Manele in Romania: Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Music 1442267070, 9781442267077

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Manele in Romania

Europea: Ethnomusicologies and Modernities Series Editors: Philip V. Bohlman and Martin Stokes The new millennium challenges ethnomusicologists, dedicated to studying the music of the world, to examine anew the Western musics they have treated as “traditional,” and to forge new approaches to world musics that are often overlooked because of their deceptive familiarity. As the modern discipline of ethnomusicology expanded during the second half of the twentieth century, influenced significantly by ethnographic methods in the social sciences, ethnomusicology’s “field” increasingly shifted to the exoticized Other. The comparative methodologies previously generated by Europeanist scholars to study and privilege Western musics were deliberately discarded. Europe as a cultural area was banished to historical musicology, and European vernacular musics became the spoils left to folk-music and, later, popular-music studies. Europea challenges ethnomusicology to return to Europe and to encounter its disciplinary past afresh, and the present is a timely moment to do so. European unity nervously but insistently asserts itself through the political and cultural agendas of the European Union, causing Europeans to reflect on a bitterly and violently fragmented past and its ongoing repercussions in the present, and to confront new challenges and opportunities for integration. There is also an intellectual moment to be seized as Europeans reformulate the history of the present, an opportunity to move beyond the fragmentation and atomism the later twentieth century has bequeathed and to enter into broader social, cultural, and political relationships. Europea is not simply a reflection of and on the current state of research. Rather, the volumes in this series move in new directions and experiment with diverse approaches. The series establishes a forum that can engage scholars, musicians, and other interlocutors in debates and discussions crucial to understanding the present historical juncture. This dialogue, grounded in ethnomusicology’s interdisciplinarity, will be animated by reflexive attention to the specific social configurations of knowledge of and scholarship on the musics of Europe. Such knowledge and its circulation as ethnomusicological scholarship are by no means dependent on professional academics, but rather are conditioned, as elsewhere, by complex interactions between universities, museums, amateur organizations, state agencies, and markets. Both the broader view to which ethnomusicology aspires and the critical edge necessary to understanding the present moment are served by broadening the base on which “academic” discussion proceeds. “Europe” will emerge from the volumes as a space for critical dialogue, embracing competing and often antagonistic voices from across the continent, across the Atlantic, across the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, and across a world altered ineluctably by European colonialism and globalization. The diverse subjects and interdisciplinary approaches in individual volumes capture something of—and, in a small way, become part of—the jangling polyphony through which the “New Europe” has explosively taken musical shape in public discourse, in expressive culture, and, increasingly, in political form. Europea: Ethnomusicologies and Modernities

aims to provide a critical framework necessary to capture something of the turbulent dynamics of music performance, engaging the forces that inform and deform, contest and mediate the senses of identity, selfhood, belonging, and progress that shape “European” musical experience in Europe and across the world.  1. Celtic Modern: Music at the Global Fringe, edited by Martin Stokes and Philip V. Bohlman, 2003.  2. Albanian Urban Lyric Song in the 1930s, by Eno Koço, 2004.  3. The Mediterranean in Music: Critical Perspectives, Common Concerns, Cultural Differences, edited by David Cooper and Kevin Dawe, 2005.  4. On a Rock in the Middle of the Ocean: Songs and Singers in Tory Island, Ireland, by Lillis Ó Laoire, 2005.  5. Transported by Song: Corsican Voices from Oral Tradition to World Stage, by Caroline Bithell, 2007.  6. Balkan Popular Culture and the Ottoman Ecumene: Music, Image, and Regional Political Discourse, edited by Donna A. Buchanan, 2007.  7. Music and Musicians in Crete: Performance and Ethnography in a Mediterranean Island Society, by Kevin Dawe, 2007.  8. The New (Ethno)musicologies, edited by Henry Stobart, 2008.  9. Balkan Refrain: Form and Tradition in European Folk Song, by Dimitrije O. Golemović, 2010. 10. Music and Displacement: Diasporas, Mobilities, and Dislocations in Europe and Beyond, edited by Erik Levi and Florian Scheding, 2010. 11. Balkan Epic: Song, History, Modernity, edited by Philip V. Bohlman and Nada Petković, 2012. 12. What Makes Music European: Looking beyond Sound, by Marcello Sorce Keller, 2012. 13. The Past Is Always Present: The Revival of the Byzantine Musical Tradition at Mount Athos, Tore Tvarnø Lind, 2012. 14. Becoming an Ethnomusicologist: A Miscellany of Influences, by Bruno Nettl, 2013. 15. Empire of Song: Europe and Nation in the Eurovision Song Contest, by Dafni Tragaki, 2013. 16. Revival and Reconciliation: Sacred Music in the Making of European Modernity, by Philip V. Bohlman, 2013. 17. Sámi Musical Performance and the Politics of Indigeneity in Northern Europe, by Thomas R. Hilder, 2014. 18. This Thing Called Music: Essays in Honor of Bruno Nettl, edited by Victoria Lindsay Levine and Philip V. Bohlman, 2015. 19. Musical Exodus: Al-Andalus and its Jewish Diasporas, edited by Ruth Davis, 2015. 20. Neapolitan Postcards: The Canzone Napoletana as Transnational Subject, edited by Goffredo Plastino and Joseph Sciorra, 2016 21. Manele in Romania: Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Music, edited by Margaret Beissinger, Speranţa Rădulescu, and Anca Giurchescu, 2016.

Manele in Romania Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Music

Edited by Margaret Beissinger Speranţa Rădulescu Anca Giurchescu

R OW M A N & L I T T L E F I E L D

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Rowman & Littlefield A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com

This project was made possible through generous funding by ERSTE Stiftung. Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2016 by Rowman & Littlefield All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Beissinger, Margaret H., 1954- editor. | R?adulescu, Speran?ta, editor. | Giurchescu, Anca, editor. Title: Manele in Romania : cultural expression and social meaning in Balkan popular music / edited by Margaret H. Beissinger, Speranta Radulescu, Anca Giurchescu. Description: Lanham : Rowman & Littlefield, [2016] | Series: Europea : ethnomusicologies and modernities | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016012229 (print) | LCCN 2016025036 (ebook) | ISBN 9781442267077 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781442267084 (electronic) Subjects: LCSH: Manele—Romania—History and criticism. | Popular music—Social aspects—Romania. Classification: LCC ML3499.R6 M36 2016 (print) | LCC ML3499.R6 (ebook) | DDC 781.62/591—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016012229 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

In memoriam Anca Giurchescu (1930–2015)

Contents

Figures xi Contents of Website    Florin Iordan and Speranţa Rădulescu

xiii

Foreword xix Acknowledgments xxi Introduction xxv    Margaret Beissinger A Note on Pronunciation

xxxv

1  Music, Dance, Performance: A Descriptive Analysis of Manele 1    Anca Giurchescu and Speranţa Rădulescu 2  A History of the Manea: The Nineteenth to the Mid-Twentieth Century    Costin Moisil

45

3  How the Music of Manele Is Structured    Speranţa Rădulescu

63

4  Romanian Manele and Regional Parallels: “Oriental” Ethnopop in the Balkans    Margaret Beissinger 5  Actors and Performance    Speranţa Rădulescu

95 139

ix

x

Contents

6  T  he “Boyar in the Helicopter”: Power, Parody, and Carnival in Manea Performances    Victor Alexandre Stoichiţă

163

7  Manele and the Underworld    Adrian Schiop

185

8  Village Manele: An Urban Genre in Rural Romania    Margaret Beissinger

205

9  Turbo-Authenticity: An Essay on Manelism 247    Vintilă Mihăilescu Epilogue 259    Speranţa Rădulescu References 271 Index 291 About the Editors and Contributors

309

Figures

Figure 1.1

Map of present-day Romania and its provinces

2

Figure 1.2

“Turkish manea”: Aman Doctor

6

Figure 1.3

“Turkish manea” recorded in 1949, village of Clejani

7

Figure 1.4

Manea rhythms

9

Figure 1.5

Scene from Miss Piranda contest

10

Figure 1.6

Çengi dancer, eighteenth century

12

Figure 1.7

Manea: Joacă manea [Dance to the manea]

19

Figure 1.8

CD cover, Mega chef Indian [Indian mega-party]

35

Figure 2.1

Inima-n mine de dor s’ăncingie [My heart burns with longing], “in the style of Turkish manele”

51

Figure 3.1

Manea: Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella]

66-67

Figure 3.2.a

Lăutar song: Mahala şi ţigănie [Slum and Gypsydom]

68-69

Figure 3.2.b

Lăutar dance: Joc—sârbă lăutărească [Lăutar sârbă]

70-73

Figure 3.3.a, b

Old Bucharest

77

Figure 3.4

Bucharest apartment, communist period

78

Figure 6.1.a, b

Manea dance rhythms

164

Figure 6.1.c, d

Manea rhythms

173

xi

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Figure 8.1 Figure 8.2 Figure 8.3 Figure 8.4 Figure 8.5

Figures

Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa, Giurgiu county, 2000: village wedding

218

Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa, Giurgiu county, 2002: village wedding

221

Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa, Giurgiu county, 2011: village wedding

234

Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa, Giurgiu county, 2013: village discotheque

236

Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa, Giurgiu county, 2013: village wedding

239

Contents of Website manele-in-romania.ro

CHAPTER 1 Example 1.1  Map of present-day Romania and its provinces Example 1.2  “Turkish manea”: Aman Doctor Example 1.3  “Turkish manea” recorded in 1949, village of Clejani Example 1.4  Manea rhythms Example 1.5.a  Scene from a wedding banquet Example 1.5.b  Scene from Miss Piranda contest Example 1.5.c  Scene from a wedding party Example 1.5.d  Musicians preparing for their performance on stage Example 1.6  Köçek, early eighteenth century Example 1.7  Contemporary Anatolian group performing köçek Example 1.8  Çengi dancer, eighteenth century Example 1.9  Romani woman dancing to manea music Example 1.10  “Gypsy” manea performed onstage Example 1.11  Romani women dancing to manea music Example 1.12  Manea: Joacă manea [Dance to the manea] Example 1.13  Oriental manea based on a Bulgarian song Example 1.14  Romanian horă at wedding Example 1.15  Bride dancing to manele Example 1.16  Cadână at wedding Example 1.17  Miss Piranda 2010 dancing at home Example 1.18  Miss Piranda contest Example 1.19  Dancing manele to horă music Example 1.20  “Gypsy” manea from Transylvania Example 1.21  Peasant dance to manea music xiii

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Contents of Website

Example 1.22  Occidentalized manea Example 1.23  Dancing pe manele in different ways Example 1.24  Choreographic discourse interrupted by arrhythmic movements, nightclub Example 1.25  Manea interrupted by extra-musical events, restaurant Example 1.26  Cadână performing a stereotyped belly dance at wedding, restaurant Example 1.27  Miss Piranda 2011 Examples 1.28.a–c  CD covers featuring women Example 1.29  Babi Minune performing manea Made in Romania

CHAPTER 2 Example 2.1  Inima-n mine de dor s’ăncingie [My heart burns with longing], “in the style of Turkish manele.”

CHAPTER 3 Example 3.1  Manea: Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], Nelu Vlad et al. Example 3.2  Lăutar song: Mahala şi ţigănie [Slum and Gypsydom], Vasile Năsturică et al. (Muzică lăutărească cu taraful Vasile Năsturică) Example 3.3.a  Old Bucharest, the Antim quarter Example 3.3.b  Old Bucharest, the center Examples 3.4.a, b  Bucharest apartment blocks, communist period Examples 3.5.a–e  “Gypsy” wedding, Ferentari, Bucharest

CHAPTER 4 Example 4.1 Hajde da se volimo [Hey, let’s fall in love], Lepa Brena Example 4.2 Instrumental, Ivo Papazov (clarinet) Example 4.3 Manea: De la prima mea vedere [From the first time I saw you], Albatros Example 4.4 Instrumental, Dan Armeanca et al. Example 4.5 Od izvora dva putića [Two roads lead from the same spring], Lepa Lukić Example 4.6 Jugoslovenka [Yugoslav woman], Lepa Brena Example 4.7 Levovete v marki [Leva to Marks], Sashka Vaseva Example 4.8 Šta će mi život bez tebe, dragi [What good is life for me without you, my dear], Silvana Armenulić Example 4.9 Plači zemljo [Cry, o earth], Dragana Mirković



Contents of Website xv

Example 4.10  Sama [Alone], Dragana Mirković Example 4.11  Pustite me da ga vidim [Let me see him], Ceca Example 4.12  Ljubav fatalna [Fatal love], Ceca Example 4.13  Poziv [The Call], Ceca Example 4.14  Ne moga az da te zabravya, Georgi [I can’t forget you, Georgi], Sashka Vaseva Example 4.15  Tseluvai oshte [Kiss me again], Gloria Example 4.16  Manea: Jumătate eu, jumătate tu [Half me, half you], Adrian Minune Example 4.17  Manea: Ce frumoasă e dragostea [How wonderful love is], Florin Salam and Claudia Example 4.18  Manea: Brazilianca [Brazilian girl], Florin Salam Example 4.19  Manea: Prinţesa mea [My princess], Adrian Minune Example 4.20  Manea: Tu eşti femeia visurilor mele [You are the woman of my dreams], Liviu Puştiu Example 4.21  Manea: Eu sunt mare gagicar [I’m a big ladies’ man], Vali Vijelie Example 4.22  Manea: Sunt plin de noroc [I’m so lucky], Nicolae Guţă Example 4.23  Manea: Barosanu’ Number 1 [Boss Number 1], Sorinel Puştiu Example 4.24  Manea: Iar am pus-o [I’ve done it again], Florin Salam Example 4.25  Manea: Duşmanii îmi poartă pică [My enemies envy me], Vali Vijelie Example 4.26  Manea: Îmi place să mă prefac [I like to pretend], Florin Salam Example 4.27  Manea: Am o cas’-aşa de mare [I have such a big house], Adrian Minune Example 4.28  Manea: Astă seară vreau să beau [I want to drink tonight], Florin Salam Example 4.29  Manea: Chef de chef [Time to party], Adrian Minune Example 4.30  Manea: Saint Tropez, Florin Salam

CHAPTER 5 Example 5.1  Members of a “folk” ensemble Example 5.2  Portraits of “folk” stars in “traditional” costumes Example 5.3  Urban ensemble, The Peasant Museum Example 5.4  Urban ensemble, restaurant Example 5.5  Urban ensemble playing at table Example 5.6  Peasant lăutari, rural event Example 5.7  Peasant lăutari, Community Cultural House Example 5.8  Family ensemble, village wedding party Example 5.9  Village family ensemble Example 5.10  Urban ensemble, party of friends Example 5.11  Bucharest manea performers addressing the public

xvi

Example 5.12  Example 5.13  Example 5.14  Example 5.15  Example 5.16  Example 5.17  Example 5.18  Example 5.19 

Contents of Website

Manea performers at nightclub Macho manea performer Two macho manea performers Manea: Nebunia lui Salam [The madness of Salam], Florin Salam Manea: Sună telefoanele [The phones are ringing], Nicolae Guţă “Wiseguys” observe performers of manele “Wiseguys” throw money for dedications “Wiseguys” observe performers of manele

CHAPTER 6 Examples 6.1.a–d  Manea dance rhythms Example 6.2  Manea: Cine-i mare barosan [Who’s the big boss?], Sorinel Puştiu Example 6.3  Manea: Bomba bombelor [The Bomb of all bombs], Sorinel Puştiu (Şarpe lângă casa ta) Example 6.4  Manea: Hai gagico la plimbare [Come for a ride, girl], Florin Peşte Example 6.5  Manea: Tatăl meu este boier [My father is a boyar], Florin Salam Example 6.6  Manea: Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], Costel Geambaşu et al. Example 6.7  Manea: Şi dacă mă enervezi [If you get on my nerves], Cristi Nucă

CHAPTER 8 Example 8.1  Early manele: Băiatul şi fata mea [My son and daughter], Florăresele [The flower girls], Zaharia family Example 8.2  Manea: Nevastă ca a mea [A wife like mine], Zaharia family Example 8.3  Manea turcească [Turkish manea], Zaharia family Example 8.4  Manea: Am nevastă sexy [I’ve got a sexy wife], Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.5  Am nevastă sexy [I’ve got a sexy wife], Sile Păun et al., Bucharest baptism Example 8.6  Am nevastă sexy [I’ve got a sexy wife], Sile Păun et al., Bucharest wedding Example 8.7  Am nevastă sexy [I’ve got a sexy wife], Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti (Miss Piranda 2000) Example 8.8  Manea: Salomea [Salomée], Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.9  Saloo Salomeea [Saloo Salomée], Adrian Minune (Saloo Salomeea) Example 8.10  Manea: De cine mi-e mie dor? [Who do I long for?], Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.11  Manea: Astă seară vreau să beau [Tonight I want to drink], urban ensemble, village wedding



Contents of Website xvii

Example 8.12  Manea: Am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă [I have a good and lucky wife], Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.13  Manea: Ia-ma, viaţa mea, în braţe [Take me, my love, in your arms], Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.14  Manea: Saint Tropez, Zaharia family, village wedding Example 8.15  Manea: Ca boierii ăia mari [Like the great boyars], Zaharia family, village discotheque Examples 8.16.a–h  Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârșa (Giurgiu County), 2000-13

Foreword

This is the first English-language volume on a much-loved but long-disputed type of Romanian music. Loved, because, as Beissinger, Rădulescu, and Giurchescu’s book shows, it stirs deep emotions, a deep sense of history, a deep sense of belonging. Disputed, because it also stirs anxieties about past, present, and future. An Ottoman-haunted past. A “transition” haunted present. A future of insolence (tupeu), laziness, and decay. Manele occupy a space in the broader configuration of Balkan and post-Soviet “ethnopop” practices, from Bulgarian chalga to Armenian rabiz. One might add Greek rembetika and Turkish arabesk to the mix, as well. This is far from being a purely post-socialist affair. The Turks tend to take the blame, at least for the broader situation. But they have their own obsessions with the East, an East considered incompatible with secular nationhood, and that haunts routine and everyday pleasures. This is a world of kitsch, lowbrow orientalism, which reverberates across post-socialist, post-secularist, post-nationalist space on Europe’s fringe. Shared circumstances have indeed forged a “proletariat of desire,” as Mihăilescu puts it in his chapter in this volume, capable of mutual recognition across borders dividing bitterly antagonistic nation-states. It is also a Roma-forged world of translations and adaptations, of post-Ottoman urban song genres, of Egyptian film music, of trans-Balkan folk musics circulated by mass media, of military band styles, of southern European (particularly Italian) popular song traditions, of transatlantic rock, jazz, rap, and hiphop, and much else besides. So much seems familiar, at first glance. But so much is, in fact, quite unexpected, as the reader of this volume will quickly discover. Not least the sound worlds of manele, admirably captured on the website accompanying this volume. The significance of manele extends far beyond their lyrics. Manele are quite palpably the sound of a “motley Bucharest” and its hinterlands. Unmistakably, it is entirely its own thing. xix

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Foreword

Is it a “sad story” (Mihăilescu again)? This volume represents a revision of intelligentsia attitudes toward manele in Romania. It represents a view that an appraisal of manele has considered its music, musicians, and audiences, and the performance spaces in which they live and breathe. It will no longer do to cite a few lyrics to point to manea’s kitsch qualities or its complicity with transition gangsterism. This volume starts from a different and significantly more conversational place. The conversation in question involves performers and writers, Romanians and non-Romanians. Like any such conversation, it produces more questions than it answers. But it keeps the manea file open, and one open, moreover, to non-Romanian readers. From the point of view of Europea’s editorship, this is definitely something to be happy about. The “sadness” at the heart of manele will, no doubt, remain untouched by our ruminations. It is, after all, where the core pleasures of manele lie, and within such structures of feeling, ongoing possibilities for self-reflection and social transformation. Sadness may indeed be manipulative, but few things have been more manipulative than the modern nation-states’ efforts to engineer human happiness. We can surely afford to live with manele’s “sad story,” if it really is one, for a while longer. Martin Stokes Philip V. Bohlman

Acknowledgments

The contributing coeditors express their deep gratitude to the institutions and people who have made the creation and publication of this volume possible. We would like to thank, first of all, the Erste Stiftung Austrian Foundation, which, through the PATTERNS Lectures Program and project “Manele in Romania: Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Music,” has supported the authors’ research and production of the volume. Erste Stiftung joined the National University of Music in Bucharest, represented by Dan Dediu Sandu (rector) and Smaranda Murgan (dean of the Composition, Musicology, and Music Pedagogy faculty), who together resisted the virulent opposition to manele of their colleagues by supporting a series of six public lectures titled “The Manea as Phenomenon, the Manea as Object of Public Debate” delivered by several of the authors of this volume. They were held at the National University of Music in 2011 and were underwritten by the Erste Stiftung Foundation. We owe thanks to the Romanian Peasant Museum in Bucharest and its cultural foundation, Al. Tzigara Samurcaş, institutions that considered manele—a genre by and large shunned by the Romanian academic world—deserving of solid anthropological inquiry and their assistance. We would like to offer a special word of thanks to Philip Bohlman and Martin Stokes for their great interest in the subject matter of our project, as well as their encouragement and invaluable advice regarding its production. We gratefully recognize the numerous performers of manele (lăutari, manelişti), managers, cameramen, record sellers, fans, and adversaries of manele, ethnologists, and ethnomusicologists, who have willingly subjected themselves to our relentless questions and with whom we have had fruitful conversations. Of these, we mention (in alphabetical order): Ion Albeşteanu; Dan Bursuc; Aurel Cioacă; Gabriela and Radu Diricel; George Dumitru; Helene Eriksen; Constantin Fărâmiţă; Gicuţă from Apărători; Victor Gore; Marius and Dumitru Ioniţă; Ştefan Ionel Ioniţă; Mişu xxi

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Acknowledgments

Langă; Felix Lazăr; Gabriel Lazăr; Constantin Lupu; Emil Mihai; Andrei and George Mihalache; Minodora; Vasile Năsturică; Elena and Ion Pascu; the Panţiru family; Gicu, Luminiţa, and Alina Petrache; Ljerka Vidić Rasmussen; Carol Silverman; Jane Sugarman; Cătălina Tesar; Cătălin Trandafir; and many others whose names, we regret, are omitted due to the inevitable limits of space. Our warm thanks also go to Florin Salam for his generous permission to use, in our companion web site, the video recordings in which he is featured as solo performer. We took full advantage of this consent with the conviction that it offered us the chance to make available to our readers the artistry of arguably the most dynamic, aesthetic, and original manea performer in Romania. We also wish to thank Salam’s manager, Mr. Marian Colcea, who generously facilitated our rapport with him and offered useful information on the latest developments of manele. A very special word of thanks is due to Florin Iordan, who tirelessly and good-naturedly worked through the creation and logistics of our web site. Heartfelt appreciation is also extended to Rodica Oltean, the imaginative and patient designer of our companion web site, who managed to overcome numerous technical problems along the way. We are grateful to our devoted colleagues who faithfully translated the Romanian essays into English: Adrian Solomon, Liz Mellish, and Samuel Willcocks. And we thank the photographers George Popescu, Vlad Ursulean, Beatrice Iordan, Valeriu Rădulescu, and Mirela Radu (a member of our team until 2012), who aided us in various stages of our research, as well as Victor Simonov, who impeccably devised the cartography of our musical notations. Shane Sollow, who permitted us to include one of his photographs, and John DeMetrick, who supplied us with a historical recording of inestimable value, are also among those to whom we express our sincere thanks. Margaret Beissinger’s research in Bucharest and numerous villages in south-central Romania has been supported by a variety of sources that she wishes to acknowledge: the International Research and Exchanges Board, National Council for Eurasian and East European Research, a Vilas Fellowship (at the University of WisconsinMadison), and research funding from Princeton University. Her heartfelt gratitude is expressed, as well, to the extended Zaharia family of lăutari from the village of Mârşa (Giurgiu county): the late Vasile Zaharia, Băieţică, Silvia, Costică, Bebe, Alin, Marian, Tiu, and the late Jenică Zaharia. Since 1998, members of the Zaharia family have opened their doors and generously discussed and demonstrated the production of manele, especially in the rural milieu. Warm thanks are also extended to the lăutar Sile Dorel and his family in Bucharest for their unstinting cooperation over the years. Furthermore, Victor A. Stoichiţă is grateful to the New Europe College Institute for Advanced Study in Bucharest and the University Paris Ouest Nanterre la Défense, which, between 2002 and 2010, supported his field research in Bucharest and rural regions of Romanian Moldova. We thank the editorial staff of the Yearbook for Traditional Music, which has granted us permission to publish “Music, Dance, and Behaviour in a New Form of Expressive Culture: The Romanian Manea” by Anca Giurchescu and Speranţa Rădulescu (in Volume 43, 2011) in a significantly revised form as the first chapter



Acknowledgments xxiii

of this volume. A word of appreciation is also extended to Ciprian Şiulea, the editor-in-chief of the online magazine Criticatac, who consented to our publishing Adrian Schiop’s substantially revised version of “Manele and the Underworld” (originally published in its 18 December 2012 issue) as chapter 7. Finally, an earlier version of Victor A. Stoichiţă’s contribution in chapter 6 is due to appear in the New Europe College Yearbook (“The squire in the helicopter. On parody in Romanian popular music”), the editorship of which kindly agreed to its prepublication in the present volume. We lovingly and gratefully acknowledge our families, who patiently endured our absence and/or unavailability, which happened with increasing frequency in the last few years as our “manea project” necessitated finding opportunities to join forces and work together in Romania. And finally, it is with profound sorrow that we—Speranţa Rădulescu and Margaret Beissinger—salute our beloved late coeditor and author Anca Giurchescu, who bravely and indefatigably worked with us for most of the duration of this volume, contributing with her delightful spirit of inquiry, inimitable determination, and spunk. We are greatly saddened by her passing (in April 2015) and truly regret that she did not live to see this collection of essays in print. It is with deep affection and respect that we dedicate this volume to her.

