki we held in our hands and brought it out of the hashish dens and prisons while Metaxas and Maniadakis were chasing us and sending us into exile” (1992: 90).13 In any case, Stelios Perpiniadis argued that “even the word rebetiko is intentional and cunning and has been cultivated by certain ‘well-meaning’ individuals with the aim of vilifying the genre and those who write it, sing it and listen to it.

 Yenitsaris is referring to Markos Vamvakaris, Stratos Payioumtzis, and Stelios Keromytis—all leading figures of the pre-war rebetika era. Ioannis Metaxas led the dictatorship from 1936 to 1941—when Greece was finally occupied by the Germans, and Constantinos Maniadakis was an eminent colonel of the regime. 13

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Because the words rebetis and ‘rebetiko’ are words that anyone can interpret, with much ease, according to their taste” (Chatzidoulis 1979). Beyond these internal “conflicts” over the essence of the soul and life of a rebetis, it was considered undeniable, as Nikos Mathesis (yet another important rebetis) discusses, that rebetiko has nothing to do with the upper class and the aristocrats, who only indulge in rebetiko “for show.” Rebetiko is for poor, simple people, for workers, chivs and manges; it has nothing to do with the luxurious life of the rich folks (Chatzidoulis 1979: 109). As such, the horizons of the genre are painted precluding any possibility of class/cultural osmosis (Vlisidis 2004). On the contrary, “rebetiko was the song of its era, of its people…. the betrayed, the underprivileged, the pained. Rebetis is not the thief, the hashish lover, the paramour. He was the man who had a sorrow… Many times, this sorrow made him ‘illegal’. He was going down the wrong path. Maybe he smoked hash. So what? He was only harming himself. Who knows? Maybe he was even pushed to that direction” (Rovertakis in Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1973: 23–4).

It slowly becomes evident that the rebetis-type constitutes a self-defined social subject in a society where most subjects are defined by others, a person not abiding to society or even the self (Vlisidis 2004: 179). Another rebetis was reported arguing that “we—the rebetes—had a flaw. We wouldn’t bow, we wouldn’t kneel” (in Kaloudas 1998: 145), while he would clarify that “it was different to be a rebetis and another to be a scam and a bad person. Rebetis was mangas and brave, he would never cave” (ibid: 74). In these notions of bravery, disobedience, and manhood, we can witness the anomic character of the rebetes gradually constructed. As Holst (2006: 89) realized, rebetika might be too individualistic and disorganized to be considered songs of protest—but this music has a rare power to communicate, a quality that speaks volumes to those who feel themselves to be in some sense outsiders. The rebetes were the drop-outs of their day. They may not have opposed social or political institutions as such, but they made it clear that they stood outside them. The title of the rebetis was thus attributed to those “who lived a careless life… the partygoers, the spenders, the gamblers, the old-school paramours and, generally, all those who enjoyed life in every way… and did not care about the future, about saving money, about a career, about a brighter tomorrow…” (Binis 2004: 149). However, Binis takes his argument a step further by re-vamping the meaning of rebetis and delineating the archetype of the real rebetis according to his perception. A rebetis is not necessarily whoever lived the life of a prodigal and made rebetiko music. Rebetes were the simple, lower-class workers—proud, serious and respectful men, men of God. A rebetis was a part of the underworld but not “touched” by the underworld. He lives in a world of his own—far removed from the conventions of society. At the same time, Binis differentiates between the authentic manges and the koutsavakia, with the latter representing the degenerate version of rebetes—the idle, the lazy, the thieves. Such a differential view is, surely enough, controversial and, arguably, not shared by all the rebetes. Indicatively, the most prominent rebetis of the pre-war era, Markos Vamvakaris, echoes Binis in sketching rebetes as serious individuals but is quite more lenient towards the law-breaking manges. He acknowledges that there are koutsavakia who make their money through less that honorable

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means; but he posits that even those thieves are good people (in Vlisidis 2004: 195–7). A common characteristic for all rebetes is that they are “meraklides”—yet another notion very resistant to translation. “Meraklis” is a man who is extroverted and generous, who enjoys good life, good company, and good food, who spends money on women and is passionate about life. If nothing else, rebetes seemed to freely traverse across the boundaries of expected societal goals or purposes and frowned upon social practices—rarely showing reluctance in whether their modes of achieving their goals were in accordance with law or social norms—they are, by and large, quintessential anomic subjects. Yet, the variety and variation of their stories either narrated in (auto) biographies or reflected in scholarly work goes above and beyond the structural limitations of the Mertonian typology (see Merton 1938: 676). They can potentially be regarded as an amalgam of an innovator and a rebel but, at the same time, they are none. In their self-perception, they transcend the categorizations, rejecting the expectations and the molds—both of society and of description. At the same time, rebetes do not only present a fragmented narrative over their identities and their qualities but they actually represent a diverse population. Namely, the café-aman rebetes who came from Minor Asia were remarkably different from the Piraeus manges in terms of cultural background, lifestyle choices, and “involvement” with the underworld. If there is a common thread that binds them all under the concept of anomie is their inherent sense of normlessness—in the Durkheimian vocabulary. Durkheim’s analysis in Division of Labor (1893) fits neatly with the historical and political developments that enveloped the tumultuous sociocultural path of the rebetiko genre, the Greek society’s intense and demonizing reactions to it, and the lived experience of the rebetes. It was indeed during a time of transition (post World War I and right after the tragic events in Asia Minor—resulting in a wave of refugees arriving to Greece) and a period of rapid changes to the economic and political structures of society wherein the norms were no longer valid for all citizens. The values and norms that the rebetes held dear—from bravery, toughness, bravado to their love for hashish or their nostalgia for a home long lost—were not reflected by a society that excluded and, at least partly, despised them. Along with the migratory movement taking place—bringing together, as explained earlier, the rebetes from Smyrna with the rebetes of the Greek cities, the concurrent industrialization and urbanization processes in the macro level create the complete scenery for anomic tendencies to erupt.

2.4  Rebetika as a Site of the Carnivalesque The rebetes were ceaselessly “jailed, beaten, chased out of town but they would continue to live the mangas life, speak the mangas language, wear the mangas clothes,” Holst writes (2006: 89). This perseverance to the rebetiko life and style reveals much more about the manges than their mere anomic qualities. As Holst underlined, not only were the manges out of line, they were enjoying themselves.

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This recurrent concept of enjoyment—of life, of music, of hashish, of adventures with the police, of carelessly being who they want to be and act as they wish to act—is of great cultural criminological interest and warrants further layering. As Presdee maintained, cultural criminology “uses the ‘evidence’ of everyday existence…; the debris of everyday life is its ‘data’. It uses cultural artefacts whenever and wherever they present themselves, examining the cultural ‘trail’ they leave behind” (2000: 15). In the previous section, I delved in to the questions of who is the rebetis, and what he does (that is perceived as so threatening to society). Now we shall explore the equally, if not more, important how. How does the mangas live the rebetiko life? How does he dress? How does he dance? How does he experience his music, his own identity, his struggles, his wrongdoings? As regards the dressing code, Holst (2006) notes that the koutsavakides have been particularly colorful, choosing to wear provocatively eccentric costumes. Interestingly, it was fashionable to wear one’s jacket with only the left arm through the sleeve and the other arm left free in case of a knife fight. It is exactly in this juncture between the stylistic flair and the criminal ingenuity where we can find the traces of what I will shortly analyze as the “carnival of crime.” Rebetes were not merely members of the disenfranchised lower class—they were inhabiting their subculture, they were indulging in the excitement of walking the city streets as symbols of the mangas. The mangas look also “commented on (and resisted) class distinctions, adopting aspects of bourgeois dress (e.g. bow ties and collars, the ‘republika’ hat) and mixing them with more proletarian elements” (Sarbanes 2006: 20). Similarly, Holst describes the combination of “English styly suits, carefully groomed moustaches, and slicked-down hair,” but all these accouterments were worn with flagrant disregard for convention (2006: 58). Sarbanes compared the dress code of the mangas to a patchwork, a bricolage “derived from different epochs, from different social strata, from different races and from different social castes” (Petropoulos 2000: 61). Petropoulos underscores that all these various elements were readily combined in all sorts of different ways—they were not bound by fixity (Petropoulos 1975). This flexibility is yet another testament to the carnivalesque: the rebetes were, whether they were conscious of it or not, refusing to lend rigidity to the manifestation of their identity expressed through dressing. In that way, they constantly embodied an unpleasant surprise to the conservative, outraged parts of society. But the dress code is just one of the performative elements that allude to the connection of the rebetiko genre with the carnival of deviance. The music itself and the experience of listening and reacting to the rebetiko music and lyrics are profoundly inducing moments of what philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin (1984) coined as the “second life” of the people. For Presdee (2000), this “second life” is the trigger and the source of much transgression and deviance. Anyone who has listened to the tunes of bouzouki, the hoarse, grumpy, tormented, or even playful voices of rebetiko singers and the way that a rebetiko song fills a room and brings about a desire to tap your feet to the rhythm, deeply inhale the smoke of your cigarette and move your body to the alluring oriental sound can comprehend the concept of a festive, irreverent, non-­ compliant, transgressive “second life.” And if the experience of the rebetiko essence

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and lifestyle for all contemporary rebetiko devotees is nothing but a reflection of those original moments which only live in spoken stories and magazines and biographies, the intensity and the totality of living the rebetiko life is undeniable for those pre-war rebetes. Holst notes that even without understanding a word of Greek, there is an “unmistakable flavor of swagger” about these songs which is only emphasized by the manges in their style of dress or posture (2006: 57). It is the pride of being an outsider, this quality of unencumbered flair, “of defiance in the face of poverty, repression and even death, which seems to me the most attractive feature of mangas society” (idem.: 56). To better exemplify my argument, here follows a description of a scene from a hashish den as recounted by Horst: “A few more puffs and his eyes begin to hood, and there is a hint of a smile around his mouth. He reaches for the bouzouki and strikes a few notes. ‘Bravo Marko-boy with your lovely bouzouki,’ mutters Crazy Nick, and Markos wanders through the introduction, improvising and ornamenting as he goes. Wild rushes of notes, then slow, climbing passages, then back to the note he started on, and again and again he hits the note as if he can’t get away from it, and breaks off, but only to catch it again, this time beating out a rhythm with his foot on the floor…” (Holst 2006: 37–9).