Introduction Margaret Beissinger

We, the three coeditors of this volume, recently shared with each other our first impressions of manele (sg. manea)—the Balkan “Oriental” ethnopop song-dance form from Romania that is the subject of this collection. For all of us, it was during the 1990s, since the manea, an underground genre during the communist period, was not publicly known in any real measure until after the Romanian Revolution in December 1989. For Speranţa Rădulescu, who has lived her whole life in Romania and thus has the largest claim to “insider-ness” of any of us, recalling an exact moment of recognition is difficult since manele gradually emerged after the revolution and steadily became more and more conspicuous. The genre progressively joined the new cultural landscape in the 1990s as Romania anticipated, with considerable uncertainty, its post-communist journey to become a democratic market economy. By the end of the decade, manele were ubiquitous. For Anca Giurchescu, on the other hand, both a Romanian insider as well as outsider who had lived in Romania until 1979, but then relocated to Denmark but did not—for political reasons—visit Romania at all between then and 1990, hearing manele for the first time was a memorable experience. She was serving, in 1991, as a translator for a Romanian delegation of drivers (sent to Denmark to learn about democratic institutions) and was traveling in a tour bus with them when she suddenly realized that although she understood the Romanian lyrics of the songs piped into the bus, she was unacquainted with the genre. When she asked the drivers what they were listening to, they enthusiastically relayed that it was muzică orientală [Oriental music], while some also called it “Arabic” or “Indian” music. Within several years, as she discovered, all of Romania—for better or for worse—was listening to it. The relative outsider among us is Margaret Beissinger, an American who has repeatedly visited southern Romania for decades and has researched manele since the late 1990s. It was in 1998, while discussing music in the post-communist period xxv

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with a young Romani accordionist in Bucharest, that she was fully introduced to what he called “muzică orientală,” a genre that had, by then, become hugely popular.1 Compared to the omnipresent state-controlled Romanian “folk” music that had been imposed on the population during the communist years, muzică orientală was characterized by new, exotic musical sounds. Yet it was recognizable in other regards: the songs were in Romanian and were performed by Romani musicians at weddings. She realized at once that they were akin to the Balkan-Middle Eastern pop forms such as Yugoslav novokomponovana narodna muzika [newly composed folk music] and its 1990s reincarnation, turbo-folk, as well as Bulgarian svatbarska muzika [wedding music] and its later song form, chalga (also called pop-folk). Subsequent purchase of cassettes and fieldwork at weddings confirmed the southeast European “Oriental” sounds in what was a distinctly Romanian version of the contemporary pan-Balkan phenomenon, one that was changing the collective musical landscape in a myriad of social, cultural, and artistic ways. What was earlier dubbed muzică orientală and is now called manele emerged in post-revolution Romania from the urban Romani music scene that was suddenly liberated from forty-some years of communist-period control and censorship (1947–1989).2 Although the manea had existed unofficially already in the 1970s and 1980s, especially among Roma, it became, after 1989, an extremely popular—yet admittedly controversial—voice of dissent and freedom among Romanians, as well. The genre had remained underground during the communist period for a number of reasons. First, due to its “Oriental” sound (Middle Eastern–inflected rhythms, melodic patterns, and instrumentation), it did not reflect state-sanctioned (albeit narrowly interpreted) Romanian “folk” music. The communist government promoted and perpetuated a reputedly pure Romanian identity, denying Romani or other “Oriental” influences in its “national” music and dance and prohibiting “Gypsy” music in public. Second, the performers of muzică orientală were Roma, a little-understood population that was oppressed and denied ethnic identity by many within the Romanian mainstream.3 Roma had been enslaved in the Romanian principalities (Wallachia and Moldova4) from the late fourteenth century until 1864.5 Among the slaves were lăutari (sg. lăutar): male Romani musicians who, after emancipation, continued, by and large, to monopolize music-making as professional traditional musicians at weddings and other family celebrations in southern Romania. Although frequently admired as musicians, Roma are still viewed by many ethnic Romanians as “Other” in a negative sense. It was lăutari who generated the urban Romani genre muzică orientală (manele) in the late twentieth century, becoming its principal performers. When muzică orientală openly surfaced, after 1989, a significant proportion of Romanian society (especially the educated and professional elite) regarded the genre as kitsch, lowbrow, and “Eastern”—all attributes antithetical to “national” traditional culture (interpreted by many as ethnic Romanian rural folklore) and the Western (“Latin”) identity that many Romanians assert.6 The music was perceived as uncomfortably “Oriental” and “Gypsy” and thus aesthetically objectionable. To emerge from



Introduction xxvii

several generations within a communist cultural vacuum and be greeted by a Balkan “Gypsy” genre was anathema for some. It was noted over and over by the adversaries of muzică orientală that it was offensive because it was “foreign,” “un-Romanian” music. The disdain routinely articulated by the educated and white-collar professionals for muzică orientală itself became an emblem; disapproval of the genre was coded as cultural superiority. Even some lăutari—especially older musicians, many of whom had embarked on their careers during the communist period and thus did not know or identify professionally with muzică orientală—resisted total acceptance of the genre. For decades they had made their living playing Romanian traditional music, which, suddenly in the 1990s, could not, by itself, sustain them any longer, since muzică orientală had become virtually obligatory at weddings and other events at which they performed. But muzică orientală did not only displease. Although it had already been an in-group genre among local Roma before the revolution, its appeal after 1989 expanded. It was adopted as a symbol of youth, working-class, and nouveau-riche culture, and it gained a massive, passionate public fan base. After so many years of state control over culture, muzică orientală presented a seductive, expressive channel as well as a voice of protest and liberation to many. The music, dance, and lyrics furnished a genre that many “ordinary” Romanians were drawn to and embraced in the aftermath of the communist period as they sought exciting and exotic new ways to transcend not only the official, exclusive Romanian “folk” music permitted, but also the state-controlled culture that had been in place for decades. Even apparent detractors of the genre often admitted that after several glasses of wine at a wedding, they actually not only tolerated but even enjoyed manele. Furthermore, manele became the badge of the nouveaux riches (who gained tremendous wealth starting in the 1990s, often illegally), and “manelişti” (performers of manele; sg. manelist), their allies and advocates. In addition to local factors affecting the development of manele after 1989, regional influences were also crucial. Romania is situated within a broad Balkan continuum and shares various historical, political, social, and cultural conditions with its neighbors, among them the Ottoman past,7 the imposition of communist rule, and subsequent mass industrialization and urbanization after World War II, the collapse of communism during the late twentieth century, the Orthodox faith, and a pervasive traditional way of life. “Oriental” ethnopop styles were generated throughout the Balkans in the latter twentieth century, representing the massive political and social changes taking place at that time.8 Thus, the traditional and popular cultures of the Balkans mingled in varying degrees, and the music trends south and southwest of Romania’s borders that represented them were fundamental to the rise of manele. While the three of us were driven by a mutual desire to document and understand the manea phenomenon in contemporary Romanian society, it is no secret that we each came to this project with differing agendas. We all asked different questions about manele, informed by our training, areas of expertise, and experience researching

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Romanian society as well as our own peculiar insider-versus-outsider status. These questions prompted a sense of urgency on our part; we all felt strongly that manele represented something too conspicuous and significant, in the context of Romania’s post-1989 transition, to ignore. And so we joined forces several years ago with the intention of compiling a volume of essays about manele. We invited four other authors to write essays that would join our own as we addressed the central questions as to the meaning and functions of manele in their broadest sense. We and our fellow authors interrogate what manele are; how they sound; what they say; how they are composed; who their authors, performers, and audiences are; where they are heard; and why they have engendered such a caustic reaction among their foes while appealing at such a deep emotional level to their fans. Perhaps most critical is the underlying question that embraces all of these concerns: how manele have exemplified the often turbulent journey that Romania has made, from the fateful Christmas Day in 1989 when, after a brief, televised “trial,” the dictator Nicolae Ceauşescu and his wife, Elena, were summarily executed by government rebels, to the years of corruption and economic crisis throughout the 1990s, entry into the European Union in 2007, and increasing globalization and continued passage—frequently painful—en route to a democratic twenty-first-century society. Why and how are manele a part of this narrative? Our queries and responses speak to aesthetics, class, race, gender, place, and generational divisions, as well as local, regional, and global identity. The seven authors in this volume belong to a range of different disciplines (ethnomusicology, musicology, ethnochoreology, ethnography, and anthropology) and include specialists at research institutions, university professors, an independent scholar, and a journalist. Moreover, most of us are Romanians, including two residing in Western Europe, while one is American. The projected Euro-American readership will encounter scholars and specialists, then, from a wide variety of backgrounds and places, in some cases for the first time. In addition to the introduction and epilogue, nine chapters and a companion website9 (accessible at manele-in-romania.ro) comprise the contents of the volume. Each chapter addresses a particular topic relating to manea form, content, and production, and each offers descriptive and/or theoretical findings supported for the most part by fieldwork. Manele were observed in traditional contexts (at weddings and baptisms), as well as at parties, restaurants, nightclubs, and concerts. For the four Romanian authors living in Bucharest, fieldwork has been, one could say, an ongoing project. They have continuously, in a sense, been observing manele, and their perspectives—living with and experiencing manele on a constant basis or whenever they wished—render invaluable insider outlooks on the genre. For the other three (residing in Europe and the United States), research has included both prolonged periods of time devoted to manele in the field as well as concentrated stages of intermittent observation (in some cases since the 1990s), resulting in detailed accounts of the genre in a chronological sense. For all of us, obstacles at times interfered with our field research. Some of the authors were denied attendance to events (such as



Introduction xxix

weddings of Mafia bosses) when hosts did not want their world exposed to outsiders, while others encountered problems attempting to record manele in nightclubs or restaurants due to in-house rules forbidding any type of documentation. By contrast, a useful source of information not determined by the conditions of field research at live performances was provided by clips of manele posted on YouTube. The advantages of this source include the great diversity of available information and the “documentary” input offered by the commentary included. A significant disadvantage of this, however, is the instability of the clips that are sometimes only temporarily posted and subsequently erased. Notwithstanding, the fieldwork understaken for this volume resulted in a richly diverse collection of materials, including video and sound recordings, photos, detailed field notes, interviews, and music and dance notations. The contents of this volume, characterized by both descriptive and interpretative discussions of manele, includes three clusters of chapters, each linked by larger themes, objectives, and ethnographic perspectives. The first cluster (chapters 1–4) contextualizes manele in terms of music and dance, history, the mechanics of the music, and the place manele occupy in the Balkans. In chapter 1, “Music, Dance, Performance: A Descriptive Analysis of Manele,” Anca Giurchescu and Speranţa Rădulescu offer, as ethnomusicologist and ethnochoreographer, respectively, a broad overview of the manea phenomenon in Romania, both past and present. The authors address the diversity of forms that manele take, describing their musical, dance, song, and performative components. They demonstrate that manele created and performed at life cycle celebrations and other public events by hired Romani musicians (called both manelişti and lăutari) are the product of a syncretic merging of music, text, dance, gestures, and styles of presentation that aim to appeal to diverse categories of customers. Some patrons are wealthy profiteers of capitalism who have emerged in the last quarter-century in Romania and whose money, power, and prestige the musicians extol. Others include poor and working-class youth—Romanians and Roma alike—in whom the musicians instill hopes that a grandiose way of life, such as depicted in manele, is within reach. The chapter establishes manele as a powerful contemporary form of aesthetic and cultural discourse. Chapter 2, “A History of the Manea: The Nineteenth to the Mid-Twentieth Century,” is a discussion of the historic roots of manele. The author, musicologist Costin Moisil, disputes the “mainstream” history of the genre, which situates the first manele already in the Romanian principalities of the eighteenth century, if not before. He systematically explores the chief sources that mention manele prior to 1960, demonstrating that “manea” was a generic term employed starting in the mid-1800s that designated various “Oriental” musics from contemporary or earlier times. Moisil argues that even though a definitive date as to when the manea actually appeared in the Romanian principalities is not possible, it is reasonable to assume that it arrived from the urban Turkish world via Romanian lăutari, or singers from Constantinople, during the first decades of the nineteenth century. Chapter 3, “How the Music of Manele Is Structured,” contains a discussion of the ways in which manele, as oral musical compositions, are created and transmitted.

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Here Rădulescu explores how homogenization, diversification, and stylistically standardized heterogeneity characterize the three stages of manea development and suggests that these stages follow more or less historical changes in the demographic and political-economic development of Bucharest, the capital of Romania and source of most twentieth-century manele. An examination of several variants of Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], a manea that has circulated for three decades, is included as an illustration of how manea music is structured, in particular its diachronic and synchronic transformations. The fourth chapter, “Romanian Manele and Regional Parallels: ‘Oriental’ Ethnopop in the Balkans,” situates the manea in a broad regional and comparative perspective as ethnographer Margaret Beissinger considers southern Romanian manele in the context of other ethnopop genres (Serbian turbo-folk and Bulgarian chalga). All of them emerged during the latter twentieth century and are distinguished by Middle Eastern-inflected popular musical styles and hackneyed lyrics (generally about love, sex, and/or power). Wedding parties and urban nightclubs afford the main context for the live performance of Balkan ethnopop; the music also circulates widely on recordings and music videos. These resemblances are not entirely surprising given the constellation of southeast European cultures in which Romania is located and the longtime historical and social ties that have existed in the region. But there are also differences, one of the most conspicuous, in addition to language, being the performers and, by extension, the textual content of their songs. Whereas the singers of manele in southern Romania are by and large male and Romani, the vocalists who perform comparable songs elsewhere in the Balkans are typically female and belong to the ethnic mainstream of their societies. Beissinger’s reading of the lyrics of these Balkan genres reveals differences informed by the gender and ethnicity of their vocalists. She posits that these disparities are due in part to the nature of the power relationships—both historical and contemporary—between patrons and performers in the communities examined and suggests that they are part of the legacy of five hundred years of Romani slavery in Romania, which institutionalized music-making among male Roma. The second cluster of chapters (5–8) addresses, in a variety of ways, the intersection between manea performers and the other participants—writ large—engaged in performance, from audience and dancers to patrons and the media. Rădulescu’s “Actors and Performance” (chapter 5) tackles the large cast of “actors” who are involved in the discursive production, dissemination, and interpretation of manele: the manelişti/lăutari, public, dancers, admirers, adversaries, and media. The motivations that drive them, as well as their attitudes and outlooks, the means by which they express themselves, the ethnic groups that they represent, and their musical and/or choreographic competence are observed in this chapter. How manelişti/lăutari, dancers, and the public interact in performance is treated in detail. In the sixth chapter, “The ‘Boyar in the Helicopter’: Power, Parody, and Carnival in Manea Performances,” anthropologist Victor Stoichiţă likewise takes up the question of the reception of manele by fans and casual listeners, but from a different slant.



Introduction xxxi

His analysis is based on observation of live performances, discussions with musicians and their audiences, and readings of textual and musical features of the songs. Stoichiţă describes ways in which manele embody ideas of power, proposing to understand manele as sonic and textual “techniques of enchantment.”10 He focuses on the parodic and ironic aspects of the listeners’ engagement with these songs and discusses the links between this musical phenomenon and the European tradition of violent feasts, most notably the carnival. The seventh chapter, “Manele and the Underworld,” by Adrian Schiop (a journalist with a recent doctorate in anthropology who assumes the perspective of an insider) is a fitting continuation to the discussion of relationships between manelişti/ lăutari and the public in chapters 5 and 6. Schiop is a devotee of manele and has daily contact with the culture that spawns them, as he lives in one of the best-known Romani neighborhoods in Bucharest, Ferentari. He is drawn to the dynamism as well as the brutal and expressive intensity of manele, and his affection for the genre has enabled him to infiltrate the normally impenetrable universe of those who produce and disseminate it. Combining the interpretive skills of journalism with anthropological research tools, Schiop explores the veiled relationships between the underworld, nouveaux riches (who exploit the economic situation in present-day Romania), and manelişti/lăutari, who sing their praises. The focus on musicians and the performative continues in chapter 8, a discussion of how manele function in rural Romania (“Village Manele: An Urban Genre in Rural Romania”). Here Beissinger explores the post-1989 tensions and resentments generated between village musicians and the manelişti in Bucharest, who command and disseminate the manea repertoire. Drawing from fieldwork, she examines how the performance of manele in village communities has evolved to the present day, focusing in particular on how the genre has been both adopted and adapted in the rural context. Because manele became so popular, lăutari at village weddings in southern Romania were essentially required to perform them along with traditional repertoire; the genre accordingly became a “make it or break it” phenomenon. Demonstrating that by the late-1990s, manele had fundamentally altered village music-making by Romani performers, Beissinger argues that the changes in the wedding repertoire became so profound that they produced a genuine crisis for musicians both economically (how to perpetuate, and in some cases salvage, their occupations and thus provide for their families) and musically (how to learn and adjust performance-wise to the new musical forms). Her analysis also challenges the notion of the iconic divide between rural and urban culture. The final two chapters—9 and the epilogue: a cluster in its own right—present rich meditations on manele that evoke pronouncements on the social and political meaning and possible future of the genre. With chapter 9, “Turbo-Authenticity: An Essay on Manelism,” our outlook on manele as a local genre is extended once again, this time in a political sense, as anthropologist Vintilă Mihăilescu considers the significance of manele as part of a broad social phenomenon deeply rooted in post-totalitarian “decompression.” The individual search for social repositioning

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and “authenticity” in this loosely regulated but compulsively market-oriented space is characterized by a “primitive accumulation of desire” that fuels a large variety of social practices and expectations. Mihăilescu compellingly argues that it is this “manelized” society itself that has engendered the mushrooming of manele, and not the other way around, as canonically stated by most of the Romanian public elites. Finally, in the epilogue, Rădulescu picks up from her earlier discussion in chapter 1 of past and present in the manea trajectory, bringing the volume to a close. Here, graced with her exquisite insider perspective, she ponders the past, present, and future not only of manele but of the place and cultural experience of Romania in the third millennium. This collection, the first volume dedicated entirely to manele, is written for a reasonably diverse audience, including both specialists and nonspecialists. The readers will doubtless include ethnomusicologists, musicologists, ethnographers, anthropologists, cultural historians, and journalists, in other words, those who share the same disciplines and professions as the authors who have contributed to the book. But the volume is also meant for anyone and everyone interested in southeastern Europe, Romania, Romani society and culture, post-1989 pop culture in Eastern Europe, and, in fact, contemporary traditional and popular music trends in general. We three, along with our four colleagues, have crafted an eclectic volume in which answers to the diverse questions posed here in the introduction are offered—and sometimes in a distinct number of ways. In the responses to the various inquiries that drive the authors, many different perspectives and even viewpoints are conveyed, and diverse styles of scholarship are employed. In other words, the contributions by this group of authors suggest a wide range of ways to observe and read manele. We firmly believe that there are no exclusively right or wrong answers to the myriad questions that we have asked, but rather a variety of different possible answers, all of them, we hope, that will further knowledge and understanding of the intriguing manea phenomenon in post-communist Romania. Furthermore, the chapters and epilogue presented in this collection also provide a critical assessment of one of the most significant social processes of our time: globalization and its enormous impact on culture. The volume addresses—in original and nuanced ways—how the local, national, regional, and international coalesce and inform a complex “experience” in which music, song, dance, performer, performance, audience, and event intersect in powerful and expressive ways, representing arguably the most influential and significant popular cultural event of post-1989 Romania.

NOTES 1.  The popularity of the genre had increased significantly since her previous visit to Romania three years earlier.



Introduction xxxiii

2.  In 1945, Romania was occupied by the Soviet Union but did not officially become the People’s Republic of Romania until 1947; in 1965 it was renamed the Socialist Republic of Romania. The communist government in Romania was overthrown in December 1989. 3.  Roma in Romania comprise a significant minority. In the 2011 census, the number of self-declared Roma was 621,600 out of a total population of 20,121,600: 3.3 percent of the population (Institutul Naţional de Statistică 2011:5). But it is widely known that many Roma do not declare Romani identity; other estimates of Roma have ranged from 4.6 percent to over 10 percent of the population (Cace and Lazăr 2003:6; Surdu and Wamsiedel 2012:9). 4.  Wallachia was in the south and Moldova in the northeast of today’s Romania (see map, figure 1.1). 5.  Crowe 1991:61–7; see also Achim 2004, chapter 2. 6.  See Beissinger 2007. 7.  Wallachia and Moldova were under Turkish suzerainty from the early fourteenth and mid-sixteenth centuries, respectively, until 1877. 8.  See Buchanan 2007a. 9.  The website includes visual figures as well as audio and video examples for most of the chapters. 10.  Gell 1988; Gell 1992.

A Note on Pronunciation

Romanian is a phonetic language. Consonants by and large are pronounced as in English with several exceptions: h is aspirated except at the beginning of a word, and r is rolled. The letter c, when followed by e or i, is pronounced as “ch,” as in “cheese”; g, followed by e or i, is pronounced as “g,” as in “gentle.” Hard c or g followed by e or i are rendered as “ch” and “gh.” The letter j has a “zh” sound and is pronounced like “s,” as in “closure.” Diacritics soften s and t so that ş is pronounced like “sh,” as in “ship,” while ţ is pronounced as “ts,” as in “hits.” Vowels include a as in “father,” e as in “extra,” i as in “routine,” o as in “order,” and u as in “fluent.” Vowels with diacritics include â and î, pronounced like “a” as in “relevant,” and ă, pronounced like “e” as in “mother.”

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1 Music, Dance, Performance A Descriptive Analysis of Manele Anca Giurchescu and Speranţa Rădulescu

The word manea, to the best of our knowledge, first appeared in print in the midnineteenth century. It most likely referred to oral music fashionable in Moldova in earlier decades. In order to understand the development of the manea (pl. manele), we will provide, in the pages following, a brief history of urban music from the east and south of Romania, starting with 1800 and concluding with the end of the first decade of the third millennium. As we compared the Greek and Turkish music in vogue at the beginning of the nineteenth century to the popular music of today, we realized that the historical period spanning these years was marked by changes too great to be treated as a whole. We also noticed that each historical epoch over the past two hundred–some years, irrespective of size or criteria of delimitation, has been associated with at least one musical form liable to originate in or be influenced by music from the Balkans south of the Danube River, the southern boundary of Romania. In fact, sometimes it was not only one musical form that was linked to a historical epoch but several, each at a different stage of its development (about to take root, in full blossom, or nearly extinct) and each appreciated by a different social class. In addition to these musical forms, designated here as “Orientalized,” there also existed Romanian musical forms in which the European style predominated (i.e., “Occidentalized”), with solid, continuous trajectories but differing visibility in the foreground of public life. The entry and exit of all of these musical forms on and off of a cultural “stage” can be pictured as “waves” that take shape and break up, collide or follow distinct paths, and succeed one another or coexist in a diverse, polyphonic musical fabric. However clichéd it may sound, it is impossible not to recognize that during the past two centuries in the Romanian principalities (Wallachia and Moldova1), “Orientalized” and “Occidentalized” urban musics coexisted simultaneously both in the same and different social milieus (see figure/example 1.1).2 1

2

Anca Giurchescu and Speranţa Rădulescu

Figure 1.1.  Present-day Romania and its provinces Map: Gloria Dragomirescu

In many cases, these “waves” seem to be generated by the dominant political events and/or ideas of one historical epoch or another. The duration of any given musical form, however, did and does not necessarily coincide with specific political or historical events. Greek and Turkish musics remained in circulation in the cities and courts of the aristocracy for two to three decades after the demise of the Phanariot regime (1821).3 In the meantime, a rapid Westernization of all aspects of social and cultural life was occurring simultaneously with the formation of the Romanian nation. The distinct orientation toward the musics of the West was evolving by 1850, as the Turco-Greek “wave” of music was changing and migrating to the countryside, where it was integrated into rural musical forms, remnants of which can still be observed up to the beginning of the twenty-first century. The idea of building a nation to prepare for the political unification of all the provinces inhabited mainly by Romanians under the banner of the same state— which was dominant from the mid-nineteenth century until 1918 and later—was accompanied by “national arias” [arii naţionale], “Occidentalized” works by professional Romani musicians from the big cities. This music survived, in diluted forms, until recently. In the 1970s and 1980s, “Serbian” or “Serbian-Banat” music began to spread.4 At that time, Romanians looked up to Yugoslavia, the only neighboring socialist country whose citizens seemed prosperous and were free to travel and listen to whatever music they wished, whereas Romanians were poor—prisoners within their own borders and forced to consume the national-communist folklore broadcast by the



Music, Dance, Performance 3

state-controlled media. The Romanians from the southwestern province of Banat were drawn to the popular Serbian-Banat music, with an elusive Balkan sound that emanated from neighboring Yugoslavia—first dubbed “newly composed folk music” [novokomponovana narodna muzika] and later known as turbo-folk—which they modified to adjust to local tastes. In its new guise, Serbian-Banat music conquered the cities and villages of all of Romania. It is still performed today at most celebrations, as well as wedding and baptism banquets. In some cases, the connection between Balkan musical “waves” and actual events that might have caused them is difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps this must be so; perhaps behind all the explanations that we seek lies a deeper explanation that transcends immediate circumstances: the political and cultural ties established and maintained over the centuries in the Balkan world. After all, Romanians share not only Christian Orthodoxy with the Greeks and most of the Slavs in the region, but also several centuries of political and/or cultural dependence on the Byzantine and (later) Ottoman Empires, not to mention a host of historical events that have marked them all (Todorova 2000:253). Moreover, linguistically, Romanian bears certain resemblances to other Balkan languages, especially Bulgarian, Macedonian, and Albanian (Beissinger 2007:98, 136). Despite the fact that the subordination to the Porte of the southern and eastern Romanian territories did not consist in actual military occupation but rather suzerainty, Balkan musical influences were exerted through a number of sources: Turkish, and later Greek, court music—first imposed on and later willingly adopted by aristocrats; the music of Turks, Aromanians, Armenians, and Albanians who settled in cities for business and other kinds of affairs; and the music of the many Greeks, both aristocrats and commoners, who put down roots all over the territory of the principalities during the Phanariot regime. Thus, the centuries-old past does not vanish without a trace. It is periodically reactivated by new waves of “Orientalized” musics, reinvented time and again by the inhabitants of Romania in musical terms of the present. Such a wave has flooded the popular music of Romania in recent decades: the wave of contemporary manele. Let us now turn to an overview and a general descriptive analysis of manele in Romania.

OVERVIEW The popular musical landscape of Romania today is dominated by manele, which appeared in the late 1960s as a form of symbolic opposition by Romani5 communities from the slums of the cities on the Danube to their exclusion from Romanian society. In time, manele became an expression of implicit protest by ordinary people from any ethnic background, and by the 1970s and 1980s it had gradually penetrated cities and villages. After the collapse of communism in 1989, manele spread throughout the entire country and are now the favorite music of the working class, nouveaux riches of the transitional period, teenagers, and young people, comprising together about one-third of the population. The power of manele arises from the

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dominant role it plays at both public and private events, such as concerts, weddings, baptisms, funerals, anniversaries, and other social events at restaurants and clubs. It also receives high visibility on private television channels and the Internet and is disseminated by a continuous flow of commercial CDs and DVDs. The manea seems to have originated in the Ottoman aristocratic music (which had also absorbed an important Greek component) that was still strong in the early nineteenth century. The roots of the manea are suggested chiefly by its name,6 preserved in Romanian journalism and literature up to the first decades of the twentieth century. Today, manele draw heavily on both (pan-)Balkan popular musics and other sources, mostly local and Euro-American.7 Because of its ambiguous cosmopolitan features and lack of “national specificity” (as well as for other reasons to which we will refer below), intellectuals, purist cultural bureaucrats, and older people criticize manele in harsh terms. Thus, it has both advocates and opponents, all of them ardently determined to uphold their viewpoints. Supporters of manele are apparently more active, however, and their energy is enough to keep it in fashion. Seen from the objective distance that an ethnologist attempts to maintain, manele are the cumulative product of Romania’s Balkan-Oriental past, the nationalist cultural policies of the former communist regime, Western cultural pressure, accelerated globalization, and the wild capitalism marring the country in the last two decades, including the unclear social relations it has generated. Manele are not simply music but rather a complex, syncretic phenomenon, borne from the fusion of a relatively new vocal and instrumental music on the one hand, and specific lyrical verses, dance, gestures, speeches, clothing, visual symbols, and patterns of behavior during its production on the other. A significant phenomenon is that manele have also become, in their amplitude and dynamism, a pretext for the venting of social tensions whose causes are older and deeper than the apparent ones, that is, sympathy or antipathy toward manele. We present, in the pages following, an ethnographic description of the manea phenomenon, beginning with a review of its historical path and followed by ethnological interpretations.8

HISTORICAL DATA During the mid-nineteenth century, the principalities of Wallachia and Moldova (in the south and east, respectively, of present-day Romania) were still under Turkish suzerainty, an attenuated form of the three-hundred-year vassalage that they experienced.9 Between 1711 and 1821, the Sublime Porte determined that the Romanian principalities would each be governed by a Greek ruler who was to be recruited from the Phanar District in Constantinople. This was the period during which the “Orientalization” of social and cultural life in the Romanian principalities reached



Music, Dance, Performance 5

its peak while also acquiring a nonspecific, pan-Balkan color. The two principalities were united in 1859, gained their independence from the Ottomans in 1877, and became the nucleus of the current national state of Romania. Nevertheless, for a long time, even up until the present, cultural expression in these regions has preserved signs of Ottoman domination. The other provinces, Transylvania and Banat, situated in the western third of Romania, endured a shorter period of Turkish vassalage (1526–1683) with relatively minor cultural repercussions. The term manea first appeared in Moldovan records in the 1850s. At the time, it designated a slow, languid, possibly free-rhythm Turkish love song interspersed with wails that had been in fashion a few decades previously (see chapter 2). The manea, accompanied by the tanbur, was sung at social gatherings by the Romani slave musicians of the boyars, as well as at times by the boyars themselves. Once forced to adopt “Oriental music” at court, the boyars remained attached to it after the coercion had waned. The European-influenced Romanian intelligentsia criticized it, however, as a reminder of a past that they had hoped to erase from their fellow countrymen’s collective memory. Their preferences leaned toward Western music spread by opera and operetta companies on tour in the Romanian principalities, as well as Central European–inspired army brass bands that had recently replaced the Turkish mehterhane [military brass band], Romanian symphonic orchestras that were taking root in the big cities, and the music of young women who were beginning to display their skills as pianists and guitarists in aristocratic and bourgeois salons. The only written evidence of a nineteenth-century manea is a piece in psalm notation from 1830 that was later rewritten in linear or Western notation. It is debatable, however, whether this represents an actual manea or whether it was a different genre of Ottoman music (see figure 2.1). By the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century, the manea was gradually being performed less frequently and typically by older lăutari (professional traditional Romani musicians; sg. lăutar) for their more conservative patrons (Alexandru 1980b:273). On a recording published around 1928, the American ethnomusicologist John DeMetrick discovered a rather dynamic manea played by an urban taraf (instrumental or vocal-instrumental ensemble specializing in traditional music, rural or urban; pl. tarafuri).10 Its melody was recognized by Florin Iordan as a Turkish song recorded on the small Danube island of Ada Kaleh (inhabited exclusively by Turks) probably in the 1960s by an unknown researcher from the Institute of Ethnography and Folklore in Bucharest (see figure 1.2 and example 1.211). In 1949, two folklorists came across an instrumental Turkish manea in the village of Clejani (Giurgiu County), southwest of Bucharest. Its slow melody, in line with the local traditional style, also discreetly outlines an “Oriental” sound (see figure 1.3 and example 1.3).12 Another piece called a manea, in quick tempo and very different from the manea from Clejani, was recorded in 1962 at Brâncoveanca, another village near the Danube.13 It would be risky, however, to connect it with the nineteenth-century manea. Moreover, “it is not clear when the manea song form developed dance associations” (Beissinger 2007:106).

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Figure 1.2.  “Turkish manea”: Aman Doctor

Collection of John DeMetrik; transcribed by Speranţa Rădulescu

In the mid-1960s, several musicians from Bucharest launched a form of music that was perceived as absolutely new: the manea. It seemed to be borrowed from the Turks of Dobruja (a province in southeastern Romania and northeastern Bulgaria) who were quite numerous at the time. Its distinctive element was the syncopated rhythmic accompaniment (amphibrach + spondee, i.e., ∪ − ∪ /− −), identical to the çiftetelli pattern. A few pieces circumvented national communist censorship and made it to commercial LPs. The new manea spread in the Romani milieus of southern Romanian cities and villages, according to studies made in the 1970s by Anca Giurchescu and Robert Garfias (Garfias 1984:88). Its music, this time the basis of a dance in which women excelled, seemed a far cry from the lascivious music of the aristocratic manea of the previous century. Its simple, scarcely ornamented melody, with a precise beat, was sung with a vocal timbre and presentation considered by Romanians to be specific to Roma. Most of the associated lyrics were erotic. Some manele, however, extolled an idyllic Romani slum. In the 1980s, the new manea was not yet well-known. At a celebration, it would be performed once or twice by the typical Romani band of the time: violin, cimbalom, accordion, double bass, and sometimes clarinet, saxophone, and/or trumpet, all of which were amplified. (Serbian-Banat music influenced by Yugoslav “newly composed folk music” was simultaneously fashionable in Romanian milieus.) Manele were promoted by a few music bands that recorded them in clandestine studios and sold recordings on the black market at extortionate prices. In the early 1990s,

Figure 1.3.  “Turkish manea” from the village of Clejani

Collected by Paula Carp and Constantin Zamfir; transcribed by Pascal Bentoiu (Archives of the Constantin Brăiloiu Institute of Ethnography and Folklore, Bucharest); in Tiberiu Alexandru, Instrumentele muzicale ale poporului român, Bucharest: Editura de stat pentru literatură şi artă, 1956

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immediately after the anti-communist revolution of 1989, manele eluded the censorship, which, in any case, was disintegrating in the new political climate. Popular bands rushed to record manele and Serbian-Banat music in hundreds of versions. Newly established private labels quickly produced cassettes that were distributed all over the country, but especially in Muntenia and Moldova, the provinces once dependent on the Sublime Porte. Manele became constituents, then, of a larger category generically named “Oriental music,” with alternative names including “Turkish music,” “Arabic music,” and “Gypsy music,” popular in both Romani and Romanian communities (Beissinger 2007; S. Rădulescu 2000). By the end of the 1990s, manele topped this category in popularity. As in the nineteenth century, however, the term manea was often employed indiscriminately to any “Oriental-sounding” pieces that eventually became increasingly different from one another, losing any coherence as a designation. Today, the plural form manele, used by people in everyday conversation, appropriately reflects the diversity of the genre. Manele today comprise a dynamic music, performed live with deafening intensity and timbres distorted by echo effects; the music sometimes includes densely ornamented melodies and a particular vocal timbre. Perceived as “modern,” manele fascinate ordinary Romanians, chiefly the poorly educated younger generations in both villages and cities. In regionally adapted forms, manele became popular even in Transylvania, where people have less of an inclination for exotic oddities.14 Anyone can dance to manele, but the expert dancers are always Roma. Manele can be heard everywhere: in the streets and parks, on buses and taxis, in private homes, and in restaurants and stores. Specialists have also emerged: manelişti (sg. manelist), that is, manea composers and performers who, like all professional traditional musicians (lăutari), are able to perform various other traditional and popular musics as well. An entire industry has been established for the creation, commodification, dissemination, and consumption of manele: recording studios, management agencies, club restaurants, nightclubs, newspapers, and magazines, many owned by manelişti themselves. Just as in the nineteenth century, intellectuals find manele repulsive—as in the other Balkan countries, for instance, chalga in Bulgaria (Statelova 2005). It is the lyrics that repel intellectuals the most: they are viewed as immoral, vulgar, and uncouth, in consonance with the fierce capitalism, corruption, and moral decay in today’s Romania. To these intellectuals, manele stand for society’s tendency toward “Gypsification” and a stubbornness to remain anchored in the Turco-Oriental cultural universe.15 Journalists speak and write, in helpless anger, about the “manelization” of culture, politics, and the country at large. A pseudoscientific theory has appeared and is being spread via the Internet that “demonstrates” the biological inferiority of manea admirers. Acid remarks about manele and their fans, declarations of war against manele signed by young people, and even an anti-manea computer virus can be found on Romanian websites. The mayor of Cluj has issued an ordinance forbidding taxi drivers from listening to manele at work (national television channel, 2011). But these concerted attacks have failed to stem the progress of manele; on the contrary, they seem to boost it.