Here Holst moves beyond the musical product itself and begins to critically approach and define the genre experientially, viewing the rebetika as a “total activity” (in Sarbanes 2006: 22). It is this integration of performance and experience, this enmeshment of music, style, and feeling that lies in the foundation of the rebetika’s power and influence. And while rebetika from a strictly musical point of view are no more interesting or complex as other strands of Greek folk music, rebetika have “a rare power to move and excite the listener... I can only suggest it has something to do with the unity of the man and his music … a social framework where musician and listener are united by the mutual recognition of being outside and, in their own view, superior to the rest of society” (Holst 2006: 91). It is crucial here to acknowledge that this is exactly the core and essence of the carnivalesque “second life” that rebetes were living—and inspired other to participate in. A rebetis is content with the cards he was dealt in life. He is not clawing his way back in the majority, not desperately attempting to escape his marginalization. Whatever vices, sorrows and struggles he turns into song, thus entertaining his hardships, celebrating his exclusion, persistent in maintaining what makes him different, odd, deviant, crooked, queer. Bakhtin ascribed “freedom, equality and abundance” to the second life (1984: 9). The official life of the rebetes was a life of oppression, inequality, and poverty, while the carnival life—asserting itself every day and through the everyday—was, for them, the only real life with any real meaning (Presdee 2000: 9). A complimentary aspect of the total experience of rebetiko music—which also draws important connections to the discussion about anomie—is that of drug-taking and its role in the construction and unfolding of the second life. Sarbanes notes that rebetika were, from early on, associated with the notion of altered consciousness (2006). Smoking hash “opens up everyday life to aesthetic (musical) transformation. One co-subjectivity leads to another, and from there to a deepened intersubjectivity” (idem.: 24). The intersubjective aspect of drug-taking becomes most

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threatening for the normative social order. “It is the culture of drug takers which is reacted against: not the notion of changing consciousness but the type of consciousness that is socially generated” (Young 1971: 79 in Sarbanes 2006). The world of a rebetis is not congruent or re-assimilable to the work ethos of the official, conformist parts of society, either because work is simply not available or because the manges did not value the material or immaterial rewards achieved through work. Manges were, after all, describing themselves as a “fraternity of sensitive genial individuals who are uninterested in gain and social status” (Gauntlett 1983: 87). According to Young, drug-taking is most vehemently suppressed when it serves more than an escape from a harsh social reality, when it paves an escape into an alternative form of social reality (in Sarbanes 2006: 24). When the latter happens, smoking hashish becomes critically dangerous, for it not only glorifies and celebrates the second life, but it also dares to imagine the subversion of the status quo, the demise of the “first life” in the favor of the second.

3  Consolidating Panic From the analysis that preceded, it should be made clear that rebetiko and its manges constituted a deviant subculture, perceived as alarmingly problematic. The slang, the dress, the bouzouki, the drugs, the dance were aspects predominantly considered dangerous, senseless, provocative. Rebetiko was attacked by both the right and the left spectrum of Greek politics, journalism, and intelligentsia. These myth-makers, as Gauntlett coins the moral entrepreneurs of the time, speak “variously as arbiters and custodians of public taste, health, sanity, morality and the interests of Hellenism” (1991: 12). In broad terms, the criticism from the Right corresponds to the pre-WW II era, while in the period from the late 1940s to the 1970s it is the leftist intellectual movement that passionately resumes the attempt to deconstruct and delegitimize the genre and its representatives. As Gauntlett concludes, the debate around rebetika has been a “clearing-house” for broader political, cultural, and moral issues—and as such, the, sometimes, ridiculous claims against the genre have originated from both sides (idem.: 10–11). Under this section, I wish to sketch an indicative picture of the discourse of moral panic and demonization that was waged against rebetiko.14 Beyond identifying the main narratives employed by the (far) right and the (Marxist) left, my aim is to unveil the underlying anxiety that rebetiko triggered to the Greek public, namely the purity and essence of Greekness. As mentioned in the introduction, the backbone of this analysis is the Greek identity and how this identity was considered threatened by rebetes. Their second life was perilous because it promulgated a carnival that was not just irreverent but also oriental. Their normlessness  Matters of space and focus prevent a more comprehensive discussion on the media and political discourses. However, such work has been carried out to a significant degree by rebetiko experts such as Vlisidis in his laudably extensive work on rebetiko (2004, 2006), Zaimakis (2010) or Tragaki (2009). 14

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was concerning not only because it was a disobedience to the rule of law but also because it did not fit the westernizing fantasy and trajectory of mid-twentieth century Greece.

3.1  Taking Blows from Left and Right In the 1920s and early 1930s, the dominant discourse—propagated mainly by media reports and less by emblematic figures of society and culture—focuses on cultivating a degrading and stigmatizing climate and diffusing stereotypical negative images for rebetiko. In terms of form, the vulgar, barbaric Anatolian influences are singled out as incompatible to the hegemonic cultural/national core; while in terms of content, the focus and flirtation with hashish are condemned (Vlisidis 2004). A sense of moral panic is beginning to spread within these attempts to mold a negative public image of the genre and pathologize it. The dictatorship of Metaxas, though, is what pushes the situation to the limit. By 1936, the hitherto informal social control, as exercised through moral entrepreneurs, will find significant support in raw repressive measures. One of the first concerns of the regime will be to manipulate the musical scenery towards a path that is congruent and pursuant to the purported construction of a solid, “national” cultural essence. The cultural artifact of rebetiko is gradually dealt with as a symbolic contamination and threat. Metaxas’ fixation with the “Greek Idea” became the regulating filter for an essentialist meaning-­ making formation of national identity. Such formation had no will or patience to allow a margin of legitimacy for the pre-existent Anatolian tradition (idem.: 24–5). As Zaimakis poignantly argues: Greek nationalist ideology envisioned a community with cultural continuity that stretched back to the glorious past of classical Greek civilization, more or less uninterrupted (2010: 7).

Metaxas banned the recording and broadcasting of “amanedes” (oriental songs of lament) and sent a number of rebetes into exile or drove them into the provinces of Greece—thereby halting the ascending popularity of the Piraeus School (Gauntlett 1991). This vehement censorship of amanedes was also inspired by rumors that the Kemalist government in Turkey had banned amanedes as a part of a course towards the modernization and Europeanization of the country (Panayiotou 1983: 34). Consequently, a debate was sparked about whether Greece should also prohibit “these oriental threnodies as an earnest of its European progressiveness” (Gauntlett 1991: 14). By the end of the 1930s, the censorship campaign was reaching its crescendo. Censorship Committees were established in 1936 by the regime, while the Police Decree 12 of 1937 prohibited a number of very popular rebetiko songs.15 The regime’s formulations over the definition and boundaries of legality initially  Some of these songs are considered nowadays rebetiko classics. For example, “Varvara” a provocative tune about a woman that enjoys to “fish” all kinds of different fish. The song was rumored to refer to the daughter of Metaxas who was allegedly a nymphomaniac. Another banned song 15

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c­ apitalized on the framework of national traditions and ideals. Progressively (and especially in the Decree of 1937) the supposed rationale of the prohibition was the obscene content which encroached the legal and moral order with a specific focus against vulgar songs. Such songs were found to be abundant in anti-religious overtones, contrary to common decency and inexcusably anachronistic. Law 1619/1939 employed the excuse of a collectively insulted public sentiment and the rebetiko’s antithesis to the “authentic” spirit of Greek musical tradition. What is readily observed is the vagueness of these concepts—a vagueness that acted as a smoke screen for censorship and became instrumentalized by the censoring bodies in their expectedly narrow interpretation of morality and public understanding of proper musical tradition (see Vlisidis 2004: 54–7). The gamut of arguments coming from the Left moved along similar lines but was even more diversified in the variety of dangers, maladies, and ailments hidden in the rebetiko genre. As Holst points, from a Marxist perspective, the songs were considered immoral for taking no cultural responsibility (2006). She eloquently realizes that: “the leaders of the left were as rigid and intolerant of mangas society as the right-wing establishment and for similar reasons: the manges were not susceptible to organization. Their own loose society was based on a common distrust towards the rest of society…” (idem.: 90).