Music, Dance, Performance 9

Manele continue on their own trajectory, on their own path of perpetual change, their features modified, their boundaries dissolved, progressively unclassifiable, at the crossroads of most diverse musics. Their syncopated rhythmic patterns incorporate a large range of alternatives quite remote from the initially distinctive çiftetelli rhythm (see figure/example 1.4).16 Their “color” range is enriched by timbres imported from traditional and popular musics throughout the world, all electronically manipulated and powerfully amplified. Within manele, two branches of music have emerged: Orientalized and Occidentalized manele. The former are more akin to Balkan musics, while the latter are mainly indebted to Euro-American popular musics. But assigning actual manele to one of the two categories is seldom simple. In manele, the Oriental music of the past and the European music of the present confront each other for a major stake: the Romanian collective imagination (Stokes 2000) (see figure/examples 1.517). Is there any connection between the nineteenth-century manea and the presentday form with the same name? The music seems to have been put on hold for about a half century, but the name has been kept alive in literary fiction. Has not perhaps the word manea (pl. manele) come to mean a musical reality that is different from

Figure 1.4.  Manea rhythms Notation by Speranţa Rădulescu

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Figure 1.5.  Scene from Miss Piranda contest Photo: George Popescu

the original, once it regained its position in the popular vocabulary? The only firm assertion we can make in this respect is that the name, today as always, designates a musical genre with distinct characteristics as well as an entire category of hypothetically “Oriental” musics. This secondary referent may be the only connection between the manea of the past and that of the present.

THE DANCE The roots of the manea dance are found in the “Oriental” (Ottoman and Balkan) dances köçek, çengi, and çiftetelli, with which it shares basic rhythmic patterns and a substantial part of the kinetic vocabulary. Practiced mainly in Turkish urban settings, these dance types were spread throughout the Balkan Peninsula at the beginning of the nineteenth century by Ottoman army bands (mehterhane), then numerous in the territories of present-day Serbia, Bulgaria, and the Republic of Macedonia. Transformed through interaction with each culture that absorbed them, these dance types developed into a host of variants that have remained highly vital to this day. The conceptual model for all of them, however, is a generic form of “Oriental” belly dance that functions as a common denominator. Roma preserved and disseminated these dance variants within the Muslim communities of southern Serbia, Kosovo, and Macedonia, and this is the reason why the köçek, çengi and çiftetelli are commonly considered Romani in derivation.



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In Ottoman society (1300–1918), the terms köçek and çengi both designated an institutionalized group of professional entertainers and the dances they interpreted. Indeed, people took pleasure in the dance performances, songs, and pantomimes of young men with a feminine appearance called köçek and young girls named çengi. Within the köçek group, most of the interpreters were young Roma, Armenians, Jews, and Greeks because Islam forbids believers from exposing themselves publicly in this “degrading” way. By the middle of the seventeenth century, there were some three thousand of these dancers organized in approximately twelve companies. Their performance consisted of a dance suite introduced by slow movements involving various parts of the body (hips, belly, and shoulders) accompanied by codified gestures—understood only by initiates—and snapping of finger cymbals. The second part was quick, accelerating toward a climax. It included acrobatic movements (somersaults and rolling upon the ground) and the spinning of a veil (see example 1.618). The köçek dancers were so beloved by their audiences that poets sang their praises in verse, extolling their skills and physical beauty. The dancing boys were a safe substitute for the prohibited women and girls, and any sexual liaisons that might have resulted were very much a part of the culture, even if not considered respectable. By the middle of the nineteenth century, however, the köçek entertainers, considered a scandalous troupe of performers, were officially outlawed. The dancing boys (in groups or individually) continued to exist until the present day, performing in coffee shops, in taverns, and at diverse celebrations in the villages and towns of Anatolia, Thrace, and in the Balkan countries (PopescuJudetz 1982:52–3) (see example 1.719). The female professional dancers called çengi were first mentioned at the end of the seventeenth century, when they started to perform in public places. They were organized in companies, each comprised of twelve dancers led by a “manager.” It is assumed, however, that çengi dancers were performing much earlier in harems and in other private venues. The dancers were accompanied by both instrumentalists as well as a female singer, called a çingene (a Romani woman), who also played the def (Oriental membranophone instrument). The climax of their performance (comprised of several sections) was a kind of belly dance with swaying movements, rocking, and the vibrating of the hips and belly (see figure 1.6/example 1.8). More specifically, falling upon the knees with a backbend of the trunk, shimmering of the shoulders, and sensuous shaking of the breasts—as described for çengi—are characteristic movements for Romani female dancing in southern Romania as well. Although the çengi professional troupes ceased to be as popular and indeed were suppressed by the middle of the nineteenth century, the individual dancers continued to perform as street dancers, “belly dancers” in taverns, and dancing itinerants who traveled from one village to another. The social context of their performances were weddings in Muslim communities and festive occasions at female private gatherings (PopescuJudetz 1982:56). This rather detailed presentation of köçek and çengi underscores the striking similarities between the Ottoman and Romani dance styles that were passed on to the Romanian manea.

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Figure 1.6.  Çengi dancer, eighteenth century

In Eugenia Popescu-Judetz, “Köçek and Çengi in Turkish Culture,” Dance Studies (1982)

Foreign travelers described in detailed accounts and graphic illustrations the impact of the Ottoman and Greek cultures on the lifestyle, clothing, and entertainment of Wallachian high society during the second half of the eighteenth century. In the realm of dance, however, they stress with more or less acuity the repertoire comprised of traditional “folk dances” (e.g., the horă: a Romanian peasant circle dance in a moderate tempo) that were performed at festive occasions organized by the court or land owners (boyars). It appears that the musicians who played at these occasions were exclusively Roma.20 Mention is made, however, of dance occasions such as the



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ball organized by the prince of Ligné for one hundred boyar couples on 1 December 1788, where several “ethnic dances” were interpreted with great success: “the Pyrric and other Greek dances, Moldovan, Arnautes, Turkish, Wallachian, Egyptian, and so on.”21 Considering this context, the belly dance cannot be excluded from the dance­ scape of the time. It was, apparently, a “new trend arriving from Constantinople that brought along the dance (bayadera) that in the Orient was performed only by ‘discredited professional women and men,’” wrote Count Jerzy Augus Muiszech on his way to Constantinople in 1755.22 When the Phanariot regime came to an end in 1821, Ottoman culture still dominated the high society of southern Romania. Western culture, however, had started to take root at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and the process of modernization under French influence was developing with great speed, especially in the realm of dance. In a note added in 1824, the same prince of Ligné wrote: “In less than one year, all the ladies of Moldova and Wallachia have adopted the European dress. The dance went through a revolution as well. The national dances were banished or at least despised. Now, the dances that are learned are: the Polonaises, Anglaises, waltz, Françaises; and the ladies are very talented for all—whatever they want to learn” (Iorga 1898). To the best of our knowledge, there is no recorded information about manea dancing (or any other “Oriental” dance) before 1950. This is due to the private, rather hidden existence of these dances in Romani communities (including family settings), the lack of sustained dance research before this date, and—last but not least—the officially imposed “ignorance” about Roma (and, implicitly, research on their culture) by the communist regime. Consequently, since the early 1950s, few variants of the köçek or çiftetelli23 have been documented in Dobruja or the Danube Plain—either in the Tatar and Turkish repertoires or in those of the Roma. In other words, it appears likely that the penetration of Turkish music and dances into Romanian territory must have been mediated by Roma (Garfias 1984:86; Beissinger 2007:122).24 The fact is that all of the Ottoman dance forms similar to köçek, çengi, and çiftetelli must have existed sporadically and surreptitiously for a very long time among the urban and rural Roma of southern Romania. As an elderly musician remarked, they are “old Gypsy dances, because it is only we who dance them” (see example 1.925). The earliest documentary evidence of a manea dance dates from 1960, when the ethnochoreologist Andrei Bucşan reported from his field research that a dance named manea, with syncopated çiftetelli rhythm, was performed at a Romani wedding, between “Gypsy horas and men’s solo dances.” A woman from the audience, pointing to the “Oriental” character of the dance, commented: “This is Turkish.”26 In the same year, at the wedding of a Romani cimbalom player from the village of Clejani (Giurgiu County), the researcher Ovidiu Bârlea described a series of performances of the dance cadânească [odalisque dance], whose characteristic traits were an overwhelming participation by female solo dancers with arms and hands winding and rotating, as well as accented rocking and shaking of the hips and belly. The bride and the bridegroom then performed the same “Oriental” dance style on stage. At the end, the lăutar made the following announcement: “Burcea gave a fifty-lei tip for the

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bride because she danced nicely,” which is very similar to the “dedications” made by the present-day manelişti during performances of manele.27 A solo dance performed by women, the name of which—Turkish manea—clearly indicates its origin, was recorded in 1972 in the village of Roseţi (Ialomița County). The “Oriental”-style dances, which can be interpreted as predecessors of the manea, were also known as Turkish, Arabic, Gypsy, or mahala,28 disseminated by Romani musicians; they remained confined to small in-group communities. The common dance type with Ottoman roots, known throughout the Balkans as köçek (with variants in each country) and considered an emblem for Romani identity, had a veiled existence for a long time, as it was performed only by Romani women in private family gatherings.29 After 1990, the manea dance spread rapidly, overturning the cultural borders between Roma and Romanians throughout southern Romania and far into the north of Transylvania, where a mahala dance to manea tunes was observed as performed by young girls at a wedding in 1993.30 It was danced in public spaces by Roma— women and men alike—and even performed onstage (see example 1.1031). On the cusp of the twenty-first century, the manea is still expanding. Now young Romanians dance it too, although less proficiently than Roma. Indeed, it is the Roma who made the “Oriental dance” a public-performance phenomenon and a symbol of their cultural identity, precisely because it is conspicuously different from non-Romani dancing (see example 1.1132). As the Romani musician George Mihalache remarked, “Romanians cannot dance like us; it does not suit them” (Copenhagen 1995). In the middle of the first decade of the twenty-first century, manele dominated the cultural stage in the big cities of southern Romania. In recent years (2009–2010), however, the number of public spaces dedicated to manele (discos, clubs, restaurants, and concert halls) has begun to dwindle. A thirty-two-year-old female Romani former manea dancer thinks the genre is now passé: “We Gypsies are tired of manele. These days it’s Romanians who like them; many claim they don’t like them, but they listen to them at home and dance to them at weddings and parties.”33

THE MUSICAL STRUCTURE Observed as a whole, manele embody a diverse mixture of musical structures.34 Some differences result from normal diachronic changes; for example, the manele of the 1970s and 1980s are slower and more “lyrical” than those from the first decade of the twenty-first century. But the most striking differences appear among the most recent manele. Some are akin to the Turkish arabesk or Bulgarian chalga (and are sometimes even derived from them), while others are related to the Romani genre muzică lăutărească—the urban music performed by professional Romani musicians from Muntenia (lăutari) at their own celebrations and social events, later adopted by the inhabitants of the outskirts of cities and towns and then by ordinary Romanian city dwellers.35 Other manele are comparable to Serbian turbo-folk or include musical



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segments, rhythmic patterns, and/or timbres borrowed from jazz. Finally, still others simultaneously draw from or resemble various types of local or foreign popular music: etno,36 rama (a kind of “Gypsy light music,” also called “blues”), disco, pop, techno, hip-hop, house, dance, jazz, various Balkan and Latin American musics (reggae, samba), as well as Italian and French popular music. With the collaboration of some lăutari,37 we attempted to identify the features that are common to all manele. In our conversations, each lăutar first suggested a characteristic element (melody, rhythm, accompaniment harmony, vocal timbre, etc.), then hesitated, withdrew his proposal, and then hesitated again. As they spoke, it became clear that they were reviewing their professional experiences in their minds and inevitably reached a point at which the trait they had identified did not correspond to some of the manele that they knew. The only feature that everyone agreed on seemed to be that manele are performed by manelişti, a characteristic that seemed to point to the sound color of the solo voice. Indeed, the voices of the manelişti have different timbres and are presented in a different manner compared with the voices of ordinary lăutari. In spite of this, a few of the lăutari interviewed opined that vocal timbre is not necessarily a distinctive mark of the genre. But can we even speak of a “genre” named manea? The uncertain opinions of the lăutari strengthened our conviction that different present-day manele have diverged from one another so greatly that any attempt to establish their discriminating common denominator is beyond our reach. Surprisingly, lăutari think exactly like ordinary, nonmusician people for whom manele are a broad category of new music with indistinct or indiscriminate features. Manelişti, on the other hand, use points of reference that are somewhat more precise in circumscribing their music. To them, manele are undoubtedly new, “personal” music in which the performers carry out all sorts of timbral and harmonic experiments and ostentatiously practice eclectic musical associations and mixtures.38 In manele, they reckon, the amphibrach-spondee rhythm must be present, albeit sometimes masked by complementary rhythmic formulas overlaying it. We do not know if or to what extent the sources of the stylistic absorptions they apply are important to the way in which the manelişti class their works in their minds. But to us out-group observers, these sources matter, because they reveal, on the one hand, the links between manele and the local musics that precede and/or coexist with them, and, on the other, their connection with the regional (Balkan) and international musics. For this reason we classify manele based on the musics to which they are stylistically closest and that have a major influence on their composite structure. Some of these are rural Romanian, Transylvanian-Banat, etno, various pan-Balkan, and Latin American musics, as well as muzică lăutărească, pop, hip-hop, and so on. The most common categories of manele that can be determined and those that have the most clearly asserted local roots are peasant manele, lăutar manele, and Transylvanian-Banat manele. But other types of manele also exist, such as hip-hop and samba manele. We admit that this criterion of differentiation is nebulous, and its application prone to subjective interpretation.39 Despite that, it is not arbitrary, because it relies on the observation of a particular phenomenon: to avoid losing their

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customers, the older lăutari, especially from rural areas, had to “modernize” and include manele in their current repertoires. Nonetheless, their professional routine prevents their complete detachment from the music they learned in their youth and have practiced throughout their careers. For this reason, lăutari “copy” the successful manele circulated by the best-known manelişti, while the more daring change their old songs into manele or invent “new” manele within the stylistic framework of the music familiar to them. Still, they do so without great success: Manele are not their “cup of tea,” because manele are for the young and must be performed by youthful, dynamic musicians capable of generating the participation of their audience by any means, including large, aggressive physical gestures. Older musicians act at the periphery of the dominant trend, and no one would mistake them for manelişti. But there are many of them, and they provide live music for the majority of celebrations and social gatherings in Romania. At the same time, there are quite a few famed manelişti in whose music the traditional basis remains recognizable. This is the case of a musician proclaimed “king” of the manelişti a few years ago (Nicolae Guţă, ca. 2008), whose pieces are comparable to Romanian and Romani Transylvanian-Banat music. This is also the case for the incumbent “king,” Florin Salam (ca. 2010–present), whose music is descended from muzică lăutărească and rural Romanian music of southern Romania and Banat. Peasant, Romanian-Lăutar, and Transylvanian-Banat Manele Peasant manele, performed by rural lăutari, are often related to local dance music, usually hore (sg. horă). They are played either on the regional instruments of the ensemble (violin, accordion, cimbalom, and double bass, supplemented by a percussion instrument) or on an electric keyboard programmed to substitute for any missing instruments. The tunes are diatonic, occasionally interspersed with chromatic elements including melodies of the local hore. The rhythmic-harmonic fabric of their accompaniment follows the customary pattern of the peasant horă but is energized by the standard rhythmic pattern (amphibrach + spondee) or other formulas derived from it. Its architectonic form is simple, made of two repeatable sections: stanza and refrain or ritornello. The participants typically dance with steps and gestures from either hore or manele and thus have the satisfaction of being simultaneously immersed in a world that, while still familiar, keeps pace with urban trends. Peasant manele offer participants a chance to dance together with others in whatever way suits them best (see example 1.1940). Romanian-lăutar manele are composed by Muntenian and Moldovan urban lăutari who specialize in muzică lăutărească and whose connections to older musics of the Balkans are clear (Alexandru 1980a; Garfias 1981; Ciobanu 1984). Both the melodies, including a significant amount of chromaticism, and their elaborate ornamentation are derived from the source music. The ensemble typically includes a four- or five-string electric violin (sometimes in the shape of a dollar sign), a synthesizer, a few sets of percussion instruments of various origins, and sometimes



Music, Dance, Performance 17

a saxophone, clarinet, or trumpet. The ensemble often retains the accordion and occasionally includes the cimbalom. The dance to lăutar manele may be either a horă or a Gypsy horă lăutărească. Transylvanian-Banat manele, virtually the only manele appreciated in western and southwestern Romania, are related to the new Banat dance music but also to Transylvanian Romani dance music (de cingherit). “Orientalized” and “Occidentalized” Manele Another criterion for the grouping of manele is the intonational structure of the melodies. From this perspective, we distinguish the “Orientalized” and the “Occidentalized” manele. Roughly speaking, “Orientalized” manele start from either traditional regional musics composed in a scale containing an augmented or ambiguous second, one of these being lăutar music [muzică lăutărească], or from present-day Balkan popular music. The modes used most frequently are a major mode (with an augmented second between the second and third degrees of the scale) and a minor mode (with an augmented second between the third and fourth degrees and with most degrees being unstable and predisposed to alterations, depending on the immediate melodic context). These may be interpreted as the Turkish makams hikaz and nikrîz, respectively (Signell 1977; Garfias 1981). These names are suitable (up to a point) for some of the manele inspired by arabesk and other Balkan musics,41 and they may also be appropriate for manele related to muzică lăutărească. However, we doubt that such names would be adequate for manele with intonational structures borrowed from old Romanian peasant music developed most likely prior to Turkish domination.42 “Occidentalized” manele are grounded either in various Euro-American popular musics or, rarely, in Romanian rural music of the modern period (nineteenth to twenty-first centuries). Their melodies employ a tempered intonation and the “classical” Western major-minor system. Their tonal anchoring can be strengthened by the accompaniment; however, in some instances, it is obscured by a series of “modal” chord progressions, to which we will refer shortly. “Occidentalized” manele are often (although not always) simple, repetitive, and more standardized (i.e., with equal and “square” phrases and sections) than “Orientalized” ones. We must also add that a complete manea often includes Orientalized sections preceded and/or followed by Occidentalized sections, therefore, classifying it into one category or the other is problematic. A manea is built by alternating two types of sections: basic sections (one or two, usually contrasting slightly), which form its nucleus and related (autonomous) sections. The latter may be: (a) vocal and/or instrumental free-rhythm improvisations; (b) instrumental insertions from various sources; (c) ritornellos (Romanian riturnele; sg. riturnelă43) and refrains. Some of these related sections are composed at the same time as the manea, while others appear during the heat of the performance or in response to customers’ requests. Although sections composed during performance

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are optional, it is in the musicians’ interest to produce them on the spot in order to prove their skill and willingness to oblige. Peasant and ordinary manele (those recorded for commercial television channels) generally consist of a recurrent section plus a ritornello and/or refrain. In most cases, melodic phrases are made up of two fused complementary motifs, a construction that differs from the often motif-based construction of phrases and sections of traditional Romanian music. Altogether, the manea is a patchwork of segments taken over by the manelişti from any musical source to which they have direct or mediated access.44 The size of appropriated musical segments is variable. Sometimes it can even extend to the reproduction of an entire piece by a known or unknown author that the manelişti then rearrange, changing its harmony and setting it to new lyrics; the important thing is to personalize the end product in one way or another (see figure 1.7/example 1.1245). The predecessors of the manelişti, lăutari, conceptualize their melodies in the tonal system and accompany them with chords that incorporate distinctive idioms of classical Western harmony (S. Rădulescu 1984). This is evidenced by the terminology that the musicians employ during group performances: tonalities are called tonuri (sg. ton), while their names are do, re, mi, etc., or C, D, E, etc. Their modal quality is designated and the harmonic functions that are most frequently heard are the ton and the soţ [lit., companion], that is, the tonic chord and the dominant chord, respectively, with or without a minor seventh and with or without the fundamental (depending on the region). The soţ is the dominant of the basic tonality but can also be the dominant of chords on the second or sixth degrees, followed by either a reiteration of the basic tone or a modulation. Subdominant chords are seldom utilized before the tonic; indeed, the pattern subdominant–dominant–tonic has appeared in lăutar music only in the past few decades. The descendants of the lăutari, the manelişti, have appropriated tonality as a system of melodic and harmonic reference. At the same time, the most skilled musicians are innovative, producing original, distinctive chordal sequences. This is done by consecutive ascending or descending, diatonic or chromatic degrees, ascending thirds, ascending or descending semitones, the use of the minor chord on the fifth degree, and so on. Older lăutari are perplexed by these sequences, which they are loathe to assimilate. For instance, Vasile Zaharia (from the village of Mârşa, 2010) observed the following about the accompaniment played by his grandson, a young lăutar-manelist and graduate of the music university: “You know their chords . . . kind of thrown around!” (i.e., sometimes they depart from the tonality in question; on the other hand, sometimes they are different from those utilized in that tonality by older lăutari). As noted earlier, sequences likely to be considered “modal” are not necessarily associated with “Orientalized” melodies but are comparable to harmonies used in other Balkan and Mediterranean music (Manuel 1989; Pennanen 1997). The endings of all the manele clearly reaffirm their tonality, through the dominant (major)-tonic progression. “A resolution is needed at the end” [La sfârşit trebuie rezolvare], commented Vasile Năsturică, a lăutar with some conventional musical

Figure 1.7.  Manea: Joacă manea [Dance to the manea]; singer: Babi Minune

From album Inimă de ţigan [Gypsy heart], Amma Records, Bucharest, 2004 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2g V2tiRurU); transcribed by Speranţa Rădulescu



Music, Dance, Performance 21

education (Bucharest, 2010). It is worth mentioning that the “modal” inter-chordal connections of innovative manelişti were, and still are, absent both from traditional music in Romania and the manele of less adventurous lăutari.

THE TIMBRAL UNIVERSE AND DYNAMICS Just as manele in the villages were performed with traditional instruments in the 1980s and 1990s, the cimbalom and bass were often replaced by the synthesizer, which has incorporated their timbres. However, the manele of more accomplished musicians are produced by the “system”—a word that manelişti often employ referring simultaneously to the instrumental group, the appropriate technological equipment, the people who handle both, and the functioning of the ensemble. At first sight, the timbral variety of the “system” is rich, because it includes many special sounds produced by the electric violin, one or two accordions, one keytar,46 one or two synthesizers, a saxophone, and a substantial percussion section (partially included in the synthesizer’s memory). Despite this wide array of sounds, ordinary listeners distinguish only the voice and the solo instrument. Because they are electronically manipulated, the timbres of the other instruments become unidentifiable. When switching from the performance of regular popular music to manele, musicians turn up the volume of the loudspeakers to the maximum. “This is the way to listen to it!” they say, implying that manele are the most modern and “coolest” music of all. During actual performances, contrasts or variations of intensity are avoided: the power of manele and the manelişti who perform them must not show any sign of weakness. If their audiences are incapable of accepting “modernity” and the obligation to submit to it, they may as well leave the party. Sometimes this actually happens: at weddings or baptisms, the elderly often depart after presenting their gifts to the recipients. By leaving, they also show that they will not let themselves be bullied. Most of the stylistic particularities described here are not specific to manele. They may be observed in other musics, too. For example, modal scales with mobile degrees and ambiguous pitches are present in the oldest rural pieces; the “European” phrasal structure is that of urban music and of all popular musics in Romania; the syncopated rhythm (amphibrach + spondee) has existed in peasant music for many centuries;47 free-rhythm singing or playing is the old Romanian and Romani way of making music expressed in lyrical pieces with unmeasured rhythm; the additive architectonic form is present in the performances of almost all village and city lăutari; and stylistic eclecticism is specific mainly to urban music. Furthermore, the electronically manipulated sound is a constant in all popular music in Romania and the world at large. Yet there are two particularities that appear to distinguish manele from other musics: the first is revealed in the harmonic accompaniment, hereby termed “modal,” which is nonexistent in other past or present Romanian music but similar to that of certain contemporary Balkan musics (Pennanen 1997). The second

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consists of the existence of wholly improvised sections48 strikingly akin to those in Bulgarian, Macedonian, and Turkish music, which are an explicit, continuous source of inspiration to the manelişti. It is important to state precisely that no matter how individualized modal harmonizations and improvised sections are, or even how high their frequency is in one piece or another, they are not necessarily present in all manele. That is, they are not always distinguishing traits of the genre. In fact, most musicians—even the manelişti—experience serious difficulties composing some passages in real time. Many borrow preexisting improvisations that they find on the Internet or they write passages that they practice beforehand and later perform, giving the impression that they are performing spontaneously.

THE CREATIVE PROCESS IN PRESENT-DAY MANELE The music of new manele is typically composed in several stages.49 As the first step, the vocalist—or any musician in a manea band—performs a melody he considers suitable for becoming the basic section of a new manea. This melody may be an adaptation of a popular piece from the Balkans, for example, the Bulgarian song “Vlez!” [Come in!], based on a Bulgarian chalga sung by the young Romani manelist Ionuţ Cercel together with Bulgarian vocalist Cvetelina Yaneva (see example 1.1350). The manelişti together suggest the harmonic-rhythmic accompaniment and the related sections, which they test, reject, or refine together and adopt by consensus: “You can never do anything alone. You need to work in a team,” says Dan Bursuc (a wellknown music producer and promoter of manele in Bucharest).51 Once the musical structure of the future manea has more or less crystallized, one of the band members writes lyrics (which may have been noticed by the manelişti on the job) that are most suitable for a particular melody and are consonant with the latest poetic preferences of listeners. He presents them to his fellow band members and then improves them superficially, either by himself or together with them. Eventually, the entire band may readjust the musical structure once the lyrics have been added. The creative process is accomplished orally. Some manelişti, however, who have increasingly gone to music schools in recent years, are able to note down a few reference points: the general melodic contour, harmonic progression, or outline of component sections. When the new manea is completed, a few operations then take place, performed by the manelişti, with help from their promoter and producer. These include recording in a “secure” studio so that their piece cannot be “stolen” by rivals, registration with ADA or ORDA (the authorities who administer musical copyrights), production of the recording, and distribution. Broadcast on various television channels, the manea usually produces modest revenues, but its release on a CD is important because it generates prestige, popularity, and subsequent contracts.



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Consequently, the final version of a new manea is the result of successive trials, rejections, and acceptances, most of which are collective undertakings. In principle, the related sections of the piece may be replaced with others having the same function—something that actually happens in live performance. But the manelişti are seldom concerned with recording their pieces in improved forms, preferring to focus on composing new ones. One reason for this lack of interest is that, as we will see below, during a public performance, they make changes anyway—suggested by the circumstances or imposed by requests paid for by customers. Another reason is that normally a manea stays in fashion only for a few weeks or months; then it is abandoned in favor of newer ones. Even so, some of its sections have a chance to last longer. The very successful manele, usually originating in those of star performers, are often copied by fellow musicians and inserted into their own works—demonstrating that they are detachable and may be recombined. Their real authors do not mind. Since they themselves borrow anything from the works of any known or unknown composers that suits their purposes, they believe it is natural for their works to be subjected to the same process. But in front of their friends, colleagues, or even audiences, they may be openly critical about the inept way in which “others” have adopted and adapted them.

DANCE: BETWEEN HORĂ AND MANEA After a long period of politically influenced, stylized “authentic folklore” practiced in controlled social contexts with synchronized, stereotyped forms, the syncretic phenomenon of manele appeared like an explosion of freedom, individualism, and a “chaotic” inner and outer expression that many regarded as unacceptable. Ion Albeşteanu, a Romani conductor of folk orchestras, at age sixty-five in 1995 rhetorically asked, “Where is our beautiful folklore, our Romanian dances and costumes?” The manea as a dance phenomenon shocked not only the advocates of folklorism, but also ordinary, non-Romani people to whom the unrestrained “Orientalized” style was totally unfamiliar. To understand why, we will compare the defining parameters of the horă (the most common traditional dance category in the Romanian repertoire) and the köçek (regarded as the virtual model of the danced manea) (see examples 1.14 and 1.1552). horă

köçek

name relative age provenance

Greek origin traditional (old) local (Romanian)

origin participants formation

rural mixed gender circle (closed/open)

Turkish origin new foreign (Turkish/“Gypsy”/ Balkan) urban predominantly women solo, individual

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horă

köçek

space

moving in all directions

meter rhythm kinetic agents

2/4, 10/16 (rare) binary, straight/syncopated legs (arms as accompaniment) steps (crossing, stamping), jumps

stationary, limited displacement 2/4, 9/8 (rare) binary, syncopated/straight pelvis, abdomen, arms (legs as support) stamps, arm rotations, undulation, shake/shimmy (pelvis, shoulders), steps, pirouettes multidirectional fluent movements variable heterogeneous or variable chain of motifs/cell-motif modification of the model, spontaneous improvisation

movements

arms

creativity

fixed handhold (vertical swings) constant, sustained variable or identical chain of phrases/motifs reproduction of the model,

limited

improvisation or composition

dynamics form

Comparison of the features of these two dance categories highlights the fundamental differences between their underlying principles, and at the same time explains why the danced manea (like its model, the köçek) was rejected by Romanians until the early 1990s (Prévôt 2001). Research on Romani dance repertoire demonstrates that besides Romanian folk dances interpreted in a particular “Romani style,” there are two categories of distinct Romani dances. The first comprises dances rooted in local Romanian dance tradition, including the horă țigănească [Gypsy horă] for mixed groups and the male dance “de unul singur” [for one alone]. The second comes out of the Ottoman tradition and is a type of belly dance known under different names, as mentioned earlier. To a certain extent, the first category, like lăutar music, demonstrates Romani dance characteristics. Due to its “Oriental” roots and explicitly sexual connotations, the second category was for a long time kept hidden from the public sphere. During the last decade of the twentieth century, however, with the wholesale loosening of cultural restrictions once communist rule collapsed, the manea became a public event, danced by both Romani men and women as well as by both genders of Romanians. The music for this dance was manele. Thus, the “Oriental” dance style began to compete with the older “proper” Romani dance repertoire (hora țigănească, de unul singur, and de cingherit in Transylvania), and it also began to be perceived as a signifier of “Gypsiness.”53



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DOES THE “MANEA DANCE” EXIST? The manea as a dance has an open form and is predisposed to continual renewal by the appropriation of elements from Oriental, Occidental, and local repertoires. Dancers exhibit interpretive freedom, creative imagination, and the capacity to adapt the dance to their own temperament, emotional state, and technical skills. In performance, they may at any moment switch from one category of dance to another, or even fuse them together. Thus, each time the manea is danced, it is a spontaneous, individualized, unrepeatable creation. Is it possible to speak of the existence of a “formal” dance called the manea? From the dancers’ perspective, the answer is positive (yes), but from an external perspective, the answer is doubtful and ambiguous. By observing people who dance to manea tunes, it is difficult to determine a singular, stable model that can be formalized as “the manea dance” with a clearly defined kinetic vocabulary and structured by specific rules. Instead, it may be more helpful to speak of an improvised succession of small units of movement (motifs or phrases) that dancers select from their own stock of stereotyped movements depending on the social context and their competence and skills. By juxtaposing these heterogeneous motifs, dancers develop a choreographic discourse perceived as “a dance to manea music” or “pe manele” [lit., on or to manele]. This expression suggests that the dance, irrespective of its choreographic content, is perceived as flowing from the music. It also suggests that the “manea dance” only exists as an abstraction, a conceptual model varying with each individual. The dance, in practice, depends on a multitude of subjective and objective factors, the most important of which are the dancer’s personality, gender, relation to the surrounding social milieu, and dance competence, as well as the character of the music. Despite these factors, we put forward several distinct choreographic models that are comparable—up to a point—to the musical categories of manea music proposed earlier.

MODELS OF DANCING PE MANELE The “Orientalized,” “Gypsy,” and “Peasant” Manea The manea is conceived and typically performed as a feminine “Oriental” dance modeled on the köçek. Its set of characteristic movements revolves around the abdomen and pelvis moving in “isolation” from the rest of the body. These include circular movements of contraction and relaxation (upward and downward or combinations thereof ), undulations, and vibrations, or “shimmies.” Moving independently, the arms wind and rotate starting from the shoulders and flowing down to the fingertips. The syncopated rhythm of the musical accompaniment is marked visually by hip movements and audibly by hand clapping, finger snapping, and stamping of the feet (see example 1.1654). The performance of “Orientalized” manele involves the entire body. To quote a young female dancer, “When I dance

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a manea, I move my hips, wriggle my arms, shake my shoulders, and smile. I rehearse a sexy expression in front of the mirror”55 (see example 1.1756). When performed onstage, the “Orientalized” manea tends toward a complex form of belly dancing that we call the “classical ‘Orientalized’ manea” (see example 1.1857). In most social contexts, however, the “Orientalized” manea is expressed in simple, sometimes barely delineated movements, which we call the “common ‘Orientalized’ manea” (see example 1.1958). The Roma were the first to dance to manele and also brought characteristic elements of “Gypsy” dance to the new form. The transfer was possible thanks to the similarity between the Romani solo dance and köçek. We call the resulting stylistic model the “Gypsy” manea (Giurchescu 2001b). As in Bulgaria, Macedonia, and western Turkey, the “isolated” up-and-down movements of the abdomen, performed with virtuosity by both Romani women and men, are specific to the choreographic improvisations of the “Gypsy” manea.59 These are combined among women with hyperextensions of the torso and with an accented vibration of the shoulders, ostentatiously transmitted to the breasts. Also, typically “Gypsy” female style are the turns or pirouettes and the rhythmic fluttering of long, voluminous skirts, lifted by the hands, showing off syncopated and stamping step patterns. When Romani men dance to manea music, they often combine dance movements with gestures that are codified. As for the meanings of these gestures, we were unable to gain a sense of them from the male Romani dancers questioned. This is reminiscent of earlier descriptions of the köçek that include mention of gestures with codified meanings known only to the initiated (see example 1.2060). As danced at weddings, baptisms, and other celebrations, where villagers, either Roma or non-Roma, are in the majority, the “Orientalized” manea takes the form of a dance that borrows the circle formation with hand or shoulder holds from the Romanian horă and even step patterns from the horă and sârbă (a Romanian peasant line dance in a lively tempo), and combines them with movements specific to the Orientalized manea. We call this model the peasant manea (see example 1.2161). These three models—“Orientalized,” “Gypsy,” and “peasant” manele—can be merged to form the concept of an indigenous manea that has its roots in both the locally developed “Orientalized” manea and the Romanian and “Gypsy” dance traditions. The Occidentalized Manea In the practice of non-Roma and Roma who are less proficient in the “Orientalized” style of dancing the manea, the “Occidentalized” model replaces it, sometimes entirely. The general body posture and improvised movements resemble those in popular Western dances, such as disco, rock, techno, Latino, and house (see example 1.2262). As “entertainers,” female dancers sometimes even make an effort to adopt the techniques and movements of go-go dancers in order to express explicitly their sexuality and sensuality.



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THE POLYMORPHIC CHARACTER OF DANCING PE MANELE Since the manea as dance does not have a standardized form, any series of movements to manea music is acceptable. One can even achieve the “state of dance” from a sitting position, just by moving only one’s arms or hands. In most public contexts, the dance floor is populated with men and women from different ethnic backgrounds and with different skill levels. Considering the variety of individual performances we observed that were danced to the same music, the coexistence of various stylistic categories within manele (“Oriental,” Western, “Gypsy,” “peasant,” or a blend thereof ) becomes obvious (see example 1.2363). Out of this almost chaotic diversity, though, the wedding cameraman Gabi Lazăr (age thirty-five; 2010) discerns unity: “If you ask me, the manea style is nice in its own right, because it’s manea style. If they departed from their style, it wouldn’t be a good thing.” To summarize, the discussion above has highlighted some notable differences in the manner and degree of structuring of manea music and dance. Manea music comprises coherent segments (motifs, phrases, and sections) with clearly perceptible articulations that, by and large, follow the same sequence. Stylistically, however, the sections can be different from one another, sometimes radically so. In manele performed live, their orderly succession may be disrupted by the insertion of related sections, built and articulated with the same clarity (the exception is the “improvisations,” whose structure is less defined). The overall form of the music is more or less heterogeneous, open but predictable in its general organization. That is, the structure can be extended or compressed depending on the circumstances and other factors pertaining to the personality of the performers. Dancing pe manele consists of an aleatory series of motifs (the motif being the only comparatively well-articulated, identifiable unit) and more or less stylistically disparate phrases. The “rules” for linking motifs are heterogeneous juxtaposition and varied repetition. Improvisation, which is widely practiced, is expressed at the level of motif selection and succession. The overall form of dancing pe manele is heterogeneous, unpredictable, and open. (Only Roma are typically able to produce clearly structured, stylistically homogeneous manea dances, especially when they attempt to perform the “classical Orientalized manea.”) The concordance between music and dance is clearly achieved only at the level of the motif. At higher levels, the musical and choreographic components follow autonomous structuring patterns. In pe manele dancing, the partners in a couple do not dance with each other but rather for each other. The dialogue established between them is expressed through physical posture, mime, and gesture (Giurchescu 2001a:112). The choreographic discourse may be interrupted by arrhythmic movements, pauses, and discussions— the nondance elements that are incorporated into the emotional substance of the dance (see example 1.2464). Gestures substitute for verbal communication, which is hampered by the deafening volume of the music. “When we go dancing, we approach friends by using our hands. We communicate as if we were talking. There’s

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noise, but we communicate through dancing” (Luminiţa Petrache, age thirty-two; Bucharest, 2010). Social formalities—such as greetings between friends, the introduction of a stranger to the group, or the acknowledgment of prestige—are conducted through codified movements or, for example, by placing an honored person in the middle of the dancers’ circle or in front of the musicians.

LIVE MANELE In the communist period and, to a large extent, at the present time, as well, the Romanian media intensively broadcast “authentic Romanian folklore” or “folk music”65 (“neo-traditional,” Buchanan 2007a)—predictable and controlled in detail, the chief qualities of which are its explicit “national specificity” and “civilized” style. An important part of Romania’s population certainly accepts and even prefers this music for casual listening—inside the home, in the yard, car, or restaurant, and at social gatherings. However, at larger family celebrations, this music does not give the participants full satisfaction: people want to hear “their own” live music, through which they respond to official music and, implicitly, the rigid social structure that generates it. The freedom assumed in its performance is the main reason the manea, as we mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, was—and still is—an implicit representation of social protest. Another assertion from the beginning of this chapter deserves clarification: that the manea is “a form of symbolic opposition by the Romani communities from the slums of the cities on the Danube to their exclusion from Romanian society.” During communist rule, Roma were not on the list of “co-inhabiting nationalities” in Romania. Registered as Romanians during censuses, they did not enjoy the legal rights granted to other ethnic minority groups. The existence of their music was formally denied, even when one type of music—lăutar music of the southern cities—was in its heyday. But the lăutari themselves claim that lăutar music was too complex and sophisticated to be appreciated by all Roma, and in any case it was not understood by people living outside of Muntenia. It seems plausible to us that Roma needed a new music, a more “modern” and accessible one that would provide immediate satisfaction and one with which they could indirectly challenge those who had ignored or despised them. We assume that this is how manele appeared, which later conquered not only Romani communities, but also the world of non-Roma across Romania. Live Manele at Weddings and Other Family Events Manele performed live at private events are more complex and heterogeneous than those recorded in the studio. A variety of insertions—speeches, gestures, images—transform the music into syncretic acts. The guests dance in the proximity of the vocalist, with whom they communicate a request—by gestures and speaking



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(yelling) in his ears (normal speech is impossible because of the volume of the music). The vocalist then mediates between the person who has requested a dedication and another guest (from the audience) whom he wishes to make an impression on and call attention to, thereby establishing a connection between himself and that person, for example, “This manea, . . . offered by so-and-so guest, cousin of the groom, for so-and-so guest, a VIP and director at so-and-so workplace.” The guests come and go chaotically, forming and re-forming groups on the dance floor. Intervention by the guests is also possible in the middle of a piece, asking, for instance, for a sax solo, the godfather’s favorite song, or the hit of the day. The vocalist is in charge of dedications and other speeches, assisted by a member of the family who has organized the event and who shouts in his ear the information about the people whom the vocalist must be sure to honor (see example 1.2566). The vocalist then normally adds his own flattering touch before making the announcement. The spoken sections entail spontaneous modifications in the overall structure of the ongoing manea. The tune is put on hold throughout the duration of the interjections while continuity is ensured by the rhythmic-harmonic accompaniment that is sustained. The vocalist may also sometimes incorporate various related remarks, which concern the guests on whom he is commenting, into the body of the song. Even though performing manele interspersed with various spoken passages is very demanding in terms of attention and creativity, the manelişti prefer them over songs without interjections or dedications. Since the personalized interpolations are colorful and dynamic, the musicians are able to captivate the audience more effectively, encouraging hefty tips as a result.67 At a typical wedding banquet, the middle-aged guests request either songs “for listening” [de ascultare] or hore and other traditional village dances. But perhaps the groom’s male friends and the bride’s female friends (who usually dance separately) spoil their enjoyment by ordering only manele. Furthermore, the wedding organizers, usually the groom’s parents, possibly arrange brief “Oriental” shows featuring professional dancers dressed as “odalisques” who perform a heavily stereotyped “belly dance” on the dance floor or among the tables (see example 1.2668). The balance between traditional dance and dance pe manele was maintained until around 2000 and is still found in conservative communities. But manele have gained ground and at times today have taken over the functions of ritual dances proper. The ritual wedding procession, bride’s dance, and nunească (godparents’ horă) may be performed to manea music and dancing. At Romani weddings, manele have even replaced some of the traditional local “Gypsy” dances. Manele are usually performed toward the end of the banquet, when the ritual events and their specific music are over and the elderly guests have left. The manea then either becomes the exclusive ruler of the sound space or shares it with the other popular music, with which it constantly exchanges melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic elements. At the funeral priveghi [alms-giving] of a Romani musician, manele are preceded and followed by various other favorite music of the deceased.

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Manele in Clubs and Restaurants In restaurants, bars, and clubs that specialize in manele, they are often performed after two or three hours of lăutar music [muzică lăutărească] or after a few minutes of lyrical preamble. Then the violinist and vocalist typically step off of the platform, leaving the band there, and draw closer to the guests. The attention of the two musicians is directed to those who are celebrating an anniversary, name day, job promotion, etc., and they produce straightaway the adequate congratulations and lyrics for them. The customers, most of whom are young, gradually relax. At first they drink and dance, separately or in couples in the corners of the club hall, on the dance floor, or even on the musicians’ dais. The well-to-do people retreat to alcoves, where they drink champagne in the dim light, flirt with half-naked women, and so forth. The climax of the party is reached at dawn, as guests euphorically dance on tables, throwing tips with abandon at the musicians. And at Concerts, Shows, and Competitions At concerts, the stage creates a gap between the performers and the audience that is customarily filled in by a great deal of effort on the part of the maneliști. It is well known that “being onstage” intensifies the presentational character of a performance. The features of the manea show or concert accordingly become exaggerated. Usually it is the vocalist (sometimes a DJ) who tries to draw the audience into the communication flow, urging them relentlessly with “Noise, noise!” “Louder, louder!” “Put your hands up!” [Gălăgie, gălăgie! Mai tare, mai tare! Sus mânuţele!] (Miss Piranda show, 2010). The dominating mode is bombastic and ostentatious. The maneliști are presented as big stars and the melodies as new and original “latest hits.” The rival manea bands compete with each other throughout the evening, each attempting to outdo the other in terms of audience response, as dedications and enthusiastic well wishes addressed to the guests pass between the stage and the audience accompanied by large amounts of money. The musicians aim to confer to these performances the same communicational flow that connects the maneliști to the guests when they perform at weddings and other family gatherings. The audience’s reaction to the energy coming from the stage is rather unpredictable and dependent upon equally unpredictable objective or subjective social, cultural, economic, and political factors. When a strong connection is established between performers and audience, the reaction of the audience is not only emotional, but physical as well. The feelings of satisfaction and excitement inspire the audience to translate the musical rhythm into physical expressions through clapping, shaking their shoulders, waving uplifted arms, yelling, and so forth. In the Miss Piranda beauty and dance contest held annually in Romania since 1991, Romani girls dance manele competitively in an explicit and expressive show of the Oriental, linked, among some Roma, to their “Indian” origins. The manea dance performed at the competition is not the belly dance per se, but only an imitation of it, yet it fulfills a symbolic role, since the manea performed by the contestants aiming



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to become the “Miss Piranda” of any given year is emblematic in the public imagination of Orientalism (Dunin 2006:183).69 Although the girls attempt to imitate (as closely as possible) the movements, body postures, and attire of professional belly dancers (whom they have seen on YouTube), the resulting dance performed at Miss Piranda typically falls somewhere between “Oriental” classic belly and traditional Romani dance (see example 1.2770).

THE LYRICS During social events where they perform, the musicians choose manele with lyrics appropriate for the circumstances and participants. To wealthier customers, the lyrics speak about money and cunning ways of getting it, its power and the rewards it brings, as well as sex and enemies. But lyrics about money are also sung for the common people, because they are often constructed to nurture the illusion that the young, no matter how poor, can also be successful as long as they learn the right tricks: Se-întreabă duşmanii mei de unde câştig bani grei. Poate-am dat vreo spargere sau poate afacere?

My enemies wonder how I make so much money. Maybe I committed a burglary or maybe struck a deal?

or: Numai cu mâinile goale şi un paşaport, am putere şi valoare că sunt mafiot, mafiot din Spania. Ba din Romania, unde se învaţă prima dată şmecheria.

With just empty hands and a passport, I’ve got power and class ’cause I’m a Mafioso, a Mafioso from Spain. No—better from Romania, where you learn the tricks right away.

or: Printre şmecheri vrei să ai respect; trebuie să arăţi că eşti deştept. Se întreabă toţi cum fac eu banii: mafia arabă şi americanii.

Among the wiseguys, you need to show respect; you gotta show them that you’re smart. Everyone wonders how I make so much money: the Arab Mafia and the Americans too.

The strategy is brilliant because it secures the musician’s fans from two paradoxical social categories—the nouveaux riches and the poor without hope:

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Noi am fost copii săraci: ieri săraci şi necăjiţi, azi bogaţi şi fericiţi.

We were poor children: yesterday poor and miserable, today rich and happy.

To ordinary young people, the lyrics speak about love: Sunt nopţi la rând, iubire, nopţi la rând când numai pentru tine stau şi plâng; şi câte lacrimi vărs, iubire, eu pe pozele din patul meu.

Night after night, my love, night after night I sit and cry only for you; and how many tears I shed, my love, onto the photos [of you] on my bed.

or: Eu pe tine te iubesc; după tine mă topesc. Toată lumea se oftică: suntem perechea reuşită.

I love you, I do; I melt with love for you. Everyone envies us: we’re the greatest couple ever.

They also speak “for all and sundry” of the political events, crimes, and gossip of the day, as well as of family, friends, and again, enemies inherited from muzică lăutărească: Ce aveţi voi duşmanilor de mă duşmăniţi? Eu fac bancnote de o sută, voi doar măruntiş. Şi dacă mă enervez, fac şi de o mie; la mine are balta peşte, toată lumea ştie.

Why, enemies, do you bear a grudge against me? I make 100-bills, you just make small change. And if I get worked up, I’ll make 1000s too; everyone knows my nest is feathered.

For those who celebrate an event, the manelişti have a stock of suitable lyrics and congratulations at hand; for those with jailed relatives, they produce lyrics relating to prison: La închisoare, în închisoare  inima mă doare;  eu nu mai am răbdare.

At the prison, in prison my heart aches; I have no more patience anymore.

At social events in Romani communities, manelişti portray Roma in a Romanian society that still keeps them at a distance:



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Românie! Românie! Dă-mi ţiganii numai mie, să stăm în România, c-aicea e patria!

Romania, Romania! Give all your Gypsies only to me, so we can stay in Romania, for this is our homeland!

Since roughly 2000, an increasing number of manele have included lyrics that speak about the suffering of emigrants who work in the West to make a living and support their families: Singurătatea azi mă apasă. Un dor cumplit mă ia de casă. Străinătatea e dureroasă: munceşti din greu s-aduci acasă.

Loneliness weighs heavy on me today. A terrible longing for home torments me. Living abroad is painful: you work so hard to bring something home.

In time, the lyrics fade out of circulation along with the music in the same way that most of the manele vanish from the Internet. One of the reasons is that the tunes and lyrics are no longer interchangeable as they were in traditional Romanian lyrical songs, since the trochaic octosyllabic meter that governs nearly all traditional vocal music has been replaced by various other metrical structures. In some cases, the speedy demise of the lyrics also results from waning interest in the event to which they refer. For instance, a manea launched in 2007 during the suspension of Romanian President Băsescu became pointless as soon as he recovered his position: Băsescu e jucător dar e-aproape de popor. Un singur lucru contează: toţi românii îl votează!

Băsescu is a player, but he’s close to the people. Only one thing matters: All Romanians vote for him!

A manea about the alleged murder of a woman by her policeman-husband disappeared before the perpetrator was brought to justice; the short attention span of the public ran out before the denouement took place. Such topical manele are like the daily news: they matter only until public attention is diverted by other news. Love lyrics also evaporate or are rephrased in newer manele. The manelişti themselves quite often decide, together with their agents, which manele (and implicitly which lyrics) are worth preserving, and they remove from the Internet those they deem of no more interest to society, keeping a few on the Internet that will last years or even decades. For a long time, the manelişti, engrossed in the purely technical aspects of the music, did not care a great deal about the quality of the lyrics: it was only important that their subject matters be striking and topical. Since around 2010, they have been paying more attention to lyrics: perhaps they realized that public attacks

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on their music are aimed chiefly at the lyrics, or perhaps the moment has come for refining and polishing. Pornographic lyrics, which abounded in the early 1990s, have dwindled or become “hidden,” while lyrics celebrating idyllic love, family, friends, and homesickness have proliferated instead.

THE MANELIŞTI The connection between the nouveaux riches of the transition period—referred to as şmecheri [tricksters, wiseguys] or interlopi [persons active in the underworld]— and manelişti is undeniable.71 One need only go to one of the restaurants in Bucharest known for its nightly performances of manele, and see them arriving after midnight with their heavy gait and outfits copied from American Mafia movies, to be convinced of this. Flanked by bodyguards, they sit at “their” tables and keep an eye on the shady dealings of the moment. The manelişti treat them respectfully: after all, the şmecheri and interlopi hire them frequently and pay them well. In fact, the manelişti themselves are involved in businesses: some are in music (recording labels, management agencies, restaurants, and even a manea school), and others in the real estate market. A few top manelişti are trying to sneak into politics, both to boost their personal prestige and, at the same time, to protect their investments. Once they gain power, they flaunt their wealth with the flamboyance of winners—or parvenus. When they ply their trades, their arrogance fluctuates with the size of the tips they get. Some of them reinvent their lives, and they exhibit this in glossy magazines like superstars in the West. It may be said that their behavior brutally avenges the centuries in which their ethnic group (the Roma) was socially marginalized and ignored in public discourse.

WOMEN AND MANELE Manea lyrics speak of women either as the chosen “true love” (even if she is sometimes whimsical or unfaithful) or as the mother (always a venerated icon). Furthermore, in manele performed in live concerts and television shows, women appear in two opposite guises: as the sweetheart, in which case she is identified with the “true love” portrayed in the lyrics, or as a highly sexualized dancer-entertainer. The loved woman is a dreamer, an affectionate and at the same time modern person who dresses in tight jeans or miniskirts, low-cut (but not excessively so) blouses; she is decently coquettish, sexy without being showy, and has eyes only for her vocalist-lover. The entertainer-woman is, on the contrary, a smiling sexual object who bares her curves, undulates, twirls around the manelişti (who pay no attention to her), makes gestures with unequivocal erotic connotations, and often dresses in odalisque attire: a large, transparent skirt that bares her navel, very long earrings, a shawl around her



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Figure 1.8.  CD cover, Mega chef Indian [Indian mega-party] CD by MusicMall

hips, etc. She is the replica of women pictured on CD and DVD covers (see figure 1.8/examples 1.28a–c72). The entertainer-woman—whether she is Romanian, Romani, or a Romanian disguised as a “Gypsy”—dances with “Gypsy” or “Oriental” movements and gestures (which she sometimes has learned on the Internet). In both of these guises, the woman is silent and unconditionally subservient to the man. There are a few women who have risen above their decorative function and become manea singers: maneliste (fem. pl.; fem. sg. manelistă). Recognized maneliste include Narcisa, Denisa, Claudia, etc. They are exclusively young, pretty, and selfassured and sing alone or in languid dialogue with the male vocalists. Their numbers and visibility are on the rise since around 2010, and they are sure to increase more in the future, because no matter how macho the manelişti are, they cannot ignore the tendency of contemporary society to recognize the value of women.

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MANEA DANCERS The young women and girls who dance to Orientalized manele enjoy the physical and psychological pleasure induced by the sensuality of the movements. Their enjoyment is transmitted to the audience and decoded in terms of sexual attraction and sensuality. But, as some people come to see the performance of “Orientalized” manele as “debauched” social conduct, the girls restrain themselves, fearing the judgment of the onlookers. They usually learn to dance within the family context, in a strictly female environment and often in secret. Practice may begin at the age of three or four, when little girls are not yet aware of the erotic content of the manele: “We didn’t feel ashamed when we were three or four. The shame came at the age of thirteen to fourteen,” reports a woman around the age of forty (Bucharest, 2010). Romani girls rarely dance manele in front of their fathers or unknown men, because the rules governing decent behavior and respect for hierarchy are still alive and functioning in their culture. Luminiţa Petrache feels that this is why dancing to manele causes feelings of embarrassment: “It’s shameful, because the ‘hip dance’ is sexier than the horă” (Bucharest, 2010). Male behavior toward women dancing pe manele unequivocally shows their domination of feminine sexuality. The lăutar George Mihalache explained in 1995 (when he was thirty-eight) that a husband’s ego may be flattered by his wife’s dancing. He recounted how an acquaintance had told his wife, who was present at the time, “Go, dance, show them how good you are in bed, how sweet, how smart, and how sexy you are!”

COMMODIFICATION, CIRCULATION, ICONOGRAPHY Manele are excluded from broadcasting by the state-controlled radio stations and television channels. By contrast, they are featured prominently on most private commercial channels. Sometimes the channels allow the manelişti almost complete control of their facilities, equipment, and staff, such as selecting the location, suggesting the attire, choosing the musicians and repertoire, and “writing the script” (i.e., imagining a “story”). During the recording and editing sessions, the manelişti in charge conduct themselves as if the actual producers were their own servants. Manelişti are seriously involved in the dissemination process, as well. The most efficient medium for publicizing their works is the Internet. This is where they post the latest manele, interviews on manele, and sentimental stories about the family life of the “stars,” always “perfect” husbands, sons, and parents. Sometimes manelişti also control the visual aspects of production. In this regard, they make instinctive, but coherent decisions symbolically aiming at wealth, power, virility, and sexuality, with unequivocal references either to the decorative, “magical” Orient or to the dynamic, prosperous, and powerful West.



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PROPONENTS AND OPPONENTS The manelişti claim that Romanians are all fans of manele. The truth is that manele are preferred by teenagers and young adults from villages and cities who have little education and thus inferiority complexes. They are eager to side with modernity and the so-called şmecheri [tricksters, wiseguys] who regard manele as an emblem of their success in life. Many of these fans are adults wishing to intimate that they keep abreast of the times and that they are still young and have not aged. At the same time, many Romanians hate manele, all with their own reasons, opportunities, and ways of showing their distaste.73 Among these people are ethnic Romanian intellectuals, the elderly (Romani musicians included), well-educated but otherwise conventional young people, adults who pursue the values of a bourgeois lifestyle, and people of all ages attached either to traditional music or to the “authentic folklore” of the communist past. As an “old style” Romani musician remarked, already in 1993, “The manele have only two sections that repeat themselves endlessly. Young people no longer respect the old style. Now they play Yugoslav, Bulgarian, and Oriental music to an ignorant audience” (lăutar Andrei Mihalache, then age fifty). Of course, the aversion expressed by lăutari is motivated above all by jealousy: manelişti compete with them in the labor market, which affects them economically. But it can also be caused by the pure contempt that lăutari have for the musical quality of most manele.

IN SEARCH OF HONOR Manelişti today have passed beyond the phase of all-out defiance and are searching for ways to reconcile with their opponents, even more so as black clouds are gathering above their heads: the authorities seem concerned that they are dodging taxes, the popularity of manele is in decline in the urban milieus, and the economic crisis reduces daily the number of clients willing to throw money at them. In order to provide fewer reasons for intellectuals to criticize them, manelişti have become more cautious with the content of their lyrics. Furthermore, in order to mollify their most stubborn enemies (the elderly), manelişti have begun to perform popular music hits of the 1960s–1980s and even to write and perform songs in this style. The most popular manea star of the day, Florin Salam, recently shot a video of a very “poignant” manea in praise of his mother, who was in attendance, in the midst of a tearful senior audience. (From the musicians’ perspective, the piece was not actually a manea, but it may be considered one by those identifying the manea with the entire category of music performed by the manelişti.) Manelişti search for—or, in some cases, fabricate—a past that connects them to the lăutar music [muzică lăutărească] of the 1960s–1970s, which is now received favorably by some sophisticated intellectuals and even elderly Romanians. A museum of manele that includes the “greatest collection of old muzică lăutărească” as well as

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the “golden library of sales-booth music of the 1990s” has been launched on the Internet.74 This association is meant to stimulate a transfer of sympathy between muzică lăutărească and manele, including, of course, their composers and performers.

SOCIAL SIGNIFICANCE: ADDITIONS, REFLECTIONS, NUANCES The manea stands in opposition to the purism of official “authentic folklore” and the idyllic past that it invents while deliberately excluding the Orient. It has ostentatiously asserted itself after a decades-long communist ban on its circulation, which similarly affected all “un-Romanian” musics. The manea is a symbol of the democratization of present-day Romania. Through its music, which adamantly demands to enjoy the same appreciation as other musics, marginalized groups—chiefly the Roma—are asking for public recognition. The manea buttresses a popular reconstruction of national identity that acknowledges the existence of Roma. One might think that the manelişti attempt this reconstruction without any prior conceptual reflection. But one manea significantly sung by the young Babi Minune (b. 1996)75 gives an unequivocal verbal outline of their intentions (see example 1.29):76 Chiar dacă eşti moldovean, ardelean sau oltean, sîntem made in Romania. Chiar dacă eşti bănăţean, regăţean sau ţigan, sîntem made in Romania. Hai hopa tropa, am intrat în Europa!

Even if you’re a Moldovan, a Transylvanian, or Oltenian, we are all made in Romania. Even if you’re a Banatian, someone from the old Kingdom, or a Gypsy, we are all made in Romania. Come on, hopa, tropa, we’ve joined Europe!