Arguably, rebetes were not indifferent to the suffering that unfolded around them— a number of songs were actually written during the World War II and the civil war that ensued which commented, directly or indirectly, on the situation. However, the vast majority of leftist media and intellectuals were arguably far from satisfied with the level and modus of social (dis)engagement that rebetiko was promoting. For Marxists, popular music was expected to convey the deeper social needs, feelings, and hopes of the militant proletarians and the virtuous “inner self” of the nation (Zaimakis 2010). The rebetiko could not—or would not—fulfill this imperative in a way that agreed with the Marxist fantasy. Rather, its “nostalgic attitude towards the romanticized traditions of the nation” would interfere with “the political goal of creating a noble type of popular song with a social content that bespoke the valor of the proletariat” (ibid: 7). In a similar vein to the right-wing critique, representatives of the left stressed the eastern origins of rebetiko and urged for the disentanglement of the genre from the pure traditions of Greek music. A fierce opponent of rebetika and famous composer during the 1950s and the 1960s, Alekos Xenos argued that rebetika were pitied against the tradition of “dimotiko” (folk song)—which was connected to the kind and heroic tradition of Hellenism. The proverbial thorn to the side of the Left was the “alleged oriental melancholic tones and the sense of fatalism” in rebetika—characteristics viewed as decadent and feared as impeding to the ideals of patriotism and the optimistic perspective of the Left (in Zaimakis 2010: 10).

(“Tis hiras to karpouzi”) was referring to a widow that was selling her infamous “watermelon” in the Athenian streets—an obvious allegory for her involvement in prostitution.

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The inescapable need to separate and differentiate between the moral and the immoral, the individual and the collective, the revolutionary and the self-indulgent, the heroic folk tradition and the hedonistic oriental tunes is a pervading theme in the Left discourse—in a passionate (while misguided) effort to protect these parts of the working class that the Left expected collective action from. Xenos in one of his letters to “Rizospastis” (a popular communist newspaper) articulated an argumentation based on class, in which he reprimanded rebetika for promoting drugs and pornography, growing out of an ailing social atmosphere and engendering detrimental consequences to popular traditions (see Holst 2006). Vassils Papadimitriou, a popular leftist journalist, attacked rebetika for their moral and spiritual “stench,” the vulgarity and filthiness they represented—while he compared rebetiko to a source of pollution. The metaphor of “rubbish” or “pollutant” is a potent symbolism and a melting pot for the leftist narrative, clearly indicating the “riskology” invoked by communist press and intellectuals (see Vlisidis 2004: 86, 92–3). As confident as the leftists were to the truth and importance of their criticisms— or maybe exactly due to that confidence—they could not help but showcasing a certain degree of denial in their arguments. Mikis Theodorakis, one of the most prominent figures of the Left in Greece, had maintained in 1949 that the songs of tekedes, with their destitute content, could never find followers in the working class, while the “real folk song” has nothing to do with hash and drugs (in Vlisidis 2004: 81). In 1953, the communist newspaper “Avgi” published an article which was attributing the widespread popularity of rebetika to the depressive post-war climate that cultivated “discouragement and fatalism.” Even in 1974, the leftist press would argue that rebetiko gave the working class the mere illusion of an outburst—and not an authentic redemption, because the truth of the working class is much wider than the truth of rebetiko, and the sobs and laments never propelled the working class forward (idem.: 121). The most extreme accusation of the Left was capitalizing on the pathogeny symbolism—as hinted above. In that sense, it was almost an expected development of the leftist discourse to progress from the social pathology—allegedly inherent to rebetiko—to the psychopathology of the rebetis. In 1977, a news article was published in the magazine “Politis” in which the author—a psychiatrist—was positing that the rebetis-type is haunted by an unresolved Oedipus complex, in which the most common characteristic of rebetes—their proneness to addiction—is attributed. The majority of rebetes are burdened with a variety of psychopathologies and rebetiko song is nothing but a song of despair which cannot even offer any semblance of redemption or catharsis. On the contrary, it pushes the individual to a sadomasochistic nexus of guilt that inevitably leads to self-­destruction (idem.: 139). Given the popularity of rebetiko song, and the legacy it constitutes for Greek culture, there is little doubt that Marxist intellectuals disregarded people’s appreciation, perception, and love for the rebetiko genre. Barricaded behind the fallacious certainty that Greek people were somehow lured by the dangers of the oriental, hedonistic Muse, representatives of the Left arbitrarily saw themselves as patrons of class-consciousness and Marxist morals amidst the deluded masses (Zaimakis 2010: 21).

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3.2  Greekness at Peril Reaching to the core of the causes of rebetiko criminalization, it is Greek identity that comes to the front. Of course, Greek identity is in itself a heavily contested concept—with different meaning for different societal actors. Yet, for all the voices mentioned in the previous section—the nationalists, the academics, the Marxists, the conservative composers, and the leftist journalists—there is a common denominator: they perceive (their image of) Greekness to be at risk. Even more, Greekness is at risk from a cultural artifact allegedly originating from the East, promulgating hedonism, indifference to national pride and unacceptable lifestyle. The following quote encapsulates the frustration: “if a foreigner wanted to evaluate our quality based on the content of musical discs available in the market, they would characterize at least three quarters of us as hashish-loving…it is a disgrace for amane to exist in the century of radio and airplanes… Finally, we are a folk with development and civilization. We cannot keep reminding ourselves, every now and then, that we were slaves for centuries” (Nikos Marakis, in Vlisidis 2004: 40).

Gauntlett (1991) recounts a particularly telling collection of opinions in his article. From maestro Andreas Paridis who stood against any connection between rebetika and Greek culture, because the former are products of alien influence—and, as such, an antithesis to culture (Zenakos 1970: 54); to the description of rebetika by a spokesperson for the society of musicians as a cancer threatening Greek society, family and language (Christianopoulos 1979: 182); to the ascription of an increase in mental disorder in Greece to the pessimistic bouzouki tunes by the chairman of the first Panhellenic Psychiatry Conference (Zachos 1966: 56). The, nowadays, laudable and inherent heterogeneity of rebetiko as a cultural artifact suggested a nuanced, diverse Greek identity—but such diversity was in contradiction to the ethnocentric beliefs that insisted on the continuity of the nation (Zaimakis 2010). Both the Left and the Right advocated for a folk song that would honor the great eras of Hellenic civilization and would pinpoint to a musical tradition “compatible with the noble traits of the race” (idem.: 14). Holst poetically argued that these dynamics demonstrate the “double-descended” character of Greek, revealing of the country’s unique position (and positionality) between the Orient and the Occident, between Orthodox Christianity and the secular tradition—simply between Asia Minor and Europe (Holst-Warhaft 1998, 2001 in Zaimakis 2010). In critical criminological terminology, the story of the rebetiko genre from the 1920s until the 1970s clearly reflects a status of moral panic. Building on Goode and Ben-Yehuda’s (1994) illuminating analysis, we can trace the elements and the process of the panic. Concern was sparked as early as the merging of the Smyrna and Piraeus style attracted popularity and gained admirers among the working class of urban centers. Hostility erupted with the repressive measures introduced during the dictatorship, while consensus was present as the rebetiko was attacked almost by every influential institution across the ideological spectrum for the alleged threat to taste, traditional values, and public order. The sometimes hysterical and exaggerated argumentation against the genre—especially the attempt to biologize the

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potential dangers of the rebetiko life—reveals the disproportional counteraction of the official life of rationality and conservatism. However, Garland (2008) wisely argued that moral panics share two more crucial elements: a moral dimension and a symptomatic quality. The elements are significant since “they point to the true nature of the underlying disturbance; namely, the anxious concern on the part of certain social actors that an established value system is being threatened. At bottom, the sociology of moral panics discovers the displaced politics of group relations and status competition” (idem.: 11). Consequently, “successful moral panics owe their appeal to their ability to find points of resonance with wider anxieties” (Cohen 2004: xxx). For Garland, a fear that a cherished way of life is in jeopardy lies in the center of Cohen’s conceptualization of the nature, genesis, and evolution of moral panic. The targets of this process are intentionally selected, “they are cultural scapegoats whose deviant conduct appalls onlookers so powerfully precisely because it relates to personal fears and unconscious wishes” (Garland 2008: 15). In the case of rebetiko, the underlying fear is barely a hidden one. Greekness is what is at stake—and if one wants to be more nuanced: the perception of acceptable Greekness. At the time when rebetiko was building an audience Greece was trying to recover—economically, politically and in terms of national pride—from a humiliating defeat the Greeks suffered from the Kemalist Army which resulted in the persecution and displacement of Greek population across the Minor Asia. Not long before that Greece was involved in the Greco-Turkish War of 1897, the Balkan Wars and World War I. And even though a century had passed from the Greek Revolution of 1821, the Greek State was seldom plagued by political imbalances, regime changes, and bankruptcy—thus finding itself in a fragile and formative state. Macedonia and Crete were annexed to the Greek State in 1913—a mere 9  years before the Minor Asia catastrophe and it was not until 1947 that the administrative region of Dodecanese became officially Greek. Within this framework, a frantic need to preserve and protect national identity can be more holistically understood. Even more, whatever was considered Greek had to be purely and traditionally Greek. Multicultural osmosis, heterogeneity, and layering were far from desirable, especially between Greece and the East. Enveloped in a perpetual striving for balance between the West and the Orient, the Greek State, its institutions and intellectuals firmly stood against anything that would make Greece less Greek and more Oriental (that is: more Turkish). The “collective nightmare” that Garland invokes is, for Greece, a memory still painfully fresh. Thus, if there is psychopathology, a neurotic behavior, even a hysteria (Garland 2008) in the history of the genre, it cannot be traced to the rebetes (the proclaimed folk devils) but in those who persecuted them, producing the moral panic to express a deep fear and even deeper need of preservation of identity through preservation of nationhood. Thus, the symbolic meaning of Greekness in this particular historical juncture of mid-twentieth century is to be perceived as less symbolic (i.e., cultural) and more tangible—it is almost a survivalist technique.

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3.3  Consuming Panic Notwithstanding this tempestuous journey of criminalization and panic, and maybe exactly because of it, the history of rebetika is also a history par excellence of commercialization. As mentioned above, the censorship efforts and cultural war waged by the far right during the 1930s irrevocably curbed the trajectory of rebetiko and influenced its authenticity and character. Many researchers posit that after the WWII, rebetiko had already lost a crucial part of its unique essence (see Vlisidis 2004; Holst 2006). While this—somewhat—nostalgic claim cannot be objectively verified or refuted, it has been reported that already by the late 1940s, the notion of popular song was “pandering increasingly to the whims of the more affluent sectors of the population” (Gauntlett 1991: 16). Some rebetes were no longer inhabiting the humble, criminalized hashish dens—in literal and metaphorical terms. A new type of rebetis appeared, initiating the era of “archontorebetes”—that is virtuoso bouzouki players who were earning enormous amounts of money and led infamously extravagant lifestyles (Sarbanes 2006). Holst similarly reports that during the 1950s and 1960s the bourgeois minority that reluctantly listened to rebetika before the War became the undeniable majority of the bouzouki crowd—as, progressively, going out for a night at the bouzoukia became prohibitively expensive (2006). “[I]t became impossible to drink barreled wine or eat cheap food in the clubs, but this was one of the attractions for the bourgeoisie” (ibid: 71). On the other hand, working-class Greeks, still enthusiastic for the genre, but unable to frequently afford the clubs, had to save up for months to spend just one night at the bouzoukia. Sarbanes provided a more nuanced anthropological reading of this turn to commercialization, as she argued that the technical stylization and new habitus of the rebetes “created new hierarchies and deepened the distinction between musicians… and audience members”—depriving rebetika of the ritualistic, total experience of the deviant underworld it would offer during the pre-War era (2006: 28). Indicatively, the most famous rebetis of that time, Vassilis Tsitsanis, predominantly wrote “harmless” love songs. As the rebetiko genre turned into public—even “respectable”—entertainment, the themes of hashish and prison life became less common, and even songs dealing with the marginal life of the manges appeared as “a nostalgic revival of a world which no longer existed” (Holst 2006: 68). As mentioned above, the early 1970s were marked by the death of several veterans—composers and singers of the pre-War rebetika (see Gauntlett 1985). Consequently, many expressed their conviction that the “final gasps” of the genre’s tradition were imminent (Gauntlett 1991: 27). The ensuing haste to document the past and paths of rebetika resulted in an abundance of journalistic obituaries and biographies with surviving figures of rebetika, regardless of their actual popularity, while more substantial publications—such as those of Rovertakis (Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1973) and Roukounas (Schorelis and Oikonomidis 1974) —followed.

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It is important to note that this rush to preserve the cultural history of rebetika did occur during a period of political turbulence, namely the 7-year dictatorship (otherwise known as junta) that lasted between 1967 and 1974. As Holst recounts, “the words of songs which had been banned for years reminded young Greeks that the rebetes were drop-outs, misfits, anti-authoritarian… Suddenly rebetika seemed daring music” (2006: 23). The junta’s perceived dependence on Western and militarist structures, such as CIA and NATO, along with its aversion to the genre, transformed the songs once again to acts and symbols of defiance against the dictators and their western sponsors (Gauntlett 1991: 88). As such, an anti-western sentiment underpinned—to a degree—the restoration of rebetika popularity during the 1970s. By the end of the decade, there was a widespread emergence of rebetika bands comprising young enthusiasts who attempted to revitalize the authentic sound of the genre using acoustic instruments to play the songs they had learned from pre-War records (Gauntlett 2003). Such revivalist zeal, Gauntlett argues, often led these youngsters to strive for a striping away of the layers of “corrupt” commercialization and westernization of the sound, in order to achieve the supposedly pure Greek-Oriental tradition—while this process often leads to an anachronistic “over-orientalization” of the inter-war period songs (ibid: 259). In these peculiar negotiations of the rebetiko revival lies an interesting, yet telling, oxymoron regarding the trajectory of deviant subcultures. It is, namely, quite paradoxical how the commercialization of the rebetiko genre came not as reaction to, and not as a corollary of, westernization. This dynamic leads—I would argue—to a number of significant observations. First, it showcases the particularity of the case of the rebetiko genre for Greece, verifying its unique symbolism as a barometer between the Eastern and Western attractions and influences. The anti-western sentiment did not become an obstacle to the commercial turn of rebetiko. Rather, it provided an alternate path for this commercialization to happen in a more subtle way—allowing Greek people to naively believe that their actions of revival carried some revolutionary potential. The futility of the fight against the relentless, absorbing proceedings of capitalist expansion is, thus, revealed. Delving once again in the realm of cultural criminology, such a paradox is aptly described by Presdee, when he argues that all that is left of deviance is “excitement and desire” as the deviant act itself is transposed into a commodity (2000). Capitalism “operates free from the vagaries of morality” (idem.: 25), which “ensures a certain indifference to the terrain it’s working on and through” (Weeks 1985: 21 in Presdee 2000: 25). These contradictory forces of orientalism, occidentalism, and commodification continued to manifest in full effect during the 1980s. The populist cultural policies of Prime Minister Andreas Papandreou, the leader of the Panhellenic Socialist Party (PASOK) exemplify the paradoxical relations described above. Papandreou had to masterfully balance between keeping faith with his initially anti-western platform and the promises to emancipate the nation’s “creative potential from the previous regimes’ obsession with the products of Western cultural imperialism,” while, at the same time, presiding over the country’s progressive enmeshment in the EEC (Gauntlett 1983: 259). Rebetika quickly became the signature tune of PASOK and Papandreou (ibid) while the genre experienced further rise in its prominence as it

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was featured in the BBC’s “Greek Language and People” audio-visual language courses for foreigners in 1983 as well as in an introduction to the foundations of the Greek culture published by Oxford University Press (Kouvertakis and Dobratz 1987 in Gauntlett 1991). PASOK commissioned the production of a documentary that centered around the lives of rebetika musicians in the inter-war years. Screened in 1983, the series brought forward a romanticized and sentimentalized imagery of the rebetis—providing further momentum to the popularity of the genre (Gauntlett 1991: 35–6). The institutionalization of rebetiko by the PASOK government reached its crescendo in 1984—when the corpse of Tsitsanis was repatriated from London at State expense, while his funeral was attending by both the Prime Minister and the Minister of Culture. Once again, we see the antithesis between this “official patronage” and the anti-state reputation the genre was built on and persecuted for. Gauntlett (1991) daringly takes the funeral metaphor to a more profound level, stating that Tsitsanis’ funeral resembled a State funeral to the myth of rebetika as “anti-art”; and to the myth of rebetis as non-conformist and anti-establishment. Somehow, this funeral was the kiss of death for the genre (ibid: 36). Holst echoes the same concerns when she underscores how rebetiko music, “removed from its original context,” was adopted by politicians and cultural leaders as the quintessence of Greekness (2006: 74)—rather than its dangerous enemy. By the end of the twentieth century, “the once despised music of the Piraeus underworld had become an instantly recognizable national symbol” (idem.: 74).

4  Concluding Thoughts The story of rebetiko throughout the twentieth century is showcasing the relentless absorbing capacities of commercialization and the almost inescapable circular fate of deviant subcultures—repeatedly condemned to lose their potentially transformative effect to the dynamics of commodification. The title of this article refers to the malleability and inevitability of demonizing a subculture. The case of the rebetiko genre, a case par excellence of a (perceived as) deviant subculture, exemplifies how both these characteristics are triggered and delineated by a sociocultural and political nexus of dynamics that molded the path for rebetiko—from the musical tradition of Minor Asia refugees and the disreputable tekedes of the Piraeus port, to the stages of night clubs, the reified (and simultaneously vilified) life histories of infamous rebetes and the political campaigns of the socialist party. Rebetiko is now part of the Greek collective memory and national identity. Yet, such collective memory is seldom selective. And the paradoxical twists and turns it took in order to become a tenet of national identity reflect the twists and turns said identity has endured. The malleability and inevitability of the initial marginalization and consequent amalgamation of rebetiko in Greek identity find their rationale in the particularity of the historical context of the country. In that sense, the turbulent history of rebetiko is a turbulent history of the Greek identity, still trying to find a safe adobe and solid frame—but to no avail. The censorship of Oriental music in Greece should be

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viewed, according to Gauntlett, through the lens of a State that since its establishment “had constantly striven to prove to its patrons (and itself) the continuing validity of its raison d’ être, namely, the twin roles of agent for western values… and, secondly, of custodian of the classical Hellenic heritage, in which the west anchored its humanist tradition” (2003: 248). The consequence of this impossible endeavor was the renunciation of the nation’s Ottoman past and the disavowal of any ties with the long-lasting legacy of close contact with and influence by the Turkish culture. An oriental subculture, a subculture that promulgated hedonism, celebrated its disregard to the rules and proposed an alternative way of life was too dangerous. The country westernization was, thus, founded on an orientalist discourse (Said 1978) which pervaded Greek journalism and politics for decades. But this vehement westernization resulted, unsurprisingly, in a growing anti-western undertone in the Greek society—a sentiment that, despite its origin, cannot escape its commercialization. Wrongdoing, audacity, resistance to the status quo, and indifference to the system are equally seductive and commodifiable. As such, rebetiko encapsulates not only the antithesis between East and West (and the indecisiveness of the country to eventually side with the seductive Orient or the progressive Occident) but also panders to the desire of reacting both to the “official world of logic”—in Presdee’s (2000) words—when it is too western and to the oriental legacy when it is too orient. Rebetika, by becoming a symbol of paradoxical commodification, have become a symbol of Greece—a symbol of the country’s fragmented identity.