The same piece, performed by another youthful manelist, Ionuţ Cercel (b. 1996), includes a few significant additional lines: Nu contează cine eşti Nici ce limbă vorbeşti. Asta e ţara ta, Romania!77

It doesn’t matter who you are nor what language you speak. This is your country, Romania!

Manele reflect social structures and relations in contemporary Romania where the newly rich—embodied and epitomized by many manelişti—dominate ordinary people through the power of money. From this perspective, it seems useful to reevaluate the attitude of intellectuals and other opponents of manele. These opponents are not necessarily ultraconservative or “stuck” in the national-communist ideology



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of the past. In rejecting manele, they imply that they profoundly dislike the society that they live in as reflected in manele, that the corruption, vulgarity, and arrogance of “stuffed pockets” should be resisted, and that the guile extolled by the manelişti must not become the Romanian way of life. Manele are a symbolic battleground on which intellectuals and poorly educated people (including Roma) confront each other. During the communist years, the intellectuals were victims of the “dictatorship of the proletariat” and “proletarian internationalism,” with catastrophic effects both on academic culture and the destinies of its individual members. Dictatorship was the fault of neither the “working class” nor the Roma, but both groups were its instruments and beneficiaries for a while, a fact that lingers in the memory of educated people, together with accumulated resentment. To them, placing popular culture and academic culture on the same hierarchical level—as the manelişti would like to do—is tantamount to a return to the dictatorship of the proletariat, with its corresponding contempt for and persecution of the elite.78 But, as mentioned earlier, manele are also a symbol of the aspirations for a true democratization of Romanian society. Occasionally taking up the role of the common people (on the opposite side of the barricade from the şmecheri), the manelişti struggle to obtain an honorable status for their music, with positive consequences for the people they represent (rich and poor alike), but also for their own professional status. At the same time, their efforts ignore the condition of women, who remain in a subservient position in their music, valued only as idealized mothers or girlfriends. Almost everyone perceives manele as a symbol of modernity. Perhaps this is because of the Western elements that manele incorporate, but also because of their dynamism, the sophisticated technical equipment they employ, the Internet (which they use for dissemination), or most likely all of these reasons combined. Manele are a component of a pan-Balkan musical culture that follows both regional economic, as well as sociopolitical changes. As a result, they undergo a continuous process of remodeling. They are the product of globalization operating continuously across state boundaries in southeastern Europe—with significant Western absorptions—and in a geopolitical area subjected to obscure changes with uncertain outcomes. Manele are generated by the same types of processes as are the chalga, arabesk, skiladiko, tallavala, turbo-folk, sevdalinka,79 and mizrahit, from which they deliberately and extensively borrow elements that lend them an Oriental feel.80 As we near the end of this chapter, we ask ourselves a question that has concerned Romanians and not just those still obsessed with the conservation of national identity: Are manele Romanian? . . . “Gypsy”? . . . Turkish? . . . Serbian? . . . pan-Balkan? . . . European?81 . . . Or are they “universal,” resulting from globalization that transcends not only national borders but also sometimes those of the Balkan area and even continental boundaries? Ordinary Romanians ascribe manele to the Roma, suggesting that they should be blamed for creating and circulating such “terrible” music. Ordinary Roma do not readily accept the credit. Some Romani musicians even reject

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it outright: “The manele are not Gypsy; we discussed this already! . . . Gypsy music is the horă lăutărească, . . . not manele!”82 Their opinion, which has taken shape in the last five or six years, is that manele are Balkan. But this opinion is worth noting, because it is the manelişti and lăutari who make and remake the music, and it is they who know how people of one ethnic group or another react when they listen to it. In our estimation, a specific manea is perceived in different ways—as preponderantly “Gypsy,” Romanian, Balkan, or Central-European—depending on the perspective of the person who creates, performs, listens, or dances to it. The perception might depend on whether this person is attached to the imaginative and performative universe of a manea, his/her interest in specifically ascribing to it one identity or another, or his/her personal feelings for manele as a phenomenon, and so forth. Regardless of these subjective perceptions, its sound structure might “objectively” include “Gypsy,” Romanian, pan-Balkan, and other elements, even if their respective proportions are difficult to quantify. On this slippery ground, several facts are certain: manele were born and circulate mostly in Romania. They are the outcome of a globalization that involves the fusion or mixture of elements of various origins in varying doses and in parallel with localizations that set them apart from similar musical products from other parts of the world. In other words, manele are the result of specific “glocalizations” (Aubert 2008). No matter which ethnic group lays claim to them or is attributed authorship, a large segment of Romanian inhabitants perceives manele as their own. When they are abroad, they listen to them as nostalgically as they once used to listen to doine, traditional freeform pieces in unmeasured rhythm. All of this gives us a reason to consider them Romanian.

NOTES 1.  Although sometimes also referred to as Muntenia, Wallachia was one of the historic Romanian principalities in the south of Romania, comprised of Muntenia in the central and eastern zone and Oltenia in the western zone; Moldova refers both to the historic Romanian principality and geographical region in the northeast of Romania; see figure 1.1. 2.  Discussion of the historic origins of manele is, admittedly, hypothetical; as presented here, it raises more questions perhaps than it answers. Some of the answers are to be found in chapter 2 of this volume. 3.  Between 1711 (in Moldova) or 1716 (in Wallachia) and 1821, some of the Phanariot members of aristocratic Greek families devoted to the Sublime Porte who lived in the Phanar district in Constantinople were named princes (voivodes) of the Romanian principalities of Moldova and Wallachia by the Sublime Porte. 4.  Banat is a historical and geographical region in southwestern Romania, bordering on Serbia. 5.  Although ethnonyms are problematic, we have chosen to employ “Rom” as a singular noun, “Roma” as the plural of that noun, and “Romani” as an adjective as well as the term for



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the language. When quotes from either written or spoken Romanian sources utilize “ţigan” and its derivatives, we represent this as “Gypsy” in English translation. 6. The word manea (pl. manele), possibly of Turkish origin (aman = mercy), probably entered the Romanian lexicon in the first half of the nineteenth century, when amanes (pl. amanedhes) designated a lyrical genre in the musical practice of Greeks and other peoples in the Ottoman Empire and its vicinity (http://www.umbc.edu/MA/index/number5/holst/ holst_1.htm, accessed 28 January 2014). 7.  For more detailed information about similar musics in the Balkan region, see chapter 4 as well as Buchanan (2007a), especially articles by Beissinger, Buchanan, Dawe, Kurkela, Pettan, Rasmussen, Silverman, Sugarman, and Stokes. See also Statelova (2005). 8.  Fieldwork for this chapter is based on participant observation during various events involving music and dance; interviews and free discussions with musicians, dancers, cameramen, agents, and managers; analyses of audio and video recordings; and video clips posted on YouTube. We also obtained information from current newspapers, blogs, and comments about the clips posted on YouTube. 9.  For this historical overview, information comes from various sources, such as musicological writings from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, collections of popular music, newspapers, and novels, investigated, for the most part, by Costin Moisil and presented in chapter 2. Most of this information was discovered by Costin Moisil and is included in chapter 2. 10.  Disc produced by ODEON Company ca. 1928 (Catalogue number A199197). 11. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–2–audio.mp3. 12. “Muzică orientală’s conspicuously Turkish/Middle Eastern flavor is due in large part to its characteristic syncopated Arab rhythms. . . . The çiftetelli rhythmic pattern has also been intrinsic to the music coded as oriental and Romani for decades. . . . Orientalism in muzică orientală is also reflected in Turkish scale types and melodic motifs. . . . The melodic modes of muzică orientală include the conspicuous augmented seconds . . . and chromatic passages that generate a distinctly Middle Eastern aura” (Beissinger 2007:110–11). http://manele-in -romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–3–audio.mp3. 13.  IEF archives, Mg. 2918m. 14.  It is worth noting that in Transylvania (northwestern Romania), the Hungarian minority in general does not like manele; they probably associate them with the Romanian majority, from which they want to distinguish themselves (Bonini Baraldi 2013). 15.  The most levelheaded adversary of the manea, the historian Andrei Oişteanu, writes: “If young Romanians have gone so far as to dance to manele in discos, . . it looks like the war against the Ottomans is lost. . . . We are slowly turning into a Turkish colony, going back to the time of the Phanariots” (Oişteanu 2001). 16.  Çiftetelli (Greek, tsiphe teli) is a belly dance in 2/4 or 4/4 meter, performed by women as a solo dance or in couples of two women or woman and man facing each other, and is probably of Turkish origin. Dubbed by musicians, the term refers to a special tuning of the violin: “two strings” (the first and the second) placed in the same groove, tuned identically or at different octaves for producing a special sound effect (Petridis 1975:45). The name refers also to a syncopated rhythmic formula: amphibrach + spondee (see also figure 1.4). 17. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–5–1.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/ manele-i/ch1/1–5–3–mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–5–4–mic.png. 18. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–6–mic.png. 19. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–7–mic.png.

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20.  In 1876, Lady Craven mentioned that the wife of the Phanariot ruler Mavrogheni could not understand how an “honest person can be embraced by a foreign man and dance with him, spinning around the dance halls” (Iorga 1981:254). 21.  Fragment of a letter of the prince of Ligné written to the count of Ségur, French minister of France at St. Petersburg, 1788 (Iorga 1898). 22.  The note is quoted in Iorga (1898) (2): 157. 23.  Çiftetelli here denotes not only a belly dance style but also the amphibrach-spondee rhythm and a peculiar tuning of the violin. 24.  In spite of a rather large Turkish and Tatar population in the province of Dobruja (bordering the Black Sea), there were no common dance events nor other occasions for direct contacts or interactions between them and the local Romanian population (N. Rădulescu 1968). 25. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–9–mic.png. 26.  IEF archives, inf. 20.994, Buriaşi, Ilfov County. 27.  IEF archives, inf. 24.105, 1960, Clejani, Giurgiu County. 28. Term employed by Hungarian Roma in Transylvania for an Oriental-style dance to manea music. 29. The same “niche” existence was also mentioned by Elsie Dunin in reference to the dance named čoček in Macedonia in 1966. At that time the čoček was danced by Romani women alone in a family context. The dance spread to the public space in the early 1970s, and by the 1980s it was already part of the standard wedding and party repertoire of the mixed Macedonian population (Dunin 1998:7, nn. 20, 28). 30.  Anca Giurchescu, fieldwork in village Ip (Sălaj County). 31. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–10–video.html&ch=ch1. 32. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–11–1–mic.png. 33.  Luminiţa Petrache, Bucharest, 2010. 34. The observations here are the result of our own analyses and refer to present-day manele. 35.  Muzică lăutărească [lăutar music] “was and is an urban style of both song and dance that evolved in southern Romania for Romani in-group events. It developed through a synthesis of regional Romanian traditional music, Ottoman Turkish art music, and the West European music that circulated during the nineteenth century in the Romanian Principalities” (Beissinger 2007:104); see also Garfias 1981. 36.  In Romania, etno music is a form of pop music whose allegedly rural-originated tunes are known all over the country. Always accompanied by dancing, etno is performed in shows, on television programs, and in some “Romanian” restaurants. The vocalists and dancers are dressed in simulacra of “national” costumes. 37.  See chapter 3. 38.  Cocoş and Petrică Cercel, interviewed by Vlad Ursulean, Bucharest, 27 March 2011. 39.  Concerning the difficulty of such delimitations, see Jurková (2012:297). 40. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–19–video.html&ch=ch1. For a discussion of rural manele, see chapter 8. 41. The manelişti sometimes play these Balkan musics on microtonally tuned synthesizers bought in Turkey. 42.  This is one of the reasons we hesitate to use the names of Turkish makams (see also S. Rădulescu 2013). 43.  Ritornellos resumes the second part of the stanza instrumentally. 44.  Peter Manuel names this process an “additive formal structure” (1989:75–6).



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45. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–12–video.html&ch=ch1. 46. The keytar is a portable, guitar-shaped synthesizer. 47.  This rhythm is characteristic of the peasant dance called brează or ungurică, frequent in Wallachia and the southern region of Transylvania. 48.  In most cases, improvisation in traditional Romanian music is included in the basic sections of the piece, not in related (autonomous) sections. 49.  The creative process was the topic of a long discussion with a group of musicians comprising Vasile Năsturică (age sixty), George Dumitru (age forty-five), Dumitru Ioniţă, Marius Ioniţă, and Cătălin Trandafir (ages thirty-two to thirty-four; Bucharest, 2010). 50. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–13–video.html&ch=ch1. 51. See http://www.danbursuc.ro/aparitii-tv/57–afla-cum-face-dan-bursuc-piesele.html, accessed 28 January 2014. 52. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–14–video.html&ch=ch1; http:// manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–15–video.html&ch=ch1. 53.  The latest research carried out by Tamas Korzenszky (a student from Budapest whom Anca Giurchescu met in the field ca. 2010) for his master’s thesis seems to confirm the tendency of Hungarian Roma of Central Transylvania to perpetuate the “Gypsy” traditional men’s dance style to manea melodies or any other Occidental popular music. 54. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–16–video.html&ch=ch1. 55.  Alina Petrache, age twenty-one; Bucharest, 2010. “Pe manele” (to manele) is dominated by women. There are men, however, who belly dance in “Oriental” fashion (although with more restrained movements) in informal milieus or public contexts. 56. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–17–video.html&ch=ch1. 57. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–18–video.html&ch=ch1. 58. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–19–video.html&ch=ch1. 59.  In the “Gypsy” style of belly dancing, the movements involve the abdominal muscles without the characteristic pelvis movements of the classical (especially Egyptian) belly dance. The specific meter, 9/8 (2+2+2+1+2), known in Turkey as “Gypsy,” is syncopated and irregular (Helene Eriksen, personal communication, 2011). 60. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–20–video.html&ch=ch1. 61. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–21–video.html&ch=ch1. 62. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–22–video.html&ch=ch1. 63. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–23–video.html&ch=ch1. 64. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–24–video.html&ch=ch1. 65.  In Romanian it is called muzică populară. 66. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–25–video.html&ch=ch1. 67.  Before or during the performance of a manea, the vocalist-manelist receives generous sums of money that he counts publicly, uttering the standard phrase “Fără număr, fără număr” [Countless, countless]. 68. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–26–video.html&ch=ch1. 69.  Romani identity is, in fact, asserted through two types of musical-choreographic discourse: one affirms the “Indian” origins through the Orientalized manea, and the other affirms the local identity via muzică lăutărească. 70. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–27–video.html&ch=ch1. 71.  For a further discussion of manelişti see chapter 5. 72. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–28–1–mic.png; http://manele-in-roma nia.ro/manele-i/ch1/1–28–2–mic.png.

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73.  For example, occasionally musicians are forbidden from performing manele by hosts of the events that they organize; for details see chapter 5. 74. See http:/www.romanialibera.ro/arte/oameni/un-tanar-cu-trei-facultati-a-infiintat -muzeul-manelelor-181793.html, accessed 28 January 2014. 75.  This piece circulates in Armenia as well, with the same melody, but with lyrics unintelligible to us and possibly a different meaning (information provided by Estelle Amy de la Bretèque). Whoever the “plagiarists” may be, they must have taken it from the Internet. 76. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e3FCLZgGXs, accessed 28 January 2014; http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1–29–video.html&ch=ch1. 77.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6vdrzUyDXk, accessed 28 January 2014. 78.  In 2007, an incident occurred in Bucharest that shed light on the tensions between the intellectuals and manelişti. The latter rented the Romanian Opera Hall for one day to shoot a promotional video. The news elicited an outraged response from some intellectuals: the opera hall, a temple of the academic culture—they claimed in various ways—had been desecrated by the vulgar music of uneducated people. 79.  Jim Samson considers that manele are “a kind of Romanian equivalent to sevdalinkas in Bosnia and Serbia or amanedes in Greece” (2013:513). 80.  See chapter 4 on manele and Balkan parallels; see also Beissinger (2007:106). 81.  “Nowhere is it safe to draw conclusions about what belongs to whom, because it isn’t how the music sounds, but how it can be thought that counts” (Slobin 1993:ix). 82.  A group of manelişti and lăutari; Bucharest, 2010; see also S. Rădulescu (2004).

2 A History of the Manea The Nineteenth to the Mid-Twentieth Century Costin Moisil

The history of the manea (pl. manele) has not stirred a great deal of interest until recently. Romanian musicologists had confined themselves to mentioning the manea among the Turkish genres practiced in the Romanian principalities under Ottoman rule, while folklorists were content to point out that it had not completely disappeared in the mid-twentieth century. A few comments on the history of the manea were offered by Robert Garfias (1981:99; 1984:91), who was possibly indebted to the discussions that he had had with Romanian researchers. It was as late as 2001—after the boom of manea singers like Adrian Copilul Minune, Costi Ioniţă, or Vali Vijelie—that Andrei Oişteanu offered a few informative remarks on manele before 1900 in an article published in Revista 22.1 In the heated public debates on contemporary manele and Romanian society in the years that followed, this information was utilized by the mass media and in discussions on blogs and forums. Thus, although rarely mentioned as a bibliographical source, Oişteanu’s article became the mainstream history of manele, a history popular both with musicologists and a wide circle of nonexperts.2 Oişteanu’s history affirms the presence of manele in the Romanian principalities from the Phanariot age—traditionally delineated by Romanian historians as between 1714 and 18213—and suggests that they might have been performed even earlier.4 The manea is associated with Turkish musics, even if Oişteanu avoids categorizing it directly as Turkish. Instead, he mentions writers who spoke of “Turkish manele,” philologists (e.g., Lazăr Şăineanu) who explained the etymology of the word from the Turkish mani, and Turkish orchestras (mehterhane) that had instrumental manele in their repertoire. Anton Pann, a musician active in Wallachia in the first half of the nineteenth century, is considered a composer and performer of manele and editor of a collection “full of manele.” In this collection one can find a Turkish vocal piece composed by Dimitrie Cantemir, the last ruler in Moldova before the Phanariot age 45

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and an excellent theoretician and practitioner of Ottoman music, a fact that prompts Oişteanu to state that Cantemir apparently composed a “kind of cultured manea.”5 In this chapter, I investigate the main sources that mention manele prior to 1960 and examine the mainstream history based on Oişteanu’s article; I then attempt a classification of the pre-1960 manele and, finally, sketch out a version of the history of manele based on my own findings and interpretations.

CONSIDERATIONS OF MANELE PRIOR TO 1960 In the pages that follow, I first present references to manele in a quasi-chronological order. I have grouped the information on manele from the nineteenth century (the period in which the early genre flourished) according to the type of source. I begin by discussing literary sources: fiction,6 nonfiction, and musicology—both belletristic and philological. These findings are then followed by references to manele consisting of musical notations and audio recordings from the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The oldest mention of the term manea belongs to the boyar Alecu Russo. Under the pseudonym Terentie Hora, he would recall premodern Moldova nostalgically in the feuilleton Studie moldovană [Moldovan study] published in 1851–1852 in the periodical Zimbrul [The aurochs] from Iaşi. The writer described, in only a few lines, a rural boyar party in which the music—especially the manele—sung by the Romani lăutari (sg. lăutar, traditional professional musician) played a central part: “The Gypsies were dead keen on performing manele [as] the women in their maquillage sighed and the boyars, lying on the carpets, drank vodka from the shoes of their beloveds, throwing their fezzes up in the air and kissing the lăutari” (Russo 1908:19). In 1855, Russo developed the episode of the party in another feuilleton, Amintiri [Memories], which appeared in România literară [Literary Romania], a journal also published in Iaşi. This time the festivities took place on May Day and were attended not only by boyars but also by servants, peasants, and Romani slaves, who all lay in separate groups in the grass. Here, too, the manele sung to the boyars occupied a significant role: “There are sweet manele, there are soothing manele, there are painful manele that break the hearts; the old men make toasts, the youngsters drink from the madams’ shoes and kiss the lăutari, and the madams, eyes drowning in love, sing beautiful verses; and so the woods resound, and the stalwart haiduks wake up” (Russo 1908:104). In 1853, it was another Moldovan boyar, Costache Negruzzi, who mentioned the manea in the context of a meal with wine and music, namely, in the last stanza of his poem “Eu sunt român . . .” [I am Romanian . . .]. Here the Romanian wine was preferred to the foreign wine—just as in the previous stanzas the hospitable compatriots were preferred to the distant foreigners, the hot love of Romanian women to the glacial love of Englishwomen, and so on—and it was the only one associated, favorably, with the good humor and music (Negruzzi 1872:28–9):



A History of the Manea 47

La masă beu adese vin străin, Tocai, Bordo, Şampanie iubesc. Iar mai ales prefer vinul de Rin, dacă nu am Cotnar şi Odobesc; cănd ănsă am, deşert pline pahare, apoi încep să cănt vre-o manea, şi sunt tot beat cât ţin ḑilele-amare! Eu sunt Român, mi-e dragă ţara mea!

At the table I often drink foreign wine: I love Tokay, bordeaux, [and] champagne. But I especially prefer the Rhenish when I don’t have Cotnari and Odobeşti;7 but when I do, I empty whole glasses, then start singing a manea, carrying on drunk as long as the days are bitter! I am Romanian, I love my country!

In 1861–1862, in the journal Revista Română [Romanian Review], Alexandru Ioan Odobescu published the study Poeţii văcăresc˘ı [The Văcărescu Poets], in which he discussed, among other things, the article “Despre metru” [On meter] published in 1838 by Ion Heliade-Rădulescu. Odobescu esteemed Heliade-Rădulescu’s style and praised him for his smooth irony in describing a boyar accustomed to the Greek decapentasyllabic meter who decried the disappearance from Wallachia of “the echo of manele and the Phanariot verses” (1887, 1:243–4, italics in the original). Odobescu’s quote was inexact, as Heliade-Rădulescu had not actually used the term manele.8 In a report prepared for the bestowal of an award to Vasile Alecsandri by the Romanian Academy in 1881, Odobescu praised the poet’s muse for evoking “old and dire traditions from foreign places . . . intoning his voice to the sluggard sound of the Oriental manele” (1887, 2:520–1). Alecsandri had used the term manele in the poem “Murad Gazi Sultanul şi Becri Mustafa” [Murad Gazi the Sultan and Becri Mustafa], written in 1876 and published four years later. In order to put color to the background against which a nocturnal ride with the caïque on the Bosphorous would have happened in the seventeenth century, he wrote the following lines: “Prin sunet de tambură şi glasuri de manele/cadînele frumoase le cheamă la zebrele” [Midst the sound of the tanbur and the voices of manele, beautiful odalisques are beckoned to the lattice] (Alecsandri 1880:51). Around the same time, remembering the last part of a journey made in 1853 in the north of Maghreb, Alecsandri remarked how his guides—a Moroccan and a Turk from Algeria—“started to sing Algerian manele sotto voce” (1876:345). Other writers also used manele to illustrate times long gone or outdated characters. Nicolae Gane chose a “long, drawling manea from the old Turkish ones” sung by a small vocal-instrumental ensemble “in which an ‘ah!’ alone would last for half an hour” to characterize an old country boyar nostalgic for the “good old days” before Europeanization (1879:49). In a short story by I. L. Caragiale in which the action unfolds in Wallachia around 1800, the singing of manele is one of several signs of gratitude that an Albanian military man displays to a Romanian for exorcising the devil from his daughter: “On the way, the captain looked after him day and night like a brother, singing Turkish manele for him while playing the tanbur, as well as palikars’ songs from his far-away mountains” (1910 [1907]:62–3).

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Remarks about manele also appear in texts of nonfiction on music. In a publication from 1855 and a conference from 1862, George Bariţiu mentioned manele in connection with the decay of music from the Greek and Romanian churches in the centuries before 1800: “The Greek cantors . . . have started to ape the Arabic songs from the Mohammedan mosques [and] have introduced manele and all the bellowing of the Turkish imams” (1855:42; emphasis in the original), and “the Moldovan . . . and Wallachian [chanters] . . . have received among the old tunes many so-called Arabic manele borrowed from the Muslims’ imams, through which they excessively altered the church chants” (1863:14).9 The opinion that manele—of Oriental descent—influenced the post-Byzantine church chant was shared by other authors of the time as well. The Constantinople cantors who came after Petros Lampadarios (d. 1778) were regarded by Ioanne Dem. Petrescu as “people who corrupted the sacred melodies and, by preferring profane features, complied with the style of the Persian manele and discarded the hymns’ rhythm and accentuation”; moreover, he claimed, they “corrupted the Church melodies with the manele or the te-re-re10 that the Turks liked so well” (1872:31, 41). Similarly, the bishop Melchisedek noted that in the eighteenth century “one might hear in church the same manele and taksimler of the Turkish music that resounded all over the Bosphorus such as when the Turks delighted themselves riding in caïques” (1882:25). Manele were allegedly referred to in a conversation that took place in 1848 between Alexandru Flechtenmacher, one of the first composers of Western art music in Moldova, and the prince of Moldova, Mihai Sturdza. The dialogue touched upon composing national music, and Flechtenmacher apparently remarked that “it would certainly not be our Turkish manele, with no rhythm or beat, that could ever inspire me to create a national opera!” (Dan-Dry 1885:11).11 The quote is unquestionably not exact, but rather largely imagined by the author of the column almost forty years after the discussion. Teodor T. Burada, perhaps the most important Romanian music historian before 1900, remarked on the presence of manele in the repertoire of the mehterhane, the official brass band that had played until 1831 at the court of the ruler of Moldova, following the pattern of the mehterhane from the sultan’s palace: “The princely mehterhane—made up of Turks, Greeks, and Bulgarians and with the Mehter Başa (Kapellmeister) as its leader—would play various Turkish manele on Sundays, holidays, and other days at the princely court” (1974a [1875]:31).12 Also, manele were apparently part of the chamber repertoire for the Turkish tanbur, an instrument that had appeared in Moldova at the beginning of the nineteenth century but that had already disappeared by the time Burada wrote his article: “The boyar Grigore Avram, who had learned to play this instrument in Constantinople, . . . performed the most beautiful manele, semailer, peşrevler and taksimler with unprecedented skill” (1974b [1877]:114; italics in the original).13 Finally, manele seem to have been performed at urban Turkish popular theater productions—probably a theater of Karagöz and Hacivat shadow puppets—at inns in Bucharest (and possibly Iaşi) at the beginning



A History of the Manea 49

of the nineteenth century: “Then they would dance and sing14 Turkish songs, manele, and often Romanian songs as well” (Burada 1978 [1909]:224; italics in the original).15 George Sion mentions in a volume of memoirs that his uncle, a Greek originally from Constantinople who lived in Bucharest, sang manele at night at the summer parties he threw at the end of the 1830s: “My uncle would go out with the tanbur and start playing [and singing?]16 Turkish manele, like those he had learned as a child in Constantinople.” In a footnote, the author defines manele as “songs that express sadness, love, and melancholy.” Sion states that only a single man from Bucharest at that time, Anton Pann, knew Oriental music as well as his uncle did, but he does not say explicitly that Pann actually sang manele (1888:414). Another piece of information on Pann, this time indirect, is recorded by Gheor­ ghe Ciobanu. He quotes his church music teacher, Ion Popescu-Pasărea, who had mentioned several times that Pann introduced in one of his church pieces, “Ziua Învierii” [The day of Resurrection], “melodic inflections of a Turkish ‘manea’ that he had heard one day sung by a Turkish water peddler” (Ciobanu 1955:35, 86).17 Linguistic studies and dictionaries provide yet other sources that mention manele. According to Lazăr Şăineanu, the term derives from the Turkish many, which means “song” or “melody” (1885:64). Şăineanu defines the term in Romanian as a “Turkish song that expresses melancholy and love” or a “Turkish song with a tender melody,”18 and states that its circulation in the language is limited: “A semi-literary word that remained unknown to folk speech” ([1896]:490; 1900, 2, 1:246). Şăineanu believes that Turkish manele influenced, in part, the Romanian epic songs: “The drawling and melancholic melody with which the lăutari recite some of our ballads, a melody characteristic to the entire popular poetry of the Balkan Peninsula, was directly influenced by the arias of the Turkish songs, the so-called ‘manele’” (1900, 1:cxvii). Manele continued to be noticed, even if sporadically, in the late nineteenth century and even in the twentieth. In 1884, G. Dem. Teodorescu collected from two men from the Crucea de Piatră district in Bucharest the text of a manea sung by the puppet seller of millet beer in the puppet theater (1885:121): Ah! aman, aman! De la Giurgiu viu˘, turcesce nu sciu˘; para’n pungă, iok, mâncare de locu˘ . . .

Ah! Mercy, mercy! From Giurgiu I come, I speak no Turkish, [have] not a dime in my pocket [nor any] food at all . . .

We also have information from that time on a piece performed in concert at the Petit Champs Theatre in Istanbul in 1890 by lăutar Stănică Bârlează’s band from Brăila entitled Mané Taxim. This fact was noted in a newspaper published in Oradea that quoted the periodical La Turquie: “The repertoire was as varied as can be: [composed by] Frenchmen, Turks, Spaniards, Romanians”; and the names of the other pieces mentioned were “Tour Eiffel,” “Doi ochi” [Two eyes], “Patinage valse,”

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“Sérénade Française,” the gallop “Chemin de fer en gare,” “Souvenir de Brăila,” and “Souvenir de Prahova” (Vulcan 1890:530).19 A linguistic investigation from 1936 recorded the manea among the dances from Măceşu de Jos, a village (in southern Oltenia, close to the Danube) almost exclusively populated by Romanians. On the other hand, the manea was not mentioned in any of the other villages in which the investigation took place.20 Manele survived after the Second World War, as well, as Tiberiu Alexandru has noted:21 An old lăutar here and there, from the provinces in the south of the Carpathians, could still play a Turkish manea. Late reminiscences of the Oriental music from days of old or personal creations in an Oriental vein, the manele are sometimes of a rare beauty and their performance requires of the instrumentalists exceptional skillfulness. Often the melody unfolds freely, apparently unbridled, supported by a giusto accompaniment made up of an ostinato rhythmical formula frequently met with in the music of the Near East: a rhythm composed of an amphibrach followed by a spondee, termed düyek by the Turkish musicians. This rhythmical formula is familiar to other categories of Romanian folklore. (1980b:273; italics in the original)

The first musical notations related to manele appeared toward the end of the nineteenth century. Two pieces from a manuscript in Byzantine notation—a heterogeneous collection of vocal pieces with Romanian texts that Gheorghe Ucenescu completed around 188022—contain information regarding their origins. The first bears the inscription “in the style of Turkish manele” (see figure/example 2.1), while the second reads “Imitation of the Turkish Manea” and “A. Pann” (Breazul 1941:310–2; Ciobanu 1985:22n).23 The scribe, Ucenescu, was a Transylvanian who had been a student of Anton Pann in Bucharest between 1850 and 1853 and from whom he had probably learned the two pieces. Another inscription appears on a copy of the volume Efterpi (Ευτέρπη), the first printed Ottoman music (1830), also in Byzantine notation. The inscription is in the handwriting of cantor Pană Brăneanu (1839–1910): “This book called Efterpi contains songs called Manele: Turkish, Persian and Greek” (Breazul 1941:331–2). Two pieces in Turkish, also in Byzantine notation, are included at the end of a small manuscript of church chants under the title “Manele.” Constantin Răileanu— who discovered the pieces in 2005 in the manuscript from the Căldăruşani Monastery library—opines that the manuscript was written around 1900 (personal communication, 6 February 2014).24 Inima-n mine de dor s’ăncingie; arde, arde, nu să stingie. Flacără mare rău mă-npresoară; focul durerii rău mă doboară. Refrain: Ah, fie-ţi milă, soro, de mine, Că mi-e nădejdea numai la tine!