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“Keeping It (Hyper)Real”: A Musical History of Rap’s Quest Beyond Authenticity Robert A. Roks

1  Introduction Outside of his store in South Los Angeles’ neighborhood Hyde Park, Ermias Asghedom, better known under by his rap moniker Nipsey Hussle, was fatally shot on March 31, 2019. His life story mirrors that of other rap artists: Nipsey Hussle was an African-American high school drop-out, with a criminal past who grew up in a crime ridden neighborhood and was affiliated with the Rollin 60s Crips gang. However, Nipsey Hussle could not—and should not—be defined by just these stereotypical gangsta (rapper) characteristics: the rapper avidly spoke out against gun violence and prior to his death had plans to talk to law enforcement officials of the Los Angeles Police Department about preventing gang violence (Chokshi et  al. 2019). Furthermore, Nipsey Hussle was a Grammy nominated artist, an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist who was celebrated by former President Barack Obama in a letter, stating that “while most people look at the Crenshaw neighborhood where he grew up and see only gangs, bullets, and despair, Nipsey saw potential” (Medina et al. 2019). Nipsey Hussle’s untimely demise was mourned with a 25-mile procession through the streets of South Los Angeles and a memorial service at the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles (Arango 2019). The violent death of Nipsey Hussle is just one of the examples that feeds into the common misconception “that rap and violence are so intertwined as to be synonymous” (Keyes 2002: 2). Street and gang cultures are etched into the historical fabric of rap music, dating back to the origin of the musical genre on the public spaces of Shout-out to Robbert Goverts and Jeroen van den Broek for their useful comments on earlier versions of this chapter. R. A. Roks (*) Erasmus University Rotterdam, Rotterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8_14

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inner-city neighborhoods in the United States (Rose 1994; Chang 2005). Controversy has always plagued rap music: from the explicit lyrical content of the rap records “saturated with misogynistic, sexist, hyperviolent, homophobic, and hypermasculine themes” (Oware 2018: 3) to the criminal history of several of rap’s defining artists. However, over the cadence of these concerns rap music has blossomed into a mainstream and globally popular genre. The noise produced by rap music has resulted in an abundance of scholarly attention for the genre, chronicling the emergence of rap against the backdrop of social-­ structural and cultural conditions in the urban communities in the United States (see, for instance Rose 1994; Forman and Neal 2004; Oware 2018). This chapter will explore a theme that runs throughout the history of the musical genre of rap: the issue of authenticity. In different musical subcultures, authenticity has been noted as a central issue, although interpretations of what the notion entails differ (Armstrong 2004). For instance, authenticity can be interpreted as whether the music “rings true or feels real; when it has credibility and comes across as genuine” (Thornton 1996: 26). Furthermore, authenticity is also used to relate to the distinction between “mainstream” and “underground,” with the former been seen as “selling out” and the latter as more authentic (Swedenburg 2004: 583). Despite these differences across musical genres, the fundamental implication remains similar according to Leach (2001: 143): “authentic music is more real because it is less designed as a commercial venture.” Rap music, however, is known for a specific take on authenticity which is reflected in one of rap’s mantras: “keeping it real” (Cutler 2003). The authenticity of rap artists—or “realness” to put it into rap and street vernacular— tends to hinge on whether rappers are (still) “sufficiently connected to the ‘streets’ where the culture first emerged” (Lauger and Densley 2018: 820). Therefore, rap music could be interpreted as “identity art” where the perceived authenticity of the artist prevails over the quality of their musical output (Lauger and Densley 2018: 819–820). This chapter will retrace rap’s intricate relation with the notion of “keeping it real.” Firstly, the origin of rap music on the streets of the United States will be outlined. After this overview of rap’s musical and socio-historical roots, some of the controversy that has surrounded rap music’s depiction of “realness” will be addressed, in addition to highlighting the ways the notion of authenticity has developed under the strains of corporatization and commercialization during the 1980s and 1990s. This historical backdrop will be used to segue into more contemporary concerns surrounding “keeping it real,” specifically by zooming in on some recent cases involving both established and amateur rap artist that showcase the performativity of street credibility. Recently, the issue of authenticity has been at the center of several criminal proceedings where the lyrics of underground and amateur rappers are introduced as evidence of a defendant’s guilt (Kubrin and Nielson 2014; Dunbar 2018). By examining the different interpretations of “realness” over the course of rap music’s brief history, this chapter will examine the complexities surrounding hip-hop’s quest for “keeping it real.”

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2  Rap Reflecting Reality? Rap is considered part of the broader hip-hop (sub)culture which also includes DJ-ing, breakdancing, and graffiti (Chang 2005; Hagedorn 2008: 94). DJ Kool Herc is often credited for the musical element of rap in the South Bronx area of New York in the mid-late 1970s. With a technique dubbed “the Merry-Go-Round,” DJs like Kool Herc started “back-cuing a record to the beginning of the break as the other reached the end, extending a five-second breakdown into a five-minute loop of fury” (Chang 2005: 79). The MC (Master of Ceremonies or emcee)—nowadays more commonly referred to as the rapper—would then rhythmically chant lyrics over the vibrating beat breaks (Ilan 2012: 41) with the initial goal of “hyping the disc jockey’s artistry and motivating the crowd” (Oware 2018: 10). Rap music transitioned from a mostly live performance to “music on wax” with the song “Rapper’s Delight”1 in 1979, released by the independent label Sugar Hill Records (Oware 2018: 10–12). While some trace the source of term “hip-hop” back to the lyrics at the beginning of this 15-min long multi-platinum hit record, others claim that DJ Lovebug Starski should be credited for coining the phrase (Perkins 1996; Hagedorn 2008: 94). In the early years, rap was seen as party music without a political dimension (Neal 2004: 373–374; Oware 2018: 12): “a playful and ephemeral black cultural form that steamed off the musical energies of urban black teens” (Dyson 2004: 61): The development of rap brought about the emergence of certain subgenres, like “party,” “mack,” “jazz/bohemian,” and “reality.” Social commentary in lyrics could be linked to the latter category, which according to Krims (2000: 70) “undertakes the project of realism,” mapping the realities of inner-city life. Moreover, different scholars have argued that rap music has articulated the struggles of black urban life in contemporary America (Rose 1994: 2), serving as “an expression of the dispossessed’s misery and defiance of racism and poverty” (Hagedorn 2008: 94). In rap lyrics, personal experiences, observations, and social commentary are often channeled through first-person narratives. “The Message,”2 released by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five in 1982, offers a prime example of the way rappers gave a glimpse into the day-to-day dealings of the black urban youth, referencing, growing up in the ghetto on the presence of criminal role models on the streets. Honored by Rolling Stone as best rap record in 2012,3 “The Message” was seen as a catalyst for socially conscious themes in rap music. The mid- to late 1980s mark the era where rappers started using their lyrics “to educate listeners and challenge mainstream narrative” (Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 189), exemplified by Public Enemy’s front man Chuck D famous rendition of hip-hop as “CNN for black  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcCK99wHrk0, visited last on December 12, 2019.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PobrSpMwKk4, visited last on December 12, 2019. 3  https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-lists/the-50-greatest-hip-hop-songs-of-alltime-150547/grandmaster-flash-and-the-furious-five-the-message-2-96795/, visited last on December 12, 2019. 1 2

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America” (Kubrin 2006: 433). Over the years, however, scholars have debated how these rap lyrics should be interpreted. Pattillo-McCoy (1999: 121) offers a rather binary opposition, stating that some argue that rap music authenticity lies in relaying the black underclass perspective, whereas others see rap as privileging aesthetics over materialism, emphasizing entertainment and tales of murder, mischief, and mayhem “ensconced in a tradition and history of American popular-culture violence.”

3  Controversy and the Commodification of Criminality Gangsta rap—a subgenre of rap that came into fruition in the early 1980s on the West Coast of the United States—represents the pinnacle of questioning the “realness” and realism of the explicit lyrical content of rap music. The distinctive features of gangsta rap consist of funk samples, accompanied by descriptive storytelling that chronicle, as Kitwana (1994: 50–51) summarizes, the experiences of “crime, guns, drug-selling and drug-using, sexual exploitation, irresponsible parenthood, Black-on-Black homicide, women as inferiors and objects, gang-life, 40-ounce drinking as routine, and extreme materialism.” According to Watts (2004: 597), gangsta rap has provided “a window on the daily, gritty grind of inner-city living,” something that for the longest time had remained obscured to mainstream America. However, similar stories about street and gang cultures have been documented by urban scholars, albeit often stripped of the hyperboles and emotions that resonate throughout the lyrics of gangsta rappers (Pattillo-McCoy 1999: 121). Rapidly, gangsta rap became a huge success, in part because of the perceived authenticity of its creators (Harkness 2013: 155). Kubrin (2005: 361) argues that gangsta rap reflected the artists’ life experiences, noting that the early gangsta rappers were gang members who portrayed “gang and ghetto life from a criminal’s perspective.” In actuality, the connections to the streets of the early gangsta rappers might have been more nuanced, like Chang (2005) documents about gangsta rap pioneers Dr. Dre and Ice Cube: “Although they had come up in 111 Neighborhood Crip territory, Cube and Dre were not active gang members. Perhaps it was because Cube was being bused out of his ‘hood or maybe it was because he was a jock. As far as Dre was concerned, banging didn’t pay” (Chang 2005: 302).

Similarly, Harkness (2013) and Quinn (2005) contend that most of the early gangsta rappers had only peripheral ties to gangs and, therefore, that their lyrics were far from autobiographical (Quinn 2005: 56). However, since most of the gangsta rap pioneers grew up in gang ridden neighborhoods, this proximity providing them with possibilities “to craft cinematic soundscapes steeped in gang minutiae” (Harkness 2013: 155) and construct an air of street credibility (Balaji 2012). Gangsta rap is considered to be the most controversial subgenre of rap music (Perkins 1996; Kitwana 1994; Quinn 2005). Since its early days, the lyrical content

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of rap music has been, as Ilan (2015: 121) observes, “subject of respectable opprobrium,” especially as it relates to its vast references to sexuality, violence, and criminality. In gangsta rap’s history, “Fuck the Police”4 (1988) by N.W.A. (Niggaz With Attitude)—or “the world’s most dangerous group” as the cover of their “Greatest Hits” album (1996) reads—can be considered one of the epitomes of this controversy. The track is stylized as a trial against the Los Angeles Police Department, with the rappers of N.W.A. addressing police brutality, and especially its racial component, and launching a variety of verbal attacks at the police. Law enforcement agencies in the United Stated responded with indignation to the song: assistant direction of the FBI Milt Ahlerich, infuriated by the scolding of the police in “Fuck The Police,” sent a letter to N.W.A.’s label, Ruthless Records, expressing his displeasure (Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 190). In addition, the FBI’s response triggered police departments across the United States to collectively resist and interrupt N.W.A. concerts. As a result, venue owners began insisting that N.W.A. would refrain from performing “Fuck The Police” (McCann 2012: 378). As portrayed in the recent biopic Straight Outta Compton (2015), a show in Detroit on August 6, 1989 was shut down when police officers stormed the stage after N.W.A., who initially agreed to skip performing the controversial track, swept up by the insistent crowd, eventually started playing the song (Chang 2005: 325; McCann 2012: 378; Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 190). In the aftermath of this incident, some concerts of N.W.A. were cancelled. However, N.W.A. was not driven out of business by the controversy that surrounded their musical oeuvre. In fact, quite the contrary transpired: N.W.A.’s popularity and album sells increased (Johnson 1993). The year 1991 was marked by an incident that showcased the reality value of NWA’s lyrics and actually prophesizing the extremities of the police brutality addressed by N.W.A. in the “Fuck the Police” in 1988. As the police campaign against N.W.A. persisted, several Los Angeles police officers were filmed beating, and eventually killing, Rodney King. As the tape of the brutal beating of Rodney King played over and over again on the television news, “police officials quietly turned down the heat against NWA” Johnson (1993: 30). The nationwide attention and growing popularity of N.W.A. resulted in the crossover of Straight Outta Compton (1988)—N.W.A. debut record—to white audiences, kick-starting the commercialization of gangsta rap. Quickly, young people across the globe were enticed by the seductive aesthetics of gangsta rap’s blend of “images of criminality with street gang iconography and designer chic” (Hayward 2004: 170). In the process leading up to what Quinn (2005: 75–89) describes as the “commodification of Compton,” N.W.A. was among one of the first groups to grasp the commercial potential of their rebellious street norms. Other rap artist followed N.W.A.’s example and “appropriated, interpreted, packaged, and sold the hidden world of street gangs through what appeared to be insider knowledge” (Ilan 2015: 121). Therefore, as Hagedorn (2008: 142) observes, gangsta rap’s violent and

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misogyny was not just “a message from the streets,” but also “a message from the suits” in pursuit of monetary success on this newfound market in music.

4  Hyper-Reality’s Hold on Hip-Hop The historical backdrop of (gangsta) rap is vital to understanding current trends within the musical genre of rap, but also to grasp some recent developments within street and gang cultures. The spectacular consumption of gangsta rap imagery and styling (Watts 2004: 594) has played a pivotal part in the obfuscation between fiction and reality. Hayward (2004: 170) notes how this has led to situation where it is hard to discern “whether ‘gangster rap’ imagery and styling is shaping street gang culture in the USA or vice versa.” In fact, Hagedorn (2008: 100) argues that gangsta rap has entered the realm of simulacra: “this new, studio-produced gangsta or nigga identity now influences how actual gang members, and other youth, see themselves: life imitating art imitating life in a manner that would make Jean Baudrillard proud.” Gangsta rap has become the driving force in the global dissemination of American gang cultures and its (stereotypical) aesthetics (Hagedorn 2005, 2008). How else, as Decker et al. (2009: 402) ask, would we find Dutch gangs referring to themselves as Crips? By displaying a famous gang name and standardized signals or symbols, such as hand signs, colors, graffiti, clothes, and language, gang members outside of the confines of the United States could create a fiction of their gang that, over time, becomes accepted as fact. Some of the “franchises” documented in Europe could be seen as a simulacrum of the infamous American street gangs. For example, in the case of the Dutch Crips, hip-hop, and gangsta rap in particular, set the tone and backdrop for both their origin story and their subsequent development, providing them with blueprints for their lives (Roks and Densley 2019). In addition to these “loops and spirals between fact and fiction” (Hayward et al. 2015: 154–163) impacting street and gang cultures, there is also a feedback loop to the music. During the early days of (gangsta) rap, an artist proximity to the street, either as a (active) participant or observer, was considered a crucial staple of his—or in some case her—authenticity or “street credibility” (Cutler 2003; Balaji 2012). The commercialization of rap brought about a situation where corporate labels had “to be savvy in how they produce and market rappers as real” (Balaji 2012: 317). Additionally, rappers themselves had to carefully construct their street credibility. The case of William Leonard Roberts II, better known as Rick Ross, illustrates the intricacies and performativity of the latter process. His rap name Rick Ross is a direct reference to the notorious Los Angeles drug trafficker “Freeway” Rick Ross (Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 199), who at the height of his drug empire allegedly was grossing over a million dollars a day (Quinn 2005: 51). The lyrical content of Rick Ross’ rap catalogue—among the most influential and most selling rap artists of the early 2010s—expands upon this drug king pin narrative, which New York Times

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journalist Jon Caramanica (2009) describes as: “at best he was an utterly believable and improbably charming exponent of the cocaine-rap making the rounds at the time.” In 2009, information from rapper Rick Ross came to light that was difficult to match with his rap persona. Before William Leonard Roberts II metamorphosed into rapper Rick Ross, he attended college. More detrimental for his gangsta rap figure, however, was the surfacing of a photograph from the time he worked as a corrections officer in Florida. Rick Ross, to maintain his street credibility, first blatantly denied these allegations, claiming that the picture was photoshopped (Patton et al. 2013: A58; Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 199). However, website The Smoking Gun managed to get their hands on his personnel files,5 which included a certificate for perfect attendance (Caramanica 2009). Although some predicted the end of his musical career, simply because Rick Ross’—or “Officer Ricky” as he was tauntingly referred to—cocaine-rap would henceforth be considered flat-out unbelievable for rap fans, this was not the case. In part, because record companies value sales over authenticity, the controversy surrounding Rick Ross’ rap persona did not affect his commercial success. More importantly, as Caramanica (2009) aptly described, it is indicative of rap music moving “beyond authenticity”: “impenetrability of image, that old signal of hip-hop authenticity, somehow no longer seems to count. (…). Like all great pop music, rap is theater, and Rick Ross, now 33, is one of its most ambitious characters” (Caramanica 2009). However, this was not the end of the issues that surround the musical career of Rick Ross. In the slipstream of the “Officer Ricky” controversy, Rick Ross tried to rebuild his musical street credibility. On his hit single “B.M.F. (Blowin’ Money Fast)” (2010)6 Rick Ross compares himself to the likes of “Big Meech,” the leader of Detroit’s drug trafficking organization BMF, or Black Mafia Family (Shalhoup 2010), and “Larry Hoover,” the acknowledged leader of the Gangster Disciples (Knox and Fuller 1995). Members of the Gangster Disciples took offence, particular by the references made to the gang leader Larry Hoover. In December 2012, Rick Ross had to cancel two shows in response to threats by members of the Gangster Disciples who “disliked his fake persona” and “promised to end his hypocrisy by targeting his life” (Patton et al. 2013: A58). A more recent example shows a similar dynamic of the performativity of street credibility, and specifically the intertwinement of rap music, the streets, gangs, violence, and eventually also law enforcement agencies. Since 2016, Brooklyn rapper Tekashi 6ix9ine—real name Daniel Hernandez—used his social media savviness to rapidly construct a “larger-than-life reputation as a proud public menace, a self-­ described ‘super villain’ whose mere presence seemed to attract drama and gun violence” (Watkins and Coscarelli 2018). This imagery is well captured in the lyrics

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of the song “Billy” (2018)7 that has Tekashi 6ix9ine, in his distinctive, aggressive rap style, rapping about murder, being surrounded by groups of killers, and, in addition, an abundance of references to gun violence. The video of “Billy” (2018)—which to date has more than 310 million streams on social media platform YouTube—features Tekashi 6ix9ine with his defining rainbow-colored hair and tattoo-covered face standing amidst a crowd of rowdy young black men who, judging on their red bandanas and hand signs, claim to be members of the Bloods. Backstage footage of the video shoot, carefully edited into the music video, shows the presence of law enforcement officials during the recording of the video. Based on the lyrics of “Billy” (2018) and the accompanying video, it seems like Tekashi 6ix9ine personifies the contemporary gangsta rap persona. However, as New York Times journalist Watkins and Coscarelli (2018) painstakingly document in their article “The Rapid Rise and Sudden Fall of Tekashi 6ix9ine” things were not as they seemed. Calling it “cautionary tale for hip-hop,” Watkins and Coscarelli (2018) show that Tekashi 6ix9ine went “from a lost Brooklyn teen, to a viral social media star, to an accused violent member of the Nine Trey Bloods.” In fact, as Watkins and Coscarelli (2018) describe at length: Mr. Hernandez only began rapping after he had achieved a taste of internet notoriety, and he appeared to pursue gang life to bolster his musical endeavors. It was an inflammatory approach in a rap business stuck between an old school of hip-hop in which street cred still matters and a new wave of artists for whom clout on internet platforms has become a pathway to success. For some rap stars, gang life was an unavoidable means of survival, and music offered a way out. For Mr. Hernandez, who also goes by the name Tekashi69, it was reversed: Gang affiliations lent authenticity to a rap career rooted more in sensationalism than in biography or in raw talent” (Watkins and Coscarelli 2018).