My heart burns with longing; it burns and burns; its fire is not quenched. A huge flame besets me; the fire of pain brings me down. Refrain: Ah, sister, have mercy on me, For my hope lies only with you!



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Figure 2.1.  Inima-n mine de dor s’ăncingie [My heart burns with longing], “in the style of Turkish manele” Scribe: Gheorghe Ucenescu (Romanian Academy Library, Bucharest)

A few audio recordings bearing the title “The Turkish Manea” are also mentioned, some of them published on a phonograph record. The oldest is possibly the one recorded by the military brass band from Mihai Viteazu Regiment 6 (Bucharest), issued by the Gramophon Record Company around 1906–1910. The second oldest, thus, probably is the one performed on the panpipe by Păun Muscalagiu [Păun the Panpiper], most likely accompanied by a traditional ensemble. This is the only such piece from among the almost six hundred recordings made by folk musicians and included in a Gramophon catalogue from 1900 to 1914 (V. Cosma 2009:118, 546–53). The third Turkish manea, Aman doctor, appears on an Odeon record (A 199197a) sometime around 1928 (see chapter 1 / figure 1.2). Its performers are clarinetist Vasile Constantin and accordionist Petrică Bugeanu.25 Not least of all, a Turkish manea played by violinist Dumitru Tudor from Cartojani, aka Tramvai, accompanied by three other musicians from Wallachia (on the violin, cimbalom, and double bass), was published on a record by Constantin Brăiloiu in 1940 (Lupaşcu 2006:65). Two other manele were collected from Clejani, a village situated not far from Bucharest.26 On one of the manele there is no information other than the archive number under which it is kept at the Institute of Ethnography and Folklore in Bucharest (Fg. 4032a, Ciobanu 1969:68).27 The other manea was collected by Paula Carp and

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Constantin Zamfir in 1949, archived in the same institution with number Fg. 4091, transcribed by Pascal Bentoiu (see chapter 1 figure/example 1.2) and published in Alexandru (1956:280–7). The first violinist, Pîrvan Răgălie, had learned it in 1943, during the war, from a soldier of Turkish origin in Dobruja who sang it. Alexandru writes that the manea is a “Turkish song of love and sorrow that the lăutari in Wallachia play when they are asked to” (1956:327–8). The same melody of Răgălie’s manea was subsequently recorded by Gheorghe Ciobanu but turned into a brisk dance melody, “Sârba din cimpoi” [Sârbă on the bagpipe] (Fgr 4099b, Ciobanu 1992:211). The melody of the sârbă, played on the violin, was transcribed and published as example 41 in Ciobanu (1969:192–3; unnumbered pages).

THE MAINSTREAM HISTORY AND SOURCES ON MANELE The above-mentioned sources seem not to support the commonly accepted history of the manea. Although Oişteanu considers manele a legacy of the Phanariot era, the documents from that period and from the decades immediately following it are silent regarding manele. This is even more surprising as indigenous writers such as Ion Ghica and Nicolae Filimon paid attention to the music from the end of the Phanariot era and left precious information on it.28 The term manea is not met with in Anton Pann’s works either, neither in his musical writings—such as Spitalul amorului [Love asylum] (Pann 1852), the collection of lay songs considered by Oişteanu “full of manele”29—nor in his fiction (Pann 1991 [1847]). In the particular case of the mehterhane, the contemporary sources do not mention manele as part of its repertoire. Evliya Çelebi and Dimitrie Cantemir, mentioned by Andrei Oişteanu, do not record any of the genres or forms used by the mehterhane. Those who do (Gheorgaki, I. Ch. Struve, Franz Joseph Sulzer, Thomas Thornton) talk about nevbet, peşrev, or skopos, but not about the manea.30 Neither Father Constantin Bobulescu nor George Breazul, important historical musicologists of the first half of the twentieth century, considers manele among the musical categories sung by the mehterhane in the Romanian principalities (Bobulescu 1922:43–4; Breazul 1941:72–7). Moreover, Walter Zev Feldman does not mention manele among the genres or forms practiced by the mehterhane from either the Danubian principalities or the entire Ottoman Empire (1991:999–1000). Dimitrie Cantemir’s association with manele is also problematic. Cantemir was a fine and seasoned connoisseur of Ottoman art music, on which he wrote a treatise.31 In this treatise are mentioned several vocal and instrumental genres: taksim (pl. taksimler), beste (pl. besteler), kar, nakş, semai (pl. semailer), and peşrev (pl. peşrevler);32 but the manea is not among them. None of his compositions, most of which are instrumental (peşrevler and semailer) and only a few besteler, bears the title manea (Popescu-Judetz 1973:133–8). In particular, “Ti megali symfora”—translated in Romanian as Vai, ce ceas, ce zi, ce jale [Alas, what an hour, what a day, what sorrow] in Spitalul amorului by Pann—was, according to Oişteanu and Viorel Cosma,33



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a composition by Cantemir characterized plainly as a manea by Cosma and allusively so by Oişteanu. It is, in actuality, however, a beste composed by Georgios Nikolaou Soutzos more than a century after Cantemir’s death34 (Erevnidis 1998:20–1). Hence, the sources do not permit us to state that manele circulated in the Danubian principalities in the Phanariot era, were part of the mehterhane’s repertoire, or were composed or performed by Dimitrie Cantemir or Anton Pann. Rather, manea seems to be a generic term that, in the second half of the nineteenth century, designated various Oriental musics from contemporary or earlier times. Furthermore, the statements according to which manele flourished in the Phanariot era and the mehterhane played manele come from a single source: Teodor T. Burada. As shown earlier, he was the first to state, in 1875, that the mehterhane played manele. A few years later, he also enumerated three musical categories played by the mehterhane: “For holidays and princely convoys they played the chindie [concert performed at sunset], various manele, nevbetler and peşrevler” (Burada 1974c [1888]:141; italics in the original). The information taken from this is found—sometimes almost identically formulated—in a series of reference works by Ollănescu, Posluşnicu, and Alexandru.35 Similarly, Burada’s remarks on the performance of manele by Grigore Avram (a master of Oriental music) and other boyars like Toader Grămăticul, Vasile Zugravu, and Vasile Ureche, were repeated in Ollănescu, Şăineanu, and Ciobanu.36

MANI, AMANES, MANEA The adjective “Turkish” often accompanies the noun manea, and philologists maintain that the term comes from the Turkish word mani. An examination of the Turkish mani, therefore, may shed light on the history of manea in the Romanian principalities. Mani (pl. maniler; a word derived from the Arabic ma‘nā) is a form of Turkish popular poetry. More often than not, the stanza of a mani is made up of four heptasyllabic lines, of which the first, second, and last have the same rhyme (aaba). Although occurring infrequently, this basic structure can be altered as far as the number of syllables in a verse is concerned (resulting in octosyllabic lines), the number of verses, or the rhyme schemes: aabaca, baca, aba, and so on. The performers and contexts in which maniler are performed—recited or sung—vary, giving rise to subcategories within the genre. Maniler can be sung by women at work, youngsters (boys and girls), alternately, guardsmen, peddlers, café singers, etc. (Boratav 1991). Since the middle of the nineteenth century, or perhaps even earlier, the Greeks from the Ottoman Empire, followed afterward by those in Greece, have taken the café maniler from the Turks. Greeks and Turks together have contributed to the development of the genre, which had a period of glory up until the Second World War. The text of a Greek manes (pl. manedes) is a distich with rhyme in the Constantinople meter (an iambic decapentasyllabic line), and the main theme most often concerns suffering, confessed or not. In the song, the text is interspersed with interjections

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expressing pain, of which the most frequent is Aman! [approx. Mercy!]. Influenced by this interjection, manedes have become known also as amanedes (sg. amanes) (Babiniotis 2005:132). From a melodic point of view, amanedes had certain similarities with classical Ottoman music, especially the modal system of the Turkish makamlar (sg. makam), but the manner in which the text was intoned distinguished them from other genres of art or folk music. The performance could be strictly vocal or with accompaniment. In the latter case, the vocalist would sing in a free rhythm, while the instruments with plucked strings realized a continuous accompaniment in a giusto rhythm or a discontinuous one in a free rhythm. Not infrequently, the accompaniment was the so-called tsiftetelli (the Greek pronunciation of the Turkish çiftetelli), an amphibrach followed by a spondee. Most of the time the text was divided in three musical phrases: one for each line, between which the second hemistich from the first line was repeated. When the piece had instrumental accompaniment, between the vocal phrases and at the beginning and end of the piece, instrumental passages could be played.37 Initially improvised, the amanedes have gradually become more or less melodically and structurally standardized (Pennanen 2004:10).38 In the twentieth century, if not even earlier, the term (a)manes was extended to other categories, as well. Risto Pennanen remarks that the pieces from the gazel genre, which were featured in the recordings from the 1930s under this name, have subsequently been edited especially with the name mane or (a)manes, both being free-rhythmic vocal forms of Ottoman origin (2004:10). Today, the term may refer to any song in a traditional Hellenic or Oriental style that uses makamlar and a nasal vocal timbre (Dragoumis 1987[1976]:365). The manele from Romania catalogued above belong to various categories. Aman doctor is a song that was frequently interpreted in the inter-war period in Turkish and Greek.39 The original text in Turkish follows the stanzaic pattern of the mani; the Greek adaptation, however, departs from this but without adopting the fifteensyllable line of amanes.40 The musical form does not correspond to that of the amanes either. It is probable that the mani was the origin of Răgălie’s manea, as well, although the melodic version of the violinist does not suggest that it was accompanied by a heptasyllabic quatrain.41 The supposition is made even stronger by the fact that the mani was a poetic-musical form at that time among Tatars in Dobruja with whom the Turks were in contact (Suliţeanu 1964). Also, it is not out of the question that the mani was the song mentioned by Popescu-Pasărea: we saw that maniler were, indeed, part of the practice of peddlers, and Popescu-Pasărea seems to have taken that information from a credible source.42 Available data are too scarce to determine whether any of the manele were amanes. The one with the highest chances is “Mané Taxim” of Bârlează, whose name indicates a piece with at least an improvisational character if not a manes per se. The piece seems to have been introduced in the concert repertoire in order to flatter the public in the late nineteenth century, when the genre was very popular in Istanbul.43 Of course, we may wonder to what extent the version performed on the stage of the Petit Champs Theatre for a petit-bourgeois public was similar to an amanes from a



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café and whether Bârlează was accustomed to the amanes type of improvisation or was just creating a pastiche. It is not unlikely that Bârlează performed or even learned the piece in Brăila—at that time a cosmopolitan town with an important Greek and Turkish population. Amanedes could also be (some of ) the manele mentioned by Tiberiu Alexandru. Their Oriental character and the free rhythm of the lead instrumentalist, which overlapped with a düyek (çiftetelli) rhythm of the instrumentalists playing the accompaniment, are reminiscent of amanes. There is not absolute certainty, however, that we are talking about other genres thus named by extension. Another category consists of the chants in Byzantine notation. All of these appear to be classical or semi-classical Ottoman pieces: şarkıler (sg. şarkı), besteler, and yürük semailer—genres illustrated in the volume Efterpi (Fokaefs and Vyzantios 1830) that, according to Brăneanu, contained manele.44 In what concerns the pieces from the manuscripts in Byzantine notation, the “Turkish manea” that served as a model for the “imitation” from Ucenescu’s manuscript is a beste in makam suzinak (a major mode with a chromatic upper tetrachord) and usul muames (Fokaefs and Vyzantios 1830:26–31; Breazul 1941:311–4); the piece “in the style of Turkish manele” in the same manuscript is a şarkı hafızın in makam hüseyni and usul düyek by Vasileios Vyzantios;45 and the first piece from the Căldăruşani manuscript is a şarkı in makam tahir (a minor mode with a raised sixth degree) and usul ağir semai (Fokaefs and Vyzantios 1830:105–7).46 The manele mentioned in the discussions on church music are also classical Ottoman pieces, alongside other lay pieces—perhaps even manes. Bariţiu, Petrescu, and Bishop Melchisedek rephrased the statements made decades earlier by Hieromonk Macarie: and the Christians of our times, having gotten accustomed to hearing the Turkish taksimler and peşrevler, . . . have started to sing worldly songs; and in the Holy Church one could often hear the very songs that the Turks sang in cafés and at their gatherings. . . . And if someone does not sing songs and medleys of peşrevler in the Holy Church, he is not welcome. (1823:10)

Macarie was well-known to Petrescu and Melchisedek; they probably took the information from Macarie and added the term manea, which had appeared in the meantime in Romanian. It is difficult to discern whether Bariţiu, Petrescu, and Melchisedek made a distinction between manes and taksim or other higher or more popular categories of Turkish worldly music, just as it is difficult to know whether Macarie also included the manes among the songs “that the Turks sang in cafés” or whether the genre had not even appeared yet. Among the Ottoman pieces, one must also consider the “manele” performed on the tanbur by the boyars mentioned by Burada and Sion. It is unlikely that during those times a representative of the nobility had sung music inappropriate to his high status. The identification of the other pieces is still imprecise. The manele mentioned by Russo and Negruzzi are, in my opinion, impossible to classify. We do not have sufficient data on those from Hacivat either; as with the mehterhane or the Ottoman

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chamber music, Burada used a generic term covering diverse musical categories. One must also place the manele mentioned by Alecsandri, Odobescu, and Caragiale in the same category that includes diverse Oriental musics. It is very unlikely that the piece whose text was noted by G. Dem. Teodorescu was amanes, even if the interjection “aman” suggests this labeling; its lines are catalectic hexasyllabic (that is, five syllables) with a trochaic rhythm and should not be considered as forming, by threes, an iambic line of fifteen syllables. Instead, the recordings of the brass band from the Mihai Viteazu Regiment, as well as those of Păun and Tramvai, could be amanedes, possibly played in a more rigid manner lacking in improvisation (at least in the case of the brass band), but they might also belong to another category of Turkish music designated by Romanians at the beginning of the twentieth century by the generic term manea. The slow—possibly rubato—melodies in the works by Şăineanu, Gane, and Dan-Dry suggest that these be labeled as amanedes, without this being, however, an irrefutable argument. Finally, there is no indication regarding the music to which one would dance the manea in the Măceşu village, and any supposition as to this—except for the fact that it had a regular rhythm, perhaps even çiftetelli?—would be risky.

A HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE MANEA IN THE DANUBIAN PRINCIPALITIES We have seen, thus, that the designation manea served as an umbrella term for different—more or less related—musical genres and that it was in all probability not used by Romanians before the nineteenth century. But when did the Romanians listen to the first “real” manele, those from which the term extended to other genres as well? If we are to credit Alecu Russo, who used the word for the first time, manele were at their peak at the beginning of the 1830s. Russo used manele as an emblem of a golden age separated from contemporary times by the year 1835, a date that he mentioned several times throughout his text.47 I tend to believe that the appearance of manele happened not long before that and that their falling out of fashion was relatively rapid. In 1851, Russo (born in 1819) saw manele as monuments of the past that he had enjoyed in his adolescence; ten years later, younger Odobescu (born in 1834) considered them foreign music from a Phanariot past that he had not witnessed. It would not be out of the question, however, for manele to have entered the Romanian principalities later, perhaps even close to 1850, and for Russo to have extended the name, just as Burada and the other writers would do later, to other musical genres from the past as well. Even if the moment of the manea’s appearance in the Romanian principalities— both the genre and the designation—is not clearly indicated, it is more than likely that it came to us from the urban Turkish world, brought by Romanian lăutari or singers from Constantinople. There are records of the circulation of both categories of musicians between Istanbul and the Romanian principalities throughout the nineteenth century (Ghenea 1965:110; Filimon 2008:126; Ciobanu 1969:62).



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The features of the manea from the mid-nineteenth century can be traced with a degree of confidence as the contemporary and later sources that mention it (both the “real” manea and the manea more broadly defined) do not contradict each other. The manea was a lyrical piece, vocal or vocal-instrumental, sung and played48 by the Romani lăutari at manorial parties. The boyars and their wives could, themselves, sing (see Russo 1908; Negruzzi 1872). The tempo of the manea was slow (Gane 1879; Odobescu 1887; Şăineanu 1900), and the rhythm was free (Petrescu 1872; Dan-Dry 1885). The character was sentimental, melancholic (Gane 1879; Şăineanu 1896, 1900; Sion 1888; Russo 1908—“which breaks the hearts,” “the madams would sigh,” etc.), and the lyrics were often about love (Russo 1908; Şăineanu 1896; Sion 1888).49 Here and there the text was interspersed with interjections such as “ah!” or “aman!” (Gane 1879; Ucenescu [in Nicolescu 1979]; G. Dem. Teodorescu 1885). The characteristics of this manea—let us continue to call it “classical Romanian”—overlap to a large extent with those of the (Greek) café amanes, but it would be unwise to state any more than the fact that the two genres have a common musical ancestor.50 The manea seems to have circulated initially in Moldova. Most of the writers who talked about it were Moldovan (primarily Russo, Negruzzi, and Gane, but also Alecsandri, Sion, Melchisedek, and Burada), while the Wallachian ones, as shown above, did not know the term (Pann, Ghica, Filimon) or used it only in connection with the exotic music of the Orient (Odobescu, Petrescu, Caragiale).51 The first Moldovan writers—petty, conservative boyars living in a state in which the Phanariots’ pressure was not as strongly felt as in Wallachia—regarded the manea pleasantly, as a beautiful memory of times past and an element of Romanian identity. The aversion to manele—or at least a slightly contemptuous attitude of superiority—could be met with among the progressive intellectuals, be they Transylvanian, Wallachian, or Moldovan. For Bariţiu, Petrescu, Odobescu, or Bishop Melchisedek, the manea was the music of the “uncivilized, corrupt Muslim” Orient. The modernization of society and the construction of the Romanian nation were accompanied by a distancing from the Orient and the incrimination of the elements of its culture, including manele (cf. Dan-Dry). As European music took the place of the Oriental, manele were less and less frequently sung, and their earlier listeners—the boyars and the townsfolk— were no longer able to distinguish them from other similar genres of Oriental origin. As early as 1870, not even the church chanters, masters of classical Ottoman music in the past, could distinguish besteler and şarkıler from manele. Once the presence of manele subsided, the tone of the nationalists also abated: manele started to be seen as mere exotic elements, suitable for portraying the Ottoman world in literary works. Concomitantly with this “classical” manea, performed especially for the boyars, other forms also circulated, such as the manele of the Turkish peddlers (the manea heard by Pann; cf. Garfias 1981:99), those from the itinerant puppet theaters (G. Dem. Teodorescu, Burada), and those of the Turkish and Tatar communities in Dobruja (which was annexed to Romania in 1878). Toward the end of the nineteenth century and in the first half of the twentieth, one can find other manele sporadically, most probably Balkan “hits” of the moment, brought to Romania by

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the musicians or the sellers of gramophone records. Although all of them had their roots in the Turkish poetic form mani, from a musical point of view they were quite different: some had a fixed form, while others had a free form in which improvisation played an important part; for some of them, the accompaniment was carried out in a düyek/çiftetelli rhythm, while for others (e.g., Răgălie’s manea) it was not; some were sung, and some, more often than not, were only instrumental. It is plausible, but by no means certain, that some of these manele, up to the 1960s, were close to the “classical” manele heard by the boyars in the previous century. What is certain is simply the fact that since all of them had the same origin, and some of them common musical traits, and since the Romanians had lost their familiarity with the Turkish music, their listeners did not feel the need to distinguish them through different names. “Manea” thus became a term that covered all “Turkish”-sounding music and was to surface prominently much later in the twentieth century, assuming a major role in popular Romanian culture.

NOTES 1.  The purpose of Oişteanu’s article was not so much to compile a history of manele, but to lament the “Turkification” of Romania and its “departure” from European culture. 2.  See, for instance, V. Cosma (2009:108–18) and Manega (2006). 3.  Recently, a different position was expounded by Bogdan Murgescu (1995), who has argued that the “Phanariot era” is nothing but a construct of the Romanian nationalist historiography of the nineteenth century. 4.  Without being too precise, Oişteanu seems to connect the performance of manele by the mehterhane to a description made in 1652 by Evliya Çelebi. 5.  If Oişteanu’s presentation is nuanced and cautious regarding manele before 1900, other authors, including musicologists, make definitive statements. For example, for Viorel Cosma, Cantemir was “a great manea virtuoso”; the origins of the manea were, according to him, “Turkish-Persian-Indian”; the manea was “promoted in the Romanian Principalities by the Gypsy fiddlers and the Turkish seraglio fiddlers in the time of the Phanariot rule (eighteenth century), taken over, reworked, and adapted to the Romanian texts by the indigenous urban fiddlers at the beginning of the nineteenth century” (2009:108, 113). 6.  Almost all of these literary sources are mentioned in the manea entry in Dicționarul limbii romîne literare contemporane (1957) [The dictionary of contemporary Romanian literary language], Lazăr Şăineanu’s Dicționar universal al limbii române (1996) [General Romanian dictionary], and Şăineanu (1885; 1900), and are cited in Oişteanu’s article. The texts by Russo (1908), Negruzzi (1872), Gane (1879), Caragiale (1910), and the travel diary of Alecsandri (1876) are available on Romanian Wikisource as well. 7.  Romanian wines. 8.  See Heliade-Rădulescu (1943:126–8). 9. Bariţiu’s quotes were published previously, with certain inaccuracies, in Catrina (1994:109). 10.  Kratimata (sg. kratima), also called terere or teretismata, are, in Byzantine chant, either passages or entire compositions that use syllables without significance like te-re-re, to-ro-ro, a-ne-na, e-ke-ta, etc. See Touliatos (1989:239–41) and Anastasiou (2005).



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11.  Quoted in O. L. Cosma (1975:301). 12.  For the mehterhane in the Danubian principalities, see Gheorghiţă (2010a:40–53). 13. The information on manele as part of the repertoire of the mehterhane and for the tanbur was also presented by Burada in another article published in 1888 (1974c:141–2). 14.  The translation is somewhat ambiguous, because in Romanian “to sing” and “to play” (an instrument) are expressed by the same verb: a cânta. I tend to believe that we are talking now about the vocal performance of the manea by one of the actors, possibly accompanied by another on the Turkish tanbur. 15.  See also Popescu-Judetz (1967:345–6). 16.  See note 14. 17.  Ciobanu states that Popescu-Pasărea noted this in one of the printed editions of the Pentecostarion. I did not find this note in either of the editions of the Pentecostarion. In the first edition there is no version composed by Anton Pann of the particular song (PopescuPasărea 1924; 1936:19, 20). For the number of the Pentecostarion’s edition, see Frangulea (2004:399–402). 18.  Şăineanu also mentions the definition of the term manè from an unspecified French source: “melodie sans mesure composée de mots décousus; bulg. manè melodie” (1900, 2, 1:246). 19.  See also Alexandru (1980b:273). 20.  Suciu (2010:477); Emil Suciu, personal communication, 3 April 2014; Doina Grecu, personal communication, 23 May 2014. Research on a linguistic atlas was undertaken between 1930 and 1938 by a team led by Emil Petrovici at The Linguistic Institute in Cluj. Part of the material gathered has remained unpublished, including a file on the manea. The research took place in eighty-five locations, among which nine were in Wallachia, six in each of the two districts Oltenia and Dobruja, seven in each of the two districts Moldova and Bessarabia—regions in which the Greek-Turkish influence was stronger than in the areas that formed part of the Habsburg Empire in the nineteenth century. Research in these latter thirtyfive places targeted thirty Romanian communities and five communities of minorities (Roma, Bulgarians, Aromanians, Megleno-Romanians, and Ruthenians) (Petrovici 1940:iii–iv, 1). I would like to thank Dr. Doina Grecu (The Linguistic Institute in Cluj) and Dr. Emil Suciu warmly for the information related to this. 21.  Alexandru presented a preliminary version of this article at a conference in 1969. It is arguable that he did not base his comment on sources from that time, but rather was referring to a manea performed by Pîrvan Răgălie (thirty-six years old) in 1949 (for more on Răgălie, see last paragraph of section “Considerations of Manele Prior to 1960,” below). 22.  For the date of the manuscript (ms. Rom. 3497 from the Romanian Academy Library, Bucharest), see Nicolescu (1979:34–6). If Nicolescu’s reasoning on the inscriptions of the years is correct, the first piece to which I refer was noted not earlier than 1875, and the second after 1877. 23. The second piece was reproduced in facsimile (fragments) in Breazul (1941:311–2) and completely transcribed into Western notation in Nicolescu (1979:227–30). The first piece had been previously published in Byzantine notation in Pann (1852, 5:145). It was transcribed into Western notation in Ciobanu (1955:199). For the circulation of these two pieces, see Ciobanu (1985:261–2). My transcription in figure 2.1 also used the variant from the ms. 4701 in the Library of the Union of Composers and Musicologists, f. 98–99, in order to correct the mistakes from ms. 3497 and Pann (1852). 24.  The first piece is featured on the concert album of the Anton Pann ensemble, led by Constantin Răileanu, De la lume adunate şi iarăşi la lume date [(Pieces) collected from the

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people and given back to the people] (2012). Another live performance, together with Fikret Karakaya, Kyriakos Kalaitzidis, and other guests, can be found at http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=X9vJJyGOFDY (accessed 7 February 2014). The orchestration belongs to the performers, and the manuscripts record only the melody performed vocally. 25. The information and the dating belong to John DeMetrick, to whom I extend my warm thanks here as well. 26.  In 1949, there were seventy-eight lăutari in Clejani, and their superior competence was recognized beyond the neighboring counties (Ciobanu 1969:8, 14). After 1990, the lăutari from Clejani became famous in the West due to the band Taraf de Haïdouks. 27. This manea may have been collected after 1960. 28.  Cf. Ghica (1976): passim; Filimon 1984: passim, 2008. 29.  The 1852 edition of Spitalul amorului contains six brochures. The first two had been printed previously in 1850 and were slightly different from those in the 1852 edition (see also Băbuş 2002:47–9). The scores of the 174 pieces were re-edited in Pann (2009) in original Byzantine notation and transcribed into Western notation. 30.  Cf. Neagoe (2008:70–86); Çelebi, in Alexandrescu-Dersca Bulgaru et al. (1976:475, 487, 630–1, 712–3, 719, 786); Struve, quoted in Bezviconi (1947:134); Sulzer, in Zinveliu (1995:163); Thornton, quoted in Breazul (1941:75). 31.  See Popescu-Judetz 1973. 32.  Here and in the rest of the chapter I used the modern Turkish spelling. 33.  The relationship between “Ti megali symfora” and “Vai, ce ceas” was first noticed by George Breazul (1941:315–6). The attribution of the piece “Ti megali symfora” to Cantemir was done by Gheorghe Ciobanu (1974a [1957]:167–9), using an article by Burada based on Turkish sources. 34.  Nikiforos Kantouniaris, who noted it for the first time, heard it being sung by its very author, who composed it after the death of his young daughter. Taking into account the time in which Kantouniaris lived (Gheorghiţă 2010b:87) and the genealogy of the Soutzos family (http://ghika.org/Familles/Soutzo/Sutzu_01.pdf, accessed 7 February 2014), the piece was composed around 1800. 35.  See Ollănescu (1981 [1897]:89–90); Posluşnicu (1928:548); Alexandru (1956:15); and (1980b:256). In all four of these, the three categories are explained, usually between brackets, this way: nevbetler—joyful songs, marches; peşrevler—preludes, overtures; manele—melancholy and love songs. See also Ciobanu (1974b [1959]:93); (1974d [1967]:108). 36.  See Ollănescu (1981:92); Şăineanu (1900, 1:clxiv); and Ciobanu (1974c [1965]:224). 37.  Dragoumis 1987:364–6; 2003:166–7; personal communication, December 2009. 38.  The term mane also marked in other parts of the former Ottoman Empire an improvisation in a free rhythm. In recent times, the professional folk musicians in Macedonia call mane a “free rhythmic improvisation over the beat of the drum while the second player holds a drone” (Rice 1982:131), and in Bulgaria the improvisational solo characteristic of kyuchek is called mane or taksim (Silverman 2012:180). 39.  Recordings starting in the 1920s can be found on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=AjepmHRjh74 (accessed 23 March 2014). 40.  In Turkish, the piece is also known by the name “Mendilimin Yeşili.” The lyrics in both languages can be found at http://analogion.com/forum/showthread.php?t=24440 (accessed 23 March 2014). 41.  This piece may have, nevertheless, also been originally not a rural piece with restricted circulation but a hit with a wider spread. A dance melody (sârbă) from Moldova similar to this



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one, whose initial phrase is identical with that of the manea under discussion, was performed in 1944 by the lăutari Cozma Curbet from Susleni and Vasile Stici from Furceni (Orhei County in the present Republic of Moldova, close to the right shore of the Dniester River). The piece was noted by Vladimir C. Curbet in 1949 and published in Stoianov (1972:120); Floria (1983:115); and Curbet (2003:395), and recorded as track number 2 on the Özgen 2004 CD. I am indebted to Mrs. Lilia Balan (National Library of the Republic of Moldova) and Dr. Vasile Chiseliţă (Institute of Cultural Patrimony in Kishinev) for the help provided in identifying this piece. 42.  Ion Popescu-Pasărea learned church music from Ştefanache Popescu, who was Anton Pann’s student for eight months (Ionescu 1996:13–5). 43. It is estimated that there were thousands of café manes singers, the population of Istanbul being approximately one million inhabitants (Penannen 2004:10). I want to thank Pavlos Erevnidis for pointing out Penannen’s article and for the useful information on classical Ottoman music, as well as on amanes and gazel in Greece and Turkey. 44.  Efterpi contains sixty-six şarkıler, nine besteler, eleven yürük semailer, one nakş, along with a Greek song and a European one. 45.  The piece can be found, with a few melodic differences and Turkish lyrics, in ms. Gr. 692 from the Romanian Academy Library (f. 184–185). It is written in Byzantine notation, and it opens the section of “Ottoman Verses.” 46.  The second piece from the Căldăruşani manuscript was also identified by Constantin Răileanu in one of the three collections of Ottoman music in Byzantine notation printed in Constantinople before 1850: Efterpi, Pandora, and Armonia (Răileanu, personal communication, 6 February 2014). 47.  Following the Treatise from Adrianople in 1829, the Danubian principalities entered the Russian protectorate, although they remained formally vassals to the Ottoman Empire. Many historians consider this date as the beginning of the modern period in Romanian history due to the significant social and economic changes that took place in the years immediately following. 48.  Gane is the only one who, in his work of fiction, talks about the specific members of the ensemble of lăutari who performed manele: a violinist, one who played the cobză (instrument of the lute family), and a panpiper, that is, a typical lineup for the urban ensembles from the first half of the nineteenth century. 49.  The information on the language in which the manele were sung is scarce, leaving room for suppositions. The only clearer information is the beginning of the manea from Gane’s short story, “Ah! suflete, ah!” [Ah! My soul, ah!], suggesting a text in Romanian. These words, however, may have been mere exclamations distinct from the main text of the song, which may have been sung in Greek or Turkish, languages that some boyars—and probably some lăutari—still spoke in the mid-nineteenth century. 50. The presence of the decapentasyllabic meter both in the amanedes from the end of the nineteenth century and the so-called (by Odobescu) manele that Heliade had apparently mentioned is just a coincidence, the respective meter being frequently used in the Constantinople poetry. 51.  This is correlated with a general remark, namely, that the terms taken from Turkish by official and literate means are more numerous in Moldova, while in Wallachia popular borrowings, through direct contact, are predominant (Suciu 2010:51). Hence, the manea from the mid-nineteenth century seems to have a stronger connection to Moldova and to the upper classes, in agreement with Şăineanu’s statement that the term did not enter popular speech.