There are obvious similarities between Rick Ross’ trajectory and Tekashi 6ix9ine’s career path. However, in the case of Tekashi 6ix9ine, the plot thickens. In November of 2018, Tekashi 6ix9ine was arrested on federal racketeering charges, amongst other things for drug trafficking offences, his alleged involvement in committing a number of violent crimes—including an attempted murder and armed robbery— and for being part of a gang known as the Nine Trey Gangsta Bloods. Related to the latter charge, the indictment reads: “this gang, which included platinum-selling rap artist Tekashi 6ix9ine, wreaked havoc on New York City, engaging in brazen acts of violence” (Coscarelli and Watkins 2018). In early 2019, Tekashi 6ix9ine pleaded guilty to the racketeering conspiracy and eight other charges for which he could face a minimum of 47 years in prison and which might even, in case of a maximum sentence, mean life imprisonment (Weiser and Watkins 2019). Recently, transcripts were made public, documenting how Tekashi 6ix9ine8 testified against fellow gang members of the Bloods.

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5  Bolstering Beefs by Broadcasting Badness On social media, Tekashi 6ix9ine’s “snitching”—street slang for communicating with law enforcement agencies for a reward or reduced punishment (Topalli 2005: 801)—earned him the nickname “Tekashi Snitch 9.” Several high-profile rappers used their social media accounts to public voice their discontent about this practice which defies the code of the street (Topalli 2005). Louisiana rapper Lil Boosie, who himself stood trail in 2009 because of his alleged role in a murder case (Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 186), was particularly outspoken in a post on February 14, 2019 on social media platform Instagram: “WHEN YOU FIRST WENT TO JAIL I WAS LIKE FREE DUDE CAUSE I DONT LIKE TO SEE NO ONE N DAT CAGE LIKE DAT♂BUT ONE THING I DONT CONDONE OR SUPPORT IS RATS “YOU GOTTA SAY U A BITCH ASS NIGGAS WHO WAS JUST WAS PLAYING HOE GAMES WITH EVERYBODY ♂YOU HAVE TO ADMIT ON WAX THAT YOU A HOE ASS NIGGA FROM NOW ON (period)I AND I DO UNDERSTAND YO SITUATION NIGGA.  I WAS FACING A NEEDLE. (Lethal injection) N AINT BEND BREAK R FOLD #realniggas like myself WE HATE RATS IDK ABOUT NEWYORK BUT N LOUISIANA U WILL BE MURDERED LESS THAN A MONTH AFTER YOUR RELEASE FRFR YOUR KIDS WILL BULLIED N SCHOOL FOR THE DECISION YOU MADE ,YOU PUT ALL YOUR FAMILY N GRAVE DANGER FOR LIFE CAUSE OF THIS BS, DID U THINK BOUT THEY SAFETY? Keep it u DONT care bout nothin but YOU SMH.”

Lil Boosie expressed his reproach in a social media message riffed with street vernacular. According to Lil Boosie, Tekashi 6ix9ine should have kept it “real,” or, in present-day slang: “kept it 100.” However, as Lil Boosie hints, even more dire circumstances would be awaiting Tekashi 6ix9ine outside of prison, on the streets. Lil Boosie post on social media, but also the public outcries of several other rappers, could be read as “dissing” Tekashi 6ix9ine. In general, discrediting or dishonoring of other rappers, in a myriad of ways, could be seen as an integral element and even institutionalized of the hip-hop culture, seen most vividly in rap battles (Sköld and Rehn 2007: 55). As rap music evolved, these battles moved from street corners to stages to recorded songs, sometimes resulting in longstanding conflicts—or “beefs”—between rappers. One of rap’s most venomous feuds centered around East Coast rapper the Notorious B.I.G. and West Coast representative Tupac Shakur. This beef supposedly started “on wax” with the release of Notorious B.I.G.’s record “Who Shot Ya?” (1995) that was interpreted by Tupac Shakur as a reference to an incident in New  York on November 30, 1994 where the West Coast rapper was robbed and shot five times. This track flared the previous friendship between the rappers into a full-out East Coast–West Coast hip-hop rivalry (Weiss and McGarvey 2013), fueled by Tupac Shakur’s releasing the notorious diss track “Hit ‘Em Up” (1996).9 In the song Tupac Shakur hints at a sexual relationship with Notorious B.I.G.’s wife and boasts that the five gunshots could not faze him. On the outro of the track, as Tupac Shakur audibly gets more aggressive, a plethora of direct and  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41qC3w3UUkU, visited last on December 12, 2019.

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indirect threats are uttered against the Notorious B.I.G., other East Coast rappers, and various other people in Biggie’s entourage. Three months later, on September 13, 1996, Tupac Shakur was shot and killed in Las Vegas. On March 9, 1997, the Notorious B.I.G. was assassinated. To this day, both murders remain unsolved. The Biggie-Tupac rivalry set the blueprint for rap beefs, especially since both rappers “went to deadly extremes to prove their street credibility was the real thing” (Harkness 2013: 173). Patton et al. (2013: A58) posit that nowadays hip-hop is no longer a proxy for street credibility, but that social media become “the medium through which street credibility is established and disseminated.” Social media facilitates the performance of “the aggressive masculinity characteristics of gang members” (Irwin-Rogers et  al. 2018: 404). Although these performances can be seen as non-violent ways for gangs to wage symbolic war, Lauger and Densley (2018: 821) argue that “they can also fuel ‘street beefs’ between gangs and facilitate interpersonal violence.” This could be illustrated best by following reconstruction by Harkness (2013: 152) of the 2012 conflict between rappers Keith “Chief Keef” Cozart and Joseph “Lil JoJo” Coleman: “Coinciding with Cozart’s rise in fortune, the hostilities between the Gangsta Disciples and the Black Disciples heated up online, with members from the two gangs using rap songs, social networking sites, and YouTube to insult and goad one another. In May 2012, Coleman, who investigators claimed was a member of the Gangsta Disciples, posted a music video entitled “3 hunnak” (translation: “300 killer”) that appropriated the backing track for Keef’s song “Everyday” and added new lyrics over the top. In the original song, Cozart regurgitated the standard gangsta-rap cliché’s (making money, having sex with “bitches,” smoking weed) over a crawling beat. Coleman’s remake replaced the word “every day” with “BDK,” meaning Black Disciples killer. “These niggas claim 300 but we BDK,” Coleman taunted repeatedly” (Harkness 2013: 152).

Joseph Coleman, a.k.a. Lil JoJo, was fatally wounded on September 4, 2012 during a drive-by shooting, after sharing his location of social media platform Twitter. In responding to the death of Lil JoJo, Chief Keef tweeted “It’s sad cuz that nigga JoJo wanted to be just like up, #LMAO (laughing my ass off)” (Patton et al. 2013: A59), adding insult to injury. Here, like in the case of Tekashi 6ix9ine, we see changing spaces and dynamics in the construction and performance of street credibility. However, this violent altercation also illustrates how gang members and street-­ oriented individuals nowadays use rap music and videos to “broadcast their badness” by posting antagonizing rap or hip-hop music videos online as part of this violent posturing (Lauger and Densley 2018).

6  Criminalizing Conventions? In the aftermath of the murder of Lil JoJo, law enforcement agencies started investigating “the war of words and music” he was having with rapper Chief Keef (Harkness 2013: 152). This could be tied a broader development that sees “prosecutors’ widespread use of rap lyrics as evidence in criminal trials” (Kubrin and Nielson

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2014: 191), which mostly targets street-involved persons that also happen to rap on an amateur level. Scholars have critiqued this criminalization of rap lyrics, or “rap on trial” (Kubrin and Nielson 2014; Stoia et  al. 2018; Dunbar 2018). The main problem with the interpretation of rap lyrics centers on the issue of authenticity. Oftentimes, there is a discrepancy between the (gangsta) rap persona and the history and personality of the rap artists, like the case of Tekashi 6ix9ine exemplifies. Moreover, Kubrin and Nielson (2014: 917) argue that rappers claims of “keeping it real” can be easily misread “by those unfamiliar with rappers’ complex and creative manipulation of identity, both on and off the stage.” In general, this performativity of street credibility can be seen throughout rap’s history, especially in its more street-oriented (sub)genres. Therefore, not all violent first-person narratives in rap music reflect reality and not all on lyrics could or should be read as testimonies. However, there are examples where part of the rap persona overlaps with reality, adding to the complexity of authenticity in rap music. For instance, rising Florida rapper YNW Melly was recently charged with first-degree murder for killed two of this friends and staging the crime scene to look like a drive-by shooting (Hogan 2019). Although more rappers have faced similar criminal charges, a particular song in the oeuvre of YNW Melly is particularly sinister in light of this recent allegations. On the song “Murder on My Mind” (2017),10 the rapper paints a vivid picture of shooting a person multiple times and watching him die in his arms. In an interview in 2018, YNW Melly said he wrote part of the song in prison awaiting the outcome of charges that included three counts of aggravated assault and one count discharging a firearm in public (Holmes 2018). The example of YNW Melly—and other similar cases in which rappers are facing criminal charges—reinforces preexisting misconceptions about the relation between crime and rap as a musical genre. Although violence and rap seem to intertwine in this specific case, there are countless other examples where the violent claims of rappers are purely fictional. Moreover, Stoia et al. (2018) argue that threats of violence, and violent posturing in general, are genre conventions in rap music. By drawing on music scholarship, Stoia et  al. (2018: 335) provide an in-depth and detailed analysis of so-called lyrical formulas in rap: “fragments of lyrical content—usually lines or half lines—that are shared among singers and recognized by both musicians and listeners.” Rap’s lyric formulas are rooted in the socio-structural circumstances experience by black residents of the inner-city neighborhoods of the Unites States, “encouraged both by an adaptive subculture rewarding violence and toughness” in the face of these structurally imposed imperatives, and finally commodified by records companies. This socio-historical context is important to understand one of rap’s lyrical formulas: Given the high value that rap music places on authenticity, and the concomitant rise in popularity of “gangsta” rap, rappers began to imbue their fictional battles with realistic depictions of street life, although the fictional nature of these lyrics remained unchanged (Stoia et al. 2018: 342–343).