3 How the Music of Manele Is Structured Speranţa Rădulescu

“Any hit may be a manea,” the sentence heard at the outset of a program on Romanian Realitatea TV [Reality TV] (January 2012), was apparently uttered by Adrian Minune [Adrian Wonder], one of today’s star manelişti (sg. manelist), in reply to a journalist who accused him of plagiarizing pop singer and actress Rihanna’s hit “Man Down.”1 But to Adrian Minune, the accusation is ridiculous. Like all the lăutari from which he descends and all his fellow manelişti, he is accustomed to borrow—from any source—sound sequences of various sizes and modify them to various extents so as to be able to appropriate them, that is, create from them new or renewed musical discourses, bearing the mark of his personality.2 I will comment, one by one, on some of the ways of creating “the new”—through absorption, recuperation of “the old,” variation, and remodeling—which are crucial in the stylistic makeup of today’s manele.

ABSORPTION OF “THE NEW” The adoption and integration of sound structures into one’s own music from another music is one of the techniques by which the new is created in traditional music. After noticing it in the music of Oaş,3 the ethnomusicologists Bernard Lortat-Jacob, Jacques Bouët, and I conducted an experiment in 1993. We asked the best folk violinist in the region, Gheorghe Meti, a Rom from the town of Negreşti, to transform a set of about twenty simple Romanian, French, and Chinese melodies as well as a few compositions of his own into danţ (pl. danţuri), the quasi-unique genre of local Romanian music consisting of the reiteration of a single section strongly subjected to variation (Bouët, Lortat-Jacob, S. Rădulescu 2002:275–82). Meti took on the proposal, offering adaptive changes, one by one, on the melodies and transforming 63

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them with incredible ease into danţuri.4 We had undertaken a similar experiment a few years earlier in a different rural region, Muscel Argeş.5 There, the Romani violinist Ştefan Ienuş (from the village of Bughea de Sus) had been invited to transform the main theme in the first movement of Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 into “whatever music he wanted.” The musician chose to convert it into traditional dances of his own cultural area: sârba, breaza, brâul pe şase, and hora, each dance characterized by a rhythmic structure substantially different from that of the others. During about two hours of work in our presence, Ienuş produced several versions following the coordinates of each separate dance. He divided Mozart’s theme into two halves, transforming each half into the theme-melody of a different section. With each new dance version that he performed, the musician was distancing himself one more step from the theme of the symphony that in his later productions, therefore, became more and more difficult—and then impossible—to identify. In both experiments described here, the original source was eventually obscured, and the integration of the melodies into the local music was seamless. The success of the integration depends on the clarity, coherence, and solidness of the features of the absorbing musical style, but also on the exceptional skill of the musician in merging different elements into a homogenous whole. As a professionally practiced skill, it is paralleled by another, closely related one, that of “turning the old into new” [a face din vechi nou], which lăutari have handed down from father to son, including to their manelist successors.

RECUPERATION AND RENEWAL OF “THE OLD” This is the recuperation that a few older lăutari from rural Muntenia were talking about in the 1950–1960s. They referred in particular to the successful lyrical songs of their youth that had gone out of fashion for two or three decades, only to reemerge in a refreshed guise, now in tune with the present.6 The resumption and renewal of the pieces after a relatively long retreat from the active local repertoire were undertaken through a kind of concentration of all the minor transformations that folk musicians would have normally made with each iteration over time. It is not my intention to refer here to the mental models that preside over the actual performance of the pieces, their flexibility, the creative ways in which they shift from the virtual to the actual plane, and the gradual metamorphoses that they can undergo during the years—metamorphoses that can also bring about corresponding transformations of their style. I will content myself instead with observing that “turning the old into new”7 is the second fundamental technique of creating and propagating orally transmitted music, the first being the aforementioned incorporation of the exogenous new. Lăutari and manelişti have excellent mastery of each and they activate them to produce manele in ways that I refer to below.



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THE STYLISTIC HOMOGENEITY OF THE EARLY MANELE At the beginning of their new life, between the 1960s and 1980s, manele were targeted mainly at Roma and Romanians from the poor neighborhoods of southern Romanian cities. Their musical features were clear and easily identifiable. Their melodies—probably original, although venturing an opinion on this matter is always risky—were tonal, schematic, rather sparsely ornamented, and accompanied with tonal chords usually employed by performers in urban and rural music. Manele were stylistically positioned between Romanian muzică uşoară (pop music) of the time, cântece de petrecere [party songs],8 and the simplistic layer of muzică lăutărească [lăutar music] that their composers and performers continued to practice.9 It was at that time that a few pieces came out that are still performed today in more or less renewed versions: Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella] (see figure/example 3.110), Răpirea din Serai [The abduction from the Seraglio], Prinţişorul [The little prince], and Maneaua florăreselor [The flower girls’ manea]. Manele at that time consisted of two or three almost equal sections—two of which were a refrain—and an embryo of the later improvised section, both sometimes preceded by an instrumental introduction. The amphibrach-spondee rhythmic accompaniment formula, perceived as new, was heavily marked mainly by percussion (see chapter 1 figure/example 1.4).11 The musical discourse had an exotic external coloratura provided by the vocal timbre and/or some melodic lines that, albeit still very simple, incorporated one or two augmented seconds and perhaps a few unusual ornaments. As far as the period at issue is concerned, one may speak indeed of a certain stylistic homogeneity of each separate manea as well as of manele as a whole provided by these features. The lyrics in “The Abduction from the Seraglio” outlined an Oriental fairy-tale world: Se spune c-a fost odată o poveste-adevărată, cu o zână din poveşti, din poveştile turceşti.

They say that once upon a time there was a magic tale that was true, with a fairy from magic tales, from Turkish magic tales.

It was a world sometimes equated, through more or less transparent allusions, with an idyllic slum. Their ostentatious naïveté makes me presume that, at that time, musicians strove to appeal to audiences with a rich imaginary world but inferior musical competence, insufficiently prepared to appreciate the more complex, elaborate muzică lăutărească [lăutar music], then favored especially by city dwellers considered by the musicians to be “refined,” as the lăutar Constantin Fărâmiţă labeled them12 Cântec de ascultare: mahala şi ţigănie [Lăutar song for listening: Slum and Gypsydom] (see figure 3.2.a/example 3.2) and Joc: sârbă lăutărească [Lăutar dance] (see figure 3.2.b) represent mahala [slum] lăutar music, which predated and coexisted with the early manea and exhibits discernable Ottoman influences.13 These examples of Bucharest lăutar music underscore, on the one hand, how anchored both genres are in Balkan culture and on the other, their significant stylistic differences.13

Figure 3.1.  Manea: Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella]

Transcribed by Speranţa Rădulescu (www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/azur-cenusareasa-origir)

Figure 3.2.  Lăutar song: Mahala şi ţigănie [Slum and Gypsydom]

Recording: Lăutar music with Vasile Năsturică’s Ensemble, Ethnophonie series 019, Cultural Foundation Al. Tzigara Samurcaș; transcribed by Speranta Rădulescu

Figure 3.2.b.  Joc: sârbă lăutărească [Lăutar dance]. Recorded 2009; transcribed by Speranţa Rădulescu



How the Music of Manele Is Structured 73

THE STYLISTIC DIVERSIFICATION OF MANELE Beginning with the 1990s when manele captured the attention of ordinary people, their stylistic homogeneity gradually vanished. As their audiences grew and became more stratified, manele embarked on a vigorous process of diversification. The musicians began to impose adaptive alterations on their older pieces (which had gone out of fashion) or invent new pieces to accommodate the musical background of each existing or emerging social group. For rural populations, they created manele that resembled regional music, sometimes merely by altering their rhythmic patterns. For urban dwellers, they produced alternative forms akin to one or another of the numerous urban musics in the market: muzică lăutărească, cântece de petrecere [party songs], sundry “Oriental” musics,14 or any of the European and American popular musics in circulation. The outcome of their innovative adjustments or compositions were, grosso modo, the manele defined in the opening chapter of this volume: peasant, urban, (both with their territorially particularized offshoots), Orientalized, and Occidentalized, determined only by the respective style that decisively marks them. Depending on their skills and affinities but even more on their usual patronage, each musician or group of musicians opted for one of these stylistic directions. The architectonic form of manele eventually became more complex, and the features of the constituent sections (especially the related sections) were partially modified: the

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instrumental introduction grew to be slow and improvisational, and the third section—when it existed—was extended and turned into a real or simulated Oriental improvisation (see figure/example 3.115). In Orientalized and lăutar manele, the melodies become more complicated and chromatic to varying degrees, and their contours are ornamented. The characteristic amphibrach-spondee rhythm of the accompaniment develops a few alternative versions that either replace or simultaneously complete it (see chapter 1, figure/example 1.4).

UNIFORMIZING HETEROGENIZATION With the stylistic diversification of manele as a whole a complementary tendency developed: heterogenization within one and the same manea.16 This occurred by the juxtaposition or superposition of segments originating in different musics within the same piece. Any music at hand, from anywhere and anytime, is regarded by manelişti as a source of absorption. To them, any association of sequences is possible. The borrowed segments may originate in radically different music but also in other manele, with similar or distinct stylistic features. Not only musical phrases, but also styles combine and/or blend horizontally and/or vertically in the most varied and logically impenetrable ways (Slobin 1993:86–7). For example, a manea rhythm is superimposed on a melodic line from muzică lăutărească with Romanian lyrics that contain English language clichés or Romani idioms and instrumental timbres that resemble popular music. The piece goes on with a jazz fragment accompanied in muzică lăutărească style but to the same manea rhythm (see example 1.1217). To manelişti, integrating various musical styles into their own music (something, as mentioned before, that they have learned from their lăutar fathers) is a convenient and productive technique. After all, it is in accordance with what Martin Stokes calls a “new form of cosmopolitan imagination” (2007:309): while listening to music with their professionally trained attention and doggedly delving into the Internet, manelişti “steal” motifs, rhythmic and ornamental formulas, scalar patterns, larger segments, and even whole pieces from wherever they deem fit.18 They paraphrase, ironically reiterate,19 caricature through reorchestration as well as melodic or rhythmic revision of various amplitudes,20 or recontextualize entire pieces, using them as tonal-harmonic backgrounds over which vocalists may compose their own melodies. Together with a few colleagues in the spring of 2009, I witnessed the birth of a new manea through the use of the last method just mentioned, as I briefly describe here.21 In a program broadcast in prime time by the national television channel, manelişti had just been publicly accused of “lacking musical culture,” “indisputably” demonstrated by their ignorance of musical notation. Offended, Dan Bursuc, a manea producer and impresario who arrogates a position as leader and “ideologist” of the guild of manelişti, mounted a media counterstrike by making and publicly presenting a manea performed from musical scores. To this purpose, he set up an orchestra composed of musicians from the Bucharest National University of Music



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who were paid for both the rehearsals and the recording. My guess is that he found the score and parts for the song “Si tu n’existais pas” by Joe Dassin (arranged by an unknown author) at the library of the national radio station. This presupposition relies on the fact that the song had been performed a few years earlier by the pop music orchestra of that institution. An arranger-conductor from the manea milieu hired for this purpose by Bursuc extracted a significant portion of the piece and modified it slightly, transforming it into a “negative,”22 which he handed to the university students to perform. The well-known manelist Adrian Minune eventually superposed the altered version of a manea previously known as Aş da zile de la mine [I’d give up my own days] over the negative. He replaced its original lyrics, however, with other lyrics, possibly his own, starting with Din toate florile din lume [Of all the flowers in the world], the “flowers” being women. The melody superposed by Adrian Minune was richly ornamented and sung with an “Oriental,” manea-style vocal timbre so casually that it made one think it was improvised (it is, indeed, quite possible that its details were really improvised; at any rate, after the changes he made in it, the song became “his”). Thus, the newly created piece was recorded, filmed later in a studio, and presented on a program—with wide audience appeal—by the private television channel Pro Antena 1.23 Through methods such as that just described, the producer and main performer achieved a superposition of musical and poetic codes (“codeswitching-layering”), whose aesthetic or other rationale was probably unclear even to them. On a different level, they contributed—in Donna Buchanan’s terms—to the consolidation of “transnational ethnopop” (2007b:39), “emergent regionalism within the context of an impending new domination, that of EU” (2007b:44), and at the same time—in Margaret Beissinger’s terms—to the construction of a “broad Balkan-Middle Eastern identity” (Beissinger 2007:109). Ironically, like any object resulting from the aggregation, by “bricolage methods” (Rasmussen 2007:67), of elements of various origins, the eclectic manea is or may be perceived as a homogenous piece, since its numerous contrasts end up mutually canceling their effects. This is what happens to all patchwork manele. The possible incompatibilities are toned down by means of “binding agents,” the most common of which is the same melodic-rhythmic or harmonicrhythmic accompaniment formula that runs without interruption throughout the constituent segments. Listeners may have different reactions, however. Some are thrilled by segments in which they recognize their rural roots, while others enjoy those that remind them of familiar Western hits. Some manele activate vague reminiscences of the Balkan-Oriental exoticism that prevailed in the Romanian provinces of Wallachia and Moldova until the late nineteenth century. Others feel comforted by allusions to the slums of Muntenian cities in the more recent past. In other words, an eclectic manea has a good chance of winning over a large audience, within which any individual may identify with what he or she wants or finds satisfying. Thus, the diversity of manele (generated, at least in the first phase, by the variety of audience categories for which they are produced) coexists frequently with the heterogeneity (i.e., inner diversity) of each separate manea. The two types of diversity

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can be explained in part by the demographic structure of Bucharest,24 arguably the origin as well as center of dissemination of contemporary manele.

MOTLEY BUCHAREST Over the last centuries, the capital of the principality Ţara Românească [lit., the Romanian Land] and later of Romania (formed 1859) has been inhabited by not only a Romanian majority but also a variety of other ethnic groups: Greeks, Jews, Turks, Roma, Armenians, Albanians, Serbs, Bulgarians, Aromanians, French, Germans, Austrians, and Hungarians. These groups maintained good relations with each other but generally lived in small, separate neighborhoods in which they conserved their own languages and cultures to varying degrees. This did not prevent them from communicating through music, mainly due to Romani musicians who would perform every group’s festive music. The merchants, craftsmen, and other socio-professional categories (intellectuals with freelance professions included) were also grouped by quarters or streets that sometimes had identifying names, such as of the merchants, furriers, saddlers, blacksmiths, potters, flour sellers, bakers, and so on (see figure/examples 3.3a, b). The newly arrived peasants in turn set up and settled in semirural neighborhoods around churches and on the city outskirts that extended south into the Danubian Plain. Most Roma lived in the poorest neighborhoods, which were also the farthest from the city center; a significant exception comprised Romani musicians who, around 1880, were living in the very heart of the city, in a perimeter delimited by streets named Potcovari [blacksmiths], Bolintineanu, and Sfinţilor [saints] (V. Cosma 1996:103). Neighborhoods and streets, however, were not necessarily homogeneous. Foreigners passing through Bucharest were struck by the contrast between poverty and wealth displayed by the sumptuous houses and wretched shacks in close vicinity and by their encounter with both passersby dressed in luxurious Oriental or Western costumes and poor people in peasant attire.25 (This type of heterogeneity was diluted in time but is still perceptible today.) In brief, until the installation of communism and occasionally even later, the inhabitants of Bucharest were a “patchwork” of individualities but also of distinct communities (small or large, more or less hybrid), the most coherent of which were the peasants living on the outskirts and the Roma settled in various locations in the capital (see figure 3.4/examples 3.4a, b). (We must remember that Romani musicians played an important role in the emergence of the new manele.) The communist regime (1944–1989) strove and, to a great extent, managed to achieve ethnic homogenization and social leveling in the city, transforming it into a Romanian “unicultural metropolis” (Nettl 2005:595) (see examples 3.5).26 Nevertheless, part of the population may still recall the distinctive particulars of the former constituent communities, as well as the intentional or unintentional crossbreeding among various musics produced in the past by lăutari.

Figure 3.3a.  Old Bucharest (Mahalaua Antim [Antim slum])

Photo: Ludwig Angerer, in Emanuel Bădescu and Radu Oltean, Cele mai vechi și frumoase panorame fotografice ale Bucureștilor, Bucharest: Art Historia Publishing House, 2008

Figure 3.3b.  Old Bucharest (University and Șuțu Palace)

Photo: Carol Popp de Szathmary, in Emanuel Bădescu and Radu Oltean, Cele mai vechi și frumoase panorame fotografice ale Bucureștilor, Bucharest: Art Historia Publishing House, 2008

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Figure 3.4.  Bucharest blocks of flats, communist period

Photo: Constantin C. Giurescu, in Constantin C. Giurescu, Istoria Bucureştilor din cele mai vechi timpuri și până în zilele noastre, Bucharest: Editura pentru literatură, 1966

Since the events of 1989 (the Romanian Revolution), Bucharest has turned into a motley metropolis again. Most of the old minority ethnic groups were unable to recover after the revolution: their members emigrated, left the community, or were absorbed by the majority population through mixed marriages. An exception is the Roma, who still inhabit, in a relatively compact manner, Ferentari, a locality in Bucharest (see examples 3.5), as well as some poor neighborhoods on its boundaries although many have scattered, living like and among Romanians in cheap communist apartment buildings dispersed throughout the city. At the same time, new groups of emigrants are taking shape, for example Turks (who arrived in Romania after 1989 as merchants), Arabs, Chinese, Africans, Asians, etc. But their signs of public cultural presence are still weak. Gradually, coagulation by the relocation of people with similar socioeconomic backgrounds has become more evident, too: the poor (old city dwellers or recently arrived villagers, both still settled in their own respective traditional cultures, urban or rural) tend to group in modest suburbs. The rich or middle classes, in their turn, are moving to the central area of the city. Relations between them are limited, fraught with mistrust and sometimes contempt on both sides. In other words, the people of the capital live and work together (if necessary) although they prefer to live in their own groups or in the social milieus of their “compeers.” Bucharest is unlikely soon to become the rather tolerant, hassle-free multiethnic city it used to be, but it seems to be making some steps in that direction. In terms of style, the relatively homogeneous manele of the 1960s and 1970s may be interpreted as a symbolic image of the socially and culturally homogenous world that the national-communist regime of the period had managed to build up to a point. An important aspect must be considered, however: those who created manele were not representatives of power, but professional Romani musicians—ordinary



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people who made music for other ordinary people, Roma and Romanians. Most of these manele have long been out of circulation, but their type of inner cohesion may still be found in some present-day manele, for example in rural manele or lăutar manele, that is, in manele chiefly tailored for relatively homogenous communities. In contrast, the eclectic manele of the immediate present symbolically reflect a city populated by dynamic people of various extractions who make efforts to keep abreast of the times and appear ready to cross the imaginary boundaries of their groups and settle in a multicultural society and sound world. Bucharest’s motley demographic structure, however, explains the structure of manele only to a limited extent, the ethnic and social diversity of the city being just one of the aspects of the cosmopolitan world in which Romanians in the capital live. This world is populated with visual, auditory, olfactory, and tactile “objects” coming from the geographically and historically remotest sources that have been juxtaposed, superposed, mixed, and possibly reinterpreted in a logic that is foreign to all. The media—in particular, the Internet and television, to which almost all the inhabitants of Romania are very attached—transform this “postmodern” heterogeneity into a way of perceiving, conceiving, and representing the world.27 Considering this reality, I think that previous statements explaining the reasons for the musical diversity and heterogeneity of manele must be rewritten with a different distribution of accents. Recent manele are eclectic, because eclecticism is a feature of all the phenomena of the present (musical ones included), phenomena with which most Romani musicians and their customers have countless occasions to familiarize themselves. But this is also because they are produced by a metropolis that, after a few decades of forced ethnic and social leveling (between the 1940s and 1980s), tends to become cosmopolitan again, as it used to be in previous centuries, in all its ways of expression.

VARIATION As mentioned above, manea-creators, in cooperation with their bands, invent, reclaim, “steal” from everywhere, reformat, modernize, customize, and bind together in entities named manele the most varied musics and musical syntagms.28 Their new works do not freeze in their initial forms, however, but are continually remodeled either by themselves or by other performers through the variations and versions they produce and disseminate.29 (An exception, of course, is manele recorded on discs or filmed for videos and television shows. But as soon as they enter the current repertoire of manelişti, they also become exposed to transformations.) There is a difference between synchronic variations, produced by the same musicians during the same musical performance, and diachronic variations, produced either by the same musicians or by others at various time intervals, that is, during different performances. Both are strongly influenced by the immediate circumstances of the performance, as well as by the musical background and individual qualities of the performers. Diachronic variations are quite difficult to observe because manele get out of circulation

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rather quickly, and the traces they leave behind are often obscure (erased from the Internet or lost with the records and films that carried them). There are, however, a few pieces with long, well-documented careers. One of them is “Cinderella,” which I have selected, together with two of its versions, for the concise analysis to follow, an analysis that aims to examine synchronic and diachronic variations (see figure/ example 3.130). In a certain way, “Cinderella” is not the best choice. Since it is linked to the “sacred” period of the genesis of the manea, all of the performers keep it in forms deliberately similar to the original so that it may be readily recognized by anyone at anytime. In another way, however, it is quite suitable: its lifetime is considerable, therefore the variations it has undergone in time may be significant.

THE MANEA CENUŞĂREASA [CINDERELLA] Version I Presumably the original piece, this manea was (probably) created by Nelu Vlad and was recorded with his band Azur on disc in 198531 (see figure/example 3.132). Today, middle-aged people listen to it nostalgically because it reminds them of their youth. In the year of its release on a disc with the same title, “Cinderella” was labeled as a cântec de petrecere [party song]. The vocal-instrumental lineup was synthesizer, harmonic guitar, bass guitar, small drum with cymbals struck with a metal brush, and vocals (the vocalist and occasionally the instrumentalists). Nelu Vlad, an ethnic Romanian, is a composer of music and lyrics from the city of Brăila on the Danube River, formerly an important trade center with a heterogeneous population.33 In 1977, Vlad and three other Romanians formed a small but lasting ensemble that specialized in cântece de petrecere. In his works, Vlad borrowed Balkan sounds from the musics of a variety of ethnic groups that were still living in his hometown, especially Greek music.34 An early manea, the original “Cinderella,” displays features that would be consolidated in subsequent decades, becoming characteristic of manele at the heyday of their popularity in the 1990s and 2000s. The architectonic form is: Intro A B C A Bvar C A Bvar C A Bvar C A Bvar Cvar cadence, where the Introduction is a dynamic instrumental intro in A minor: a related section. In later manele, the position of this section was taken up by a slow, free-rhythm intro, possibly an improvisation. A is a vocal-instrumental stanza-section made up of four equal phrases: a b b c, each followed by a short refrain (five syllables). The section is harmonically accompanied by chords on the main degrees of A minor and C major, in tight alternation. Stanza A is the basic section of the manea—its core. Its first iteration begins unexpectedly, however, with the second melodic phrase (b) (see note 31). The possible explanation is that due to lack of attention, the accompanists in anticipation attack the first degree chord of C major, unsuited for the A minor melodic phrase a. The adroit vocalist prevents the possible superposition of tonalities by starting the melody from the second phrase, b, harmonized throughout the piece with the minor C chord.



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B is a second section in A minor, in moderate contrast with the stanza-section A. B is an unstable section: its melodic profile would change substantially, stabilize, and become Bvar, the “long” refrain of the piece, made up of four short phrases (with sung five-syllable lyrics). In simpler manele from the same or a later period, the second section would become a mere refrain. C is an entirely different instrumental section in A minor. In it, its performers allude to an imaginary Oriental world, melodically outlined by an augmented second between the third and fourth degrees. Very similar to the musical illustrations of “Oriental” sequences in “B” movies, section C occupies the position to be taken later either by improvisation in elaborate manele or by “paraphrasing” a well-known piece through extraction from a different musical piece. The stylistic contrast with the other sections of the piece makes C a prefiguration of the eclecticism and “Orientalism” of the later manele. On the fourth exposition, C is modified. The custom of slightly altering one of the last sections to give it a cadential function will later become a characteristic of most manele in their period of “maturity.” “Cinderella’s” accompaniment is tonal. During its performance, the rhythmic formula amphibrach-spondee, the main characteristic of the later manele, is fully and vigorously exposed only in C and Bvar sections—by the bass guitar. Otherwise, the formula varies (e.g., the amphibrach turns into a dactyl) or is absent (as in some moments of the introductive section I). Some particularities show similarities with the traditional musics of the period, as well: 1. All of the sung verse-lines (the equivalent of the musical phrases) are trochaic octosyllables or hexasyllables, their metric pattern being identical to that of all sung verse-lines of Romanian peasant and urban music.35 2. The harmonic accompaniment of the same section switches back and forth between a minor mode and its relative major, just like the accompaniment practiced in traditional music, both rural and urban. 3. The lyrical motif of the man urging his own or his lover’s horse to take him home is borrowed from rural poetry, where its frequency is high. The lyrics in italics in the following are refrains—either short (a few syllables), as in strophe A, or long (2–4 lines), as in B: A Ai avut o viaţ-amară, şi nu-ţi era somn. Ai crescut c-o mamă rea, şi nu-ţi era somn, că nu era mama ta, şi nu-ţi era somn. B Rău te-ai chinuit până ai crescut. Munceai de la zece ani; munceai pentru bani. A Pe la cincisprezece ani, şi nu-ţi era somn,

Your life has been bitter, and you weren’t sleepy. You grew up with a bad mother, and you weren’t sleepy, ’cause she wasn’t your mother, and you weren’t sleepy. You really struggled until you grew up. You’ve worked since you were ten; you worked for money. When you turned fifteen, and you weren’t sleepy,

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începuşi să-ţi faci duşmani, şi nu-ţi era somn. Toţi se uitau după tine, şi nu-ţi era somn, că erai o floare-n lume şi nu-ţi era somn. Bvar   Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, nu te pot uita; Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, nu te pot uita. A Am trăit vreo şapte ani, şi nu-ţi era somn. Şi-aveam casă, aveam bani, şi nu-ţi era somn. Dar ai plecat într-o noapte, şi nu-ţi era somn, şi te caut pân’ la moarte, şi nu-ţi era somn. Bvar   Hai căluţul meu, du-mă că mi-e greu. Du-mă, du-mă, nu mai sta, la căsuţa mea. A Cu ce foc te-am mai iubit, Cenuşăreaso! Te-am iubit, dar m-ai minţit, şi nu-ţi era somn, că te-am iubit cu mult foc, şi nu-ţi era somn. Tu nu m-ai iubit de loc, şi nu-ţi era somn. Bvar   Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, tu eşti viaţa mea. Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, nu te pot uita.

you began making enemies and you weren’t sleepy. All eyes were turned on you, and you weren’t sleepy, ’cause you were a flower in this world and you weren’t sleepy. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, I can’t forget you; Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, I can’t forget you. We lived together about seven years, and you weren’t sleepy. And we had a home, we had money, and you weren’t sleepy. But one night you left, and you weren’t sleepy, and I’ll search for you until I die, and you weren’t sleepy. Hey, my little horse, take me ’cause I’m in pain. Take me, take me, take me quickly to my little home. How madly I loved you, Cinderella! I loved you, but you lied to me, and you weren’t sleepy, ’cause I loved you madly, and you weren’t sleepy. But you didn’t love me at all, and you weren’t sleepy. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, you are my life. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, I can’t forget you.