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Stoia et al. (2018: 355) conclude that in rap’s musical history both scholars and fans have noted a paradox in the portrayal of rappers: “the genre places significant value on ‘authenticity’ in word and image, only for its adherents to claim that the lyrics are fictional.” “Keeping it real,” therefore, does not necessarily mean that rap lyrics can be interpreted as autobiographical; something that can be considered cultural knowledge for rappers, producers, labels, and rap audiences. “Outsiders” confronted with the tales of criminality and violence in rap music might find it difficult—or even impossible—to separate these fictional genre conventions from facts.

7  Wrap Up on Rap Rap’s musical history illustrates the complexities surrounding authenticity that have plagued the genre since the early day of hip-hop. Traditionally, the musical genre has a connection to street life. Some rappers were embedded in street culture and criminally involved; others grew up in crime ridden neighborhoods and were able to translate their dire circumstances into first-person narratives, without necessarily being part of the street or gang milieu. These foundations of rap music have spawned a musical culture in which “bragging and boasting” and tales of criminality, violence, and misogyny are considered genre conventions, similar to action-packed Hollywood movies. “Perhaps it’s more meaningful to say,” as Watts (2004: 602) notes, “that gangsta rap is neither fact, fiction nor some exotic combination, but part of an overdose of commercialized reality.” This is exemplified by the likes of Rick Ross and Tekashi 6ix9ine, who, looking at their commercial success of their sales, streams, and social media following, are acting on hip-hop’s mainstage. If rap audiences fail to acknowledge that the portrayal of violent street life is genre convention, “they can easily begin to conflate artist with character and fiction with fact” (Kubrin and Nielson 2014: 197). However, not all the performativity and violent posturing can be chalked up to lyrical formulas of the genre. “Keeping it real” remains of the utmost importance for rappers and street-oriented persons alike. The Internet, and social media in particular, has further complicated the relation between “art” and “life.” Social media offers a new, additional staging area for the construction of street credibility, potentially functioning as both a vector and catalyst for online and offline conflicts (Irwin-Rogers et al. 2018), but also contributing to the amplification of real-life violence like the Chief Keef-Lil JoJo conflict illustrates. Therefore, the “real” complexity of “keeping it real” in rap music, for insiders and outsiders alike, lies in the blurring distinctions between the binary oppositions of “fiction or fact” and “real or fake” of the genre conventions. This chapter has shown that the importance of “keeping it real” in rap culture has morphed into the act of “keeping it hyperreal,” with a quest beyond authenticity in constructing street credibility. Nowadays, the virtual and the real are intertwined in the genre of rap, providing scholars with a plethora of unique insights into the ways rappers and street-oriented persons alike navigate the physical and the digital streets and the blurring boundaries between fact and fiction. However, it could also be the case that

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scholars, practitioners, and the media are reading (way) too much into rap. Maybe, therefore, we should take the sound advice of Kelley (1996: 117) who states “lest we get too sociological here, we must bear in mind that hip-hop, irrespective of its particular flavor, is music.”

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Index

A Agencies, 93, 182, 191, 197, 214, 233–241, 275, 277, 279, 280 Anashid, 7, 233–241 Anti-heroes, 90, 99, 132 Arkan, 7, 152–161, 164, 167 Aryanization, 25, 26 Auschwitz, 4, 171–180, 182–184, 188 Authenticity, 8, 39, 151, 265, 271–283 B Bob Dylan, 6, 89, 96, 97, 99 C Castration for music, 55, 57, 61–63, 68, 69 Ceca, 7, 152–161, 164 Child abuse, 6, 55–69 Choir of Sistine Chapel, 65, 68 Cognitive science, 205, 207, 208, 219, 221 Conservatoria, 60–62, 64, 67 Cultural criminology, 3–6, 249, 257, 266 Cultural degeneration, 15 Cultural racism, 151, 152, 162, 164 D Daesh, 239 Death camps, 7, 171–202 Drug lords, 103–122 Düsseldorf exhibition of Entartete Musik, 13–29

E Entartete Musik, 13–29 F Forbidden music, 27 G Gangs, 133, 271, 274–278, 280, 282 Gender roles, 91 Genocide, 4, 6, 7, 150, 151, 210–212, 217, 222, 226–229 Gesamtkunstwerk, 79 Gotterdammerung, 75, 85 Greece, 7, 57, 76, 150, 176, 187, 248, 251, 252, 254, 256, 260, 262–264, 266–268 Gusle, 213–221, 223, 225–229 H Hinduization of music, 35, 43, 48 Hindu nationalism, 33–49 Hip-hop, 149, 236, 272, 273, 276–280, 282 History of jazz music, 126 Holocaust, 4, 7, 150, 171, 172, 175, 181–183, 188, 189, 199, 201 I Interpersonal crime, 85, 280 Islamic State, 233–241 Italian opera, 65, 68

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Siegel, F. Bovenkerk (eds.), Crime and Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49878-8

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Index

288 J Janowska, 173, 177, 182–193, 195–197, 199–201 Jewish musicians, 7, 16, 133, 171, 176, 177, 182, 185, 191, 194, 200 Jihadi culture, 234 K Kosovo, 7, 159, 160, 205–229 Kulturbolschewismus, 15, 17, 27 L Love and death, 73–81, 85, 86 M Manslaughter, 71, 81, 85 Mexico, 7, 103–121 Modern music reforms, 36 Money laundering, 7, 152, 158, 163, 164 Moral panics, 5, 159, 161, 164, 249, 259, 260, 263, 264 Murder, 3, 5, 6, 27, 66, 75, 76, 78, 81, 83, 85–99, 103, 111, 112, 114, 119, 153, 154, 159, 172–174, 191 Murdered musicians, 104 Music acts, 7, 35, 205–229 Musical marginalization, 33, 49 Musical virtuosity, 66 Music and emotions, 80 Musicians’ biographies, 1, 126 Music industry, 7, 152, 155, 162, 164 Muslim musicians, 34, 36, 38, 39, 41, 44, 47, 48 Myth, 7, 36, 171, 172, 179–182, 187, 194–201 N Narcocorridos, 7, 103–121, 150 Nick Cave, 90, 91, 99 Noble courts, 63, 66–67 North Indian music, 35, 45, 49 Nuremberg trial, 172, 182, 186, 191, 195–197, 200, 201 O Oral epic poetry, 205–229 Organised crime, 149–164

P Patronage of the arts, 125 Persecution, 4, 210, 226–229, 264 Popular music, 2, 5, 33, 87, 88, 150–152, 164, 183, 188, 190, 261 Poturice, 206, 214, 226, 228 Propaganda, 14, 21, 25, 118, 194–199, 205, 233–235, 237, 239, 240 Protection rackets, 127–129, 143 R Rap music, 3, 5, 7, 271–283 Rebetiko, 7, 247–268 Reichsmusikkammer, 16, 21 Revenge, 76, 78, 80, 82, 85, 94, 214, 224 Roman Catholic Church, 55, 56, 69 S Serbia, 149–152, 154, 161–164, 214, 215, 219–221 Social exclusion, 108 Sounds, 13, 16, 27, 28, 56, 62, 64, 69, 73, 74, 76, 79–81, 84, 91–93, 107, 157, 171, 178, 179, 186, 190, 192–194, 196, 206–209, 211, 221, 223, 233–241, 248, 249, 257, 266, 274, 283 Specific intent, 210, 211, 222, 226, 227, 229 Speech acts, 206–208, 211, 212, 220–224, 226 Street culture, 282 Subculture, 2, 3, 104, 124, 139, 141, 143, 248–250, 253, 257, 259, 266–268, 272, 281 T Tango, 2, 7, 171–202 Turbo folk, 4, 7, 149–164 Turks, 160, 206, 214–217, 220, 223–226, 228 V Varieties of killing, 127 Verdi and Wagner crime composers, 75 Victoria Spivey, 92, 93, 96

Index Violence, 4–7, 34, 45–48, 56, 57, 67, 85, 87, 91–93, 95–97, 111, 115, 117, 119, 120, 127, 134, 152, 154, 157, 161, 162, 174, 184, 221, 228, 233, 235, 236, 241, 252, 271, 274, 275, 277, 278, 280–282

289 W War, 7, 14, 57, 88, 104, 124, 150, 171, 207, 233, 247, 280 War on drugs, 106 White-collar crime, 2, 7, 164