Version II This version of “Cinderella” was performed by the same musicians (Nelu Vlad and his band Azur) in 2012.36 The orchestral apparatus consisted of synthesizer, harmony guitar, bass guitar, small drum and cymbals struck with a metal brush, and male vocals (the voice that carries the melody is duplicated electronically). Eighteen years from its launch, the performers made an apparently minor change in the architectonic plane of the piece: Intro A B C A Bvar Intro A Bvar C A Bvar Intro. The Intro section is “Orientalized” through a host of chromaticisms with a purely ornamental role (e.g.,



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appoggiaturas, mordents). It is also included twice in the body of the piece: first in the section previously occupied by C and then in a final position. Section B appears again in two forms: B and Bvar, the former abandoned, and the latter fixed by repetition as refrain. Section C is slightly enriched with new chromatic ornaments. The orchestral apparatus is slightly thicker and the sound more dense than in the preceding version. The skeleton of the accompanying harmonic plan is the same, but the chords, some of which are built on secondary degrees, are more numerous, and their succession is tighter. It must be mentioned that, just like in Version I, all of these chords assume tonal functions. The lyrics are the traditional trochaic octosyllables followed by short refrains:37 A Ai fost la mine-ntr-o seară, Cenuşăreaso, c-ai avut viaţa amară, Cenuşăreaso. Te-a crescut o mamă rea, Cenuşăreaso, căci nu era mama ta, Cenuşăreaso. B Rău te-ai chinuit până ai crescut. De când aveai zece ani munceai pentru bani. A Pe la cincisprezece ani, Cenuşăreaso, începui să-ţi faci duşmani, Cenuşăreaso. Toţi se uitau după tine, Cenuşăreaso, de erai o floare-n lume, Cenuşăreaso. Bvar   Vino, vino, haide, vino, haide vino, tu eşti viaţa mea. Vino, vino, haide vino, vino, vino, nu te pot uita. A Am trăit vreo şapte ani, Cenuşăreaso. Aveam casă şi-aveam bani, Cenuşăreaso, dar ai plecat tu departe, Cenuşăreaso. Eu te caut pân’ la moarte, Cenuşăreaso. Bvar   Hai căluţul meu, du-mă că mi-e greu. Du-mă, du-mă, nu mai sta, la dragostea mea.

You came to my place one night, Cinderella, for you had a bitter life, Cinderella. You were raised by a bad mother, Cinderella, ’cause she wasn’t your mother, Cinderella. You really struggled until you grew up. Since you were ten years old, you’ve worked for money. When you turned fifteen, Cinderella, you began making enemies, Cinderella. All eyes were turned on you, Cinderella, ’cause you were a flower in this world, Cinderella. Come on, come on, hey, come on, hey, come on, you’re my life. Come on, come on, hey, come on, come on, come on, I can’t forget you. We lived together about seven years, Cinderella. We had a home and we had money, Cinderella, but you left and went far away, Cinderella. I’ll search for you until I die, Cinderella. Hey, my little horse, take me ’cause I’m in pain. Take me, take me, take me quickly to my love.

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A Cu ce foc te-am mai iubit, Cenuşăreaso, te-am iubit, dar m-ai minţit, Cenuşăreaso. căci te-am iubit cu mult foc, Cenuşăreaso. tu nu m-ai iubit de loc, Cenuşăreaso. Bvar   Vino, vino, haide, vino, haide, vino, tu eşti viaţa mea. Vino, vino, haide vino, tu eşti viaţa mea.

How madly I loved you, Cinderella, I loved you, but you lied to me, Cinderella. ’cause I loved you madly, Cinderella. but you didn’t love me at all, Cinderella. Come on, come on, hey, come on come on, come on, you are my life. Come on, come on, hey come on, you are my life.

Version III Version III is a 2012 version by Costel Geambaşu and his band Odeon (according to some sources, Geambaşu may be the real author of the original “Cinderella”).38 The orchestral apparatus is: synthesizer, harmony guitar, bass guitar, small drum and cymbals struck with a metal brush, and vocals. Costel Geambaşu, part-Romanian, part-Rom, is a songwriter and vocalist from Buzău, a city in eastern Muntenia. Accompanied by a small band of Romani musicians in the restaurants of Buzău and the nearby town of Râmnicu Sărat, he had performed pop music, romances, popular-style pieces, and his own songs, among them a few manele; one of them, Prinţişorul [The little prince], was a hit and is still in circulation. His songs were popular especially in the early 1990s. Many of Geambaşu’s middle-aged fans still praise his music, contrasting it with the “horrible” manele of today. The architectonic form is more complex than that of the previous two versions: Intro1 Intro2 A B Intro2 A Bvar C Intro2 A Bvar Intro2var A B B. Intro1 is a new short intro (different from the Intro of the previous versions), with a free rhythm and slow tempo, similar to the intros of restaurant romances. The Intro1 will be abandoned in the process. Intro2 is the instrumental intro of Versions I and II with a reformatted rhythmic-melodic plane. It will be repeated in the process, with significant variation in its third iteration. During the performance, Intro2 develops into a basic section of the manea (see chapter 1). A and B are sections similar to those from the previous versions (I, II). C, the “Orientalized” instrumental section, is iterated only once: Its place and function have been taken over by section Intro2. All of the sections are accompanied by a denser tonal-harmonic web than in Version I. The harmonic succession IV-II major-V-I, very frequent here although absent in the previous versions, strengthens the Western tonality. A Cu ce foc te-am mai iubit, Cenuşăreaso.

How madly I loved you, Cinderella.



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Te-am iubit, dar m-ai minţit, Cenuşăreaso. B Hai căluţul meu, du-mă că mi-e greu. Du-mă, du-mă, nu mai sta, la căsuţa mea. A Te cunoşti după sandale, Cenuşăreaso, că eşti fată de locale, Cenuşăreaso. Bvar   Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, tu eşti viaţa mea. Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, tu eşti viaţa mea. A Cu ce dor mai ţin la tine, Cenuşăreaso, c-altfel nu te uiţi la mine, Cenuşăreaso. Bvar   Hai căluţul meu, du-mă că mi-e greu. Du-mă, du-mă, nu mai sta, la căsuţa mea. A Te cunoşti după papuci, Cenuşăreaso. eşti frumoasă şi mă duci, Cenuşăreaso. B Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, Lino, tu eşti viaţa mea.

I loved you, but you lied to me, Cinderella. Hey, my little horse, take me ’cause I’m in pain. Take me, take me, take me quickly to my little home. One can tell by your sandals, Cinderella, that you’re a pub girl, Cinderella. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, you are my life. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, you are my life. How much I still long for you, Cinderella, otherwise you won’t look at me, Cinderella. Hey, my little horse, take me ’cause I’m in pain. Take me, take me, take me quickly to my little home. One can tell by your slippers, Cinderella, that you’re pretty and a cheater, Cinderella. Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina, you are my life.

Versions II and III (from 2012) generally preserve the sections formulated in version I. They are affected, however, by melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic alterations of various amplitudes. My guess is that versions II and III are related to the original one (I), which is from seventeen years earlier, rather than to the versions that have emerged since then, which is quite unusual for orally transmitted music in Romania. Section B has undergone the greatest number of changes, aimed at either transforming it into a refrain or associating it with lyrics of various sizes. The Introduction section, which in Version I played the role only of an instrumental preamble, belongs in the other versions to the main body of the manea, thus consolidating its core. With regard to the orchestral apparatus, Versions II and III differ from Version I solely through the addition of a harmonic guitar; their performers must have aimed to keep as close as possible to the sound of the original piece (see below). Moreover, the harmony in Versions II and III is denser on the horizontal plane (since the succession of chords is tighter), and the set of tonal chords used in the accompaniment

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is enriched with chords on the secondary degrees and diminished chords with a dominant function. I must add, however, that in recent decades all popular-music harmonizations have undergone similar transformations. Versions I and II (belonging to Nelu Vlad) enunciate two poetic motifs: one is the orphan with an unhappy childhood, correlated through allusion to the universally known eponymous fairy tale (the word Cenuşăreaso—Cinderella—in the refrains);39 the other is the motif of the deceitful woman who leaves her man. In Costel Geambaşu’s version, the unhappy orphan motif is absent, whereas the motif of the woman who is not only a liar and a traitor but also incapable of love is extended (the vocalist may have noticed that this motif has a special appeal to his customers). The distance between the three versions described here is not necessarily a small one on the melodic-rhythmic plane, but it is expressed only on a level of detail that does not alter the musical identity. The shifting functions of the sections and the changes in their syntax, however, may be evident.40 The outstanding malleability of this manea at the architectonic level is, in fact, characteristic to all manele. I am not aware of the variations that “Cinderella” has undergone so far (and is probably still undergoing) in live performances, which are always much more elastic. I can only assume that they are similar to those of any other manele. The musical discourse may be temporarily suspended during celebrations and banquets to make room for the dedications, congratulations, and comments by the vocalist-manelist as well as the short “marches” that are played when guests arrive. The succession of the sections may be occasionally scrambled following the introduction of new sections and/or improvisational sections that are different from the one “established” by the original version. The melodies may be intonationally and rhythmically remodeled and their ornaments altered. The level affected most strikingly is the architectonic form, which may be transformed unpredictably depending on the circumstances of the musical performance. These observations are also confirmed by other versions of “Cinderella” that I have had the opportunity only to listen to. Incidentally, “Cinderella” also calls attention to the fact that the manele of the 1960s–1980s were not the exclusive invention of Romani musicians. They were probably “in the air” in all of the cities in southern Romania where significant minorities of Balkan extraction lived or had lived. Brăila, the native city of the Romanian Nelu Vlad, known in Greek as Μπράιλα and in Turkish as İbrail, was probably the most important of them. The young manelişti from the dynamic segment of their professional community are constantly spurred by the ambition to produce new, customized works, an ambition that used to drive only a few of their forerunners, the lăutari. With time at their disposal, they search, imagine, experiment, and remodel melodic and rhythmic patterns, harmonies, ornaments, timbres and timbral associations, improvisations, etc., at home or in studios, most of which boast state-of-the-art technical equipment.41 I turn below to one of the favorite targets of their attempts at remodeling.



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REMODELING THE TIMBRE Allan F. Moore claims that timbre has become very important in all of the popular musics of the world:42 on the one hand, he says, it discriminates, and on the other, it captures the attention once paid by listeners to the melody and lyrics (2002:832– 49). We will first try to see whether the timbre of manele really has a distinctive value and then whether it really captures the attention of the audience to the detriment of other dimensions of the musical discourse. We must bear in mind, however, that manele are not performed only by bands of manelişti, but also by ordinary tarafuri (sg. taraf), both rural and urban. By tradition, the tarafuri include one or two accompanying instruments that lend the ensemble a sound color that is specific to the Romanian micro-region that they come from and where they are active. For example, in Muntenia, such an instrument is the cimbalom, and in Maramureş and Gorj (northern Oltenia), the guitar; in Moldova, the instruments are the middle-sized drum with cymbals paired with the kobsa, and in Transylvania, the viola and double bass, etc. (S. Rădulescu 1984). When the taraf includes acoustic instruments alone, the sound color is distinct and easy to identify by all knowledgeable listeners. But when filtered through a sound system, the color of the instruments and overall instrumental ensemble is altered twice: first by amplification and then by various technical tricks used by musicians (e.g., simple or multiple echoes attached to all the timbres), which listeners apparently enjoy. Finally, when territorially distinctive instruments are eliminated from tarafuri, their timbres, recovered by the memory of synthesizers, are once again distorted, their discriminative potential thus being substantially diminished. Over the last five decades or so, all tarafuri have actually gone through the stages described above. They have moved in the direction of sound depersonalization, without going all the way—at least so far. But manea bands are not concerned with producing timbres that bear the stylistic mark of one Romanian micro-region or another. They use instruments of various origins, always amplified and electronically tampered with: electric violin, one or two synthesizers, keytar,43 accordion, clarinet, saxophone, and many small- and mediumsized drums (bongos, tablas, djembes, congas, cymbals, or any other percussion instrument available on the Romanian or international market). All their timbres are thus altered so that they become nasal, resembling, to various extents, those of ethnopop groups from south of the Danube (Kurkela 2007:161).44 The manelişti, who keep up on the newest unusual instruments available in stores and buy, test, and then include them in their bands, are not interested in building up a Romanian sound space, but rather in configuring, even roughly, an Eastern one.45 An interesting detail: however bold and modern they may be, bands of manelişti seldom dispense with the violin—the main solo instrument of all tarafuri in Romania. The electric violin played by manelişti does not have a soundbox but instead an S, dollar, or other shape, and four or five strings. And its timbre differs from that of the acoustic violin, resembling instead that of a wind instrument with a

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piercing tubular sound. Romanians do not seem ready to give up the violin: they do not want just to hear it; they also want to see it. From the perspective of manelişti, the instrument has two advantages. First, it allows its handler to get physically close to the clients and communicate with them directly, thus getting fatter tips. Second, as a stringed instrument, it also has the technical resources that provide a more convincing “Oriental” contour. “In any case this violin is Oriental style . . . with more notes,” a producer specializing in manele says.46 His words may be read thus: to the musicians, the actual timbre matters less than the technical resources of the instrument, which allow them complicated melodic structures similar to those from the Balkans and the Middle East. Such melodic structures may be very successfully achieved by bands that possess synthesizers acquired in Turkey or Greece, with tunings made for the music of those and neighboring countries.47 The instrumentalists in their solo parts also adjust their pitches to bring them into approximate concordance with the synthesizer: the saxophonist, clarinetist, and trumpeter use their lips to make the corrections, and the violinist uses his fingers. The bands that use such Oriental synthesizers are few. However, even without them, the violinists, saxophonists, clarinetists, and trumpeters of any band can also obtain—through various technical artifices—intonations that are at least in intention similar to those often heard in the Balkans and the Middle East. The violinists are the best at this because they have long been accustomed to the sophisticated untempered intonations of possible Oriental extraction from muzică lăutărească (see figure 3.3a, b).48 I have neglected so far the human voice, which is a mandatory constituent of all tarafuri and bands of manelişti. Yet it is significant since musicians in Romania virtually all agree that the soloist’s voice—preferably a male voice (Beissinger 2007:123)—is what distinguishes manele from other music in the wedding and party market. The voice is so important that lately even modest rural tarafuri have been hiring soloists specializing in manele only for the few such songs that they perform at village events. However, by “voice,” musicians do not understand the mere vocal timbre but timbre in inextricable connection with the subjacent intonational system and the melodic formulas through which it comes to life. According to my observations, which seem to contradict the musicians’, the specific vocal timbre of manele does not have a clear identity but is characterized instead by the fact that it differs from all the territorially particularized timbres of tarafuri. By requiring the services of a manelist as vocalist, lăutari imply that their own voices cannot divest themselves of the specific color of the traditional music from the micro-region in which they live. They also claim that the specific melodic formulas of the manele, too different from those they normally execute, are not accessible to them. It goes without saying that more such formulas exist in Orientalized manele than in Westernized ones and that they are denser in intros and improvisational sections than in the base sections of manele. Their number and complexity, however, also depend on the performers’ imagination and technique. The most skilful vocalists are those with a background of muzică lăutărească, richer in improvized melismas and fioriture. The other vocalists have different skills, in most cases lesser than those of their southern Balkan counterparts.49



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Following continuous timbral remodeling, the sound of manele has distanced itself from the sound of the music from various Romanian regions, nearing a generic pan-Balkan sound, either real or imagined by the performers. This new sound makes sense only in combination with the melodic-rhythmic and harmonic structures through which it is expressed. Is this what captures the attention most of all? I will not give a firm answer to this question, because I do not have enough empirical data concerning this aspect at my disposal. All the same, I think that the statement of an experienced manea producer with a good knowledge of audiences, Dan Bursuc, is worth citing, even if it touches upon the issue only indirectly; he claims that “people aren’t interested anymore in the harmonies we do. They are interested in the overall rhythm. Then, when the melody appears [meaning, in this context, the melody sung by the vocalist], people make room [meaning: they allow dancers to become involved in the syncretic event called manea].”50 Bursuc’s words may be interpreted thus: rhythm is the component of the overall musical discourse that resonates the most (a fact confirmed by Beissinger 2007:110). It is followed by the melody, performed by the vocalist and/or the main instrumentalist, which stimulates the participants to become physically involved at once. On the Internet, it is the melody that elicits most of the listeners’ evaluations.51 The melody may carry a timbre, at times untempered intonations, and vocal and/or instrumental melodic courses with a more or less pronounced distinctive value. In other words, it may be the carrier of a sound that is notably conspicuous that attracts particular attention. It may well be, but, I must add, not necessarily in all situations. In fact, the producer Bursuc says nothing about the sound. Although important to the musicians, it may be less important to the listeners. Alternatively, the turn taken by the sound from local to global, that is, toward a broader, Balkan-Oriental stylistic space,52 has occurred gradually over the years, therefore attention is not especially drawn to it. As long as they are on top or aspire to get there, manelişti work hard. They perform to exhaustion, often at several social events during the same night—in the same city or in different cities. They sleep when they can, sometimes in their cars in uncomfortable positions. They do not spare themselves, because they know time is not on their side. To be a manelist in fashion means to be young, dynamic, creative, and capable of great physical effort. It goes without saying that however energetic and ambitious they may be, manelişti do not always find the strength to experiment, invent, and launch original pieces or pieces containing convincingly novel elements onto the market. Most of their performance is mechanical, and the manele they produce are mere strings of deafening commonplaces. Ordinary manelişti, occasionally hired by private television stations for recordings and filming and concerned only with following the producers’ and soloists’ instructions as best as they can, are outright blasé (for expediency, the latter always prefer standardized versions of manele, which are easier to record). As indifferent as manelişti, lăutari do not invest a great deal in music that remains foreign and worthless to them. The question “Are manele ‘Gypsy’ music?” was answered in the following way by the Romani musician

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Constantin Fărâmiţă from Giurgiu, a sophisticated performer of traditional rural and urban music from southern Muntenia: “No, manele are not. They have nothing to do with anything. Manele have seven influences: Turkish, Serbian, Bulgarian, and . . . everything but Hungarian! As for the rest, Indian. . . . But they’re no good! . . . I think [Romanian manele] are great, but . . . they’re not worth anything!” (S. Rădulescu 2004:95). Whatever the perspective one takes to interpret his words, Fărâmiţă has good reason to be disappointed: due to their oppressive predictability, most of the manele that may be heard in Romania resemble the state-controlled “folklore music” produced and propagated by all the public media and most of the private ones. Masterpiece manele, bustling with imagination and verve, are few and far between and exist only through the intellectual and physical efforts of a few top manelişti with the support of an interested, participatory audience willing to throw money at them. This audience is often made up of mobsters and corrupt politicians.

CONCLUSION When they make music, manelişti throw into play techniques learned from their predecessors: absorption of novelty, recovery of old pieces, variation, and remodeling. These techniques are adapted to new times and situations and applied boldly, without any express preoccupation to preserve the structural and stylistic coherence of their music. In general and in the long term, the endeavors of manelişti are convergent. First, they conduce to the detachment of their music from styles with a regional stamp established by tradition and the creation of a cosmopolitan style with a comparatively unclear identity that nevertheless covers, at least in theory, wider cultural areas, occasionally the entire Romanian territory. Second, they conduce to an ambiguity of the borders between ethnic musics: mainly between “Gypsy” and Romanian music but also between Romanian music and the music of peoples from south of the Danube. Also by means of these techniques, manelişti draw or redraw imaginary boundaries between social groups and communities with different residences, levels of education, and socioeconomic statuses. Their manele are targeted at each audience separately, in a style or mix of styles fit for the cultural background of the people who form it, a fact expressed in the heterogeneity of the entire category, as well as the possible heterogeneity of each separate piece. After all, the music of manelişti reflects the dilemmas and changes of present-day Romania. By extolling the nouveaux riches, they legitimize a criterion of stratification and hierarchization that governs post–communist Romanian society. Their alternation between musically positioning the country either in the Balkan area or in the central and west European area means that manelişti act as continuators of one historical period of the country or another. This fluctuation roughly echoes the hesitant policies of the state, which still seem undecided as to where to search for allies and how to build functioning models. At the same time, it also reflects the multifarious and unstable cultural horizon of ordinary Romanians.



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NOTES 1. http://www.libertatea.ro/detalii/articol/adrian-minune-despre-maneaua-man-down -rihanna-s-a-inspirat-din-muzica-balcanica-356890.html, accessed 27 January 2014. 2.  It seems natural for him to make use of any music he likes and transform it into whatever he sees fit. He accepts other musicians helping themselves to his own music, as if it had a “Creative Commons license” (Seeger 2011:21–3). 3.  Oaş is a small region in northwest Romania, adjacent to Hungary and Ukraine. 4.  In each case, the conversions were made a few seconds after our computer (with the play function) had completed the playback of the tune. 5.  The experiment took place in the village of Bughea de Sus in northern Muntenia, at the foot of the terminal branch of the Carpathian Mountains in the summer of 1990. 6. This information comes from an observation file in the archive of the Constantin Brăiloiu Institute of Ethnography and Folklore in Bucharest, the coordinates of which I have unfortunately lost. 7. Or, in Timothy Rice’s concise wording, the absorption of “the past in present-day music” (2004:vii). 8.  Cântecele de petrecere were—and still are—simple vocal-instrumental pieces by more or less obscure authors or by authors whose names were lost once their works entered oral circulation. They are usually performed for entertainment in restaurants at weddings, anniversaries, name-day celebrations, job promotions, or when socializing. 9.  Muzică lăutărească [lăutar music] “was and is an urban style of both song and dance that evolved in southern Romania for Romani ingroup events. It developed through a synthesis of regional Romanian traditional musics, Ottoman Turkish art music, and the Western European music that circulated during the nineteenth century in the Romanian principalities” (Beissinger 2007:104; see also Garfias 1981) (see figure 3.2a, b/ example 3.2. [http://manele -in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-2-audio.mp3]). 10. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-1-audio.wav. 11.  This formula is actually widespread throughout the Balkan cultural area and is quite frequent in other musical cultures as well. In Romanian music, it figures in the peasant dance named breaza or ungurica, popular in central and southern Romania. Interestingly, in the manele of the 1960s, the formula was viewed as new, which indicates that a specific rhythmic formula is understood in the musical context that includes it. 12.  Personal communication, Bucharest, 2002. 13. The manele of the period reflect “the primary, unicultural, and gradual urbanization,” that differed from “the secondary, multicultural, and rapid urbanization” mentioned by Bruno Nettl (2005:598). http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-2-audio.mp3. 14.  For instance, Serbian-Banat music, then in fashion throughout Romania (Beissinger 2007). 15. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-1-audio.wav. 16.  As Adelaida Reyes points out, “As emergent organism, the city’s cohesion depends not in what has been called ‘the replication of uniformity’ (quoted in Hannerz 1980:282). The cosmopolitanism and heterogeneity that are now taken to be part of the city’s birthright calls for and responds instead to what the anthropologist Anthony Wallace calls ‘the organization of diversity’ (quoted in Hannerz 1992:12). It is a call echoed in linguistics by Uriel Weinreich, William Labov, and Marvin I. Herzog in their concept of ‘orderly heterogeneity’ (quoted in Weinreich, Labov, and Herzog 1968); by the ‘orderly disorder’ espoused by physicists working on complexity

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(quoted in Gleick 1987:266); and by the urban historian, Lewis Mumford, in his concept of ‘contrapuntal order’—an order that accommodates ‘more significant kinds of conflict, more complex and intellectually stimulating kinds of disharmony’ (1970:485)” (Reyes 2012:202). 17. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1-12-video.html&ch=ch1. 18.  The verb “to steal” (a fura) is often used by musicians: they “steal” from one another: melodies, melodic fragments, harmonic sequences, technical tricks, etc.; see also Stoichiţă (2008:24–5). 19.  Carol Silverman notes that Romani musicians are “ironic cosmopolitans” (2007b:336; see also chapter 6). 20.  This is the case with the Romanian national anthem, which was turned into a manea and presented during a show on Pro TV. Most Romanians (including most of my students at the National University of Music [Bucharest]) considered the caricature blasphemous. 21. Present at this event were Costin Moisil, Florin Iordan, Mirela Radu, Valeriu Rădulescu, and myself. 22.  The “negative” is the orchestral, harmonic-rhythmic background over which a melody is laid. 23. Thanks to the musicologist Mirela Radu for sharing the contents of this new song with me. 24.  Bruno Nettl believes that “la vie musicale d’une ville reflète sa culture, sa société, son histoire et les relations que ces divers champs entretiennent entre eux” (2005:596). 25.  See Giurescu (1966:145); Iorga (2008:204, 232–5, 252–3, 259); de Marsillac (1999: 87–8); Gheorghiţă (2009:x); Djuvara (2009:177–92). 26. The homogenization was achieved through the demolition of entire neighborhoods and construction, in their place, of apartment buildings inhabited by people who came from various locales and had nothing to do with one another (see figure/example 3.3 [http:// manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-4-2-mic.png]). http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ ch4/4-5-5-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-5-2-mic.png; http://manele -in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-5-4-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-5 -1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-5-3-mic.png. 27. In the homes of ordinary Romanians, the television is always on, without pause, throughout the day, even when no one watches it. 28.  Michael Baxandall synthetically describes such a process in his Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures (1985): “Draw on, resort to, avail oneself of, appropriate from, have recourse to, adapt, misunderstand, refer to, pick up, take on, engage with, react to, quote, differentiate oneself from, assimilate, align oneself with, copy, address, paraphrase, absorb, make a variation on, revive, continue, remodel, ape, emulate, travesty, parody, extract from, distort, attend to, resist, simplify, reconstitute, elaborate on, develop, face up to, master, subvert, perpetuate, reduce, promote, respond to, transform, tackle . . . everyone will be able to think of others” (quoted in Slobin 1993:90). 29.  We agree here that variants differ from variations in that they question—without necessarily compromising—the identity of musical pieces. 30. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-1-audio.wav. 31.  See www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/azur-cenusareasa-origir, accessed 5 January 2013. In 2014, when most of the chapters in this volume were completed and we were preparing the companion website that accompanies it, we realized that Version I, described and analyzed here from www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/azur-cenusareasa-origir had been unexpectedly replaced by another slightly different version from 1985, which its author and performer had



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apparently considered preferable. They most likely determined that the earlier version had performance “imperfections” such as I referred to in my description of section A (see ahead). This substitution explains the lack of agreement between the musical notation and the actual recording on the audio clip. 32. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch4/4-1-audio.wav. 33.  Brăila, mentioned for the first time in official documents in the fourteenth century, was a rayah between 1538 and 1829. According to the 2011 census, 97 percent of its presentday inhabitants are Romanian (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Br%C4%83ila#Demographic, accessed 2 February 2013). Only five decades ago, significant groups of Greeks and Turks, descendants of the many grain merchants of the previous centuries, were still living in the city. 34.  This did not prevent him in the 1980s from composing nationalist folkloric pieces that were “correct” in the political circumstances of the period, such as: Suntem români mereu, şi la bine şi la rău: români de mii de ani . . .

We’ve always been Romanians, for better or for worse: Romanians for thousands of years . . .

35.  The metrical scheme of the musical phrases of traditional Romanian songs is described by Constantin Brăiloiu (1973) in “Le vers populaire roumain chanté.” 36.  The song was posted at myneletv.net/azur/cenusareasa-video_5a3fccee.html, but during work on this chapter, version II became unavailable following notifications from its performers. 37. Brăiloiu warned that refrains may avoid the metric regularity of ordinary lyrics (1973:65–8); this is the case in some of refrains in versions II and III of Cenuşăreasa. 38. See www.manelevechi.info/odeon-costel-geambasu-cenusareasa, accessed 12 January 2013. 39.  The popular version of “Cinderella” is based on Charles Perrault’s fairy tale, published in Romania in the mid-nineteenth century and gradually spread through oral circulation. The motif of the orphan raised by pitiless strangers is, furthermore, one of the most frequent in old peasant poetry. 40.  Remodeling of the architectonic form is, in fact, current practice with all the musicians, especially those from Muntenia, Maramureş, and Oaş. 41.  In order to view the composition of new manele, see http://www.danbursuc.ro/aparitii -tv/57-afla-cum-face-dan-bursuc-piesele.html, accessed 10 May 2013. 42.  In his encyclopedia of popular music, Roy Shuker claims that popular music studies have focused especially on “sound production, sound recording, sound reproduction, sound systems” (2005:250). Thus, “sound” refers to the (re-)production of music: “In popular music studies, primary interest has been on changes in the nature of sound reproduction and recording, especially the manner in which new technologies have influenced the nature and product” (Shuker 2005:250). My approach is different. It is based on the assumption that listeners do not dissociate the sound from the musical piece through which it is expressed. 43.  The keytar is a sort of portable synthesizer held like a guitar. 44. Referring specifically to music in Bulgaria, Vesa Kurkela suggests that the Eastern sound is difficult to dissociate from the local one: “In Bulgarian music it is not easy to define ‘Easternness’ on the grounds of musical sound and tone,” considering that “the sound of lutes, flutes or clarinets used in Bulgarian folk and popular music does not particularly differ from that of their more eastern and southern counterparts” (2007:157). The author’s observation may be partially projected onto the popular musics of Romania.

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45.  Manelişti themselves often claim that their music is “Balkan.” 46. See http://www.danbursuc.ro/aparitii-tv/57-afla-cum-face-dan-bursuc-piesele.html, accessed 24 April 2013 (not available). 47.  I have never closely examined such synthesizers, therefore I cannot assess their tunings, possibly different from one another. 48.  For this muzică lăutărească, the solo violin uses a possibly “Oriental” untempered system which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been described by ethnomusicologists so far. However, the instruments with fixed tuning that accompany it are anchored in the tempered system, which forces and at the same time allows them, among other things, to practice a Western-type tonal-harmonic accompaniment. Cooperation in two clearly distinct intonation systems is common among lăutari, especially in southeast Romania. 49.  For example, during the late 1990s, one of the peasant bands (a particular form of taraf especially popular in Moldova and Banat) from the village of Zece Prăjini, attempted to modernize following the model of Goran Bregović’s Balkan bands. Its members, all excellent technicians, strove hard, imitating as best as they could the composer’s works available on cassettes and records. The hardest parts for them were the “improvised” sections: at first, they simply “copied” them; then they began to compose “improvisations” themselves. Nevertheless, their improvisational performances are still modest and taut even today. 50.  See note 41. 51.  Some comments on various manele posted on the Internet include: “Gorgeous tune!” “The tune is so-so . . .” “What kind of tune is that?!” I have not found any comment on sound. 52.  In my opinion, the globalization of Romanian popular music has occurred in stages, the first of which concerns the Balkan-Mediterranean stylistic area, and the next one the Central and West-European area.

4 Romanian Manele and Regional Parallels “Oriental” Ethnopop in the Balkans Margaret Beissinger

The manea (pl. manele) is an urban-based, song-dance form that combines Romanian traditional and popular musical styles with Romani, Serbian (and other postYugoslav), Bulgarian, Greek, Turkish, and Western elements. Although performed underground during the latter years of communist rule, since the 1990s, manele have played a key role in Romanian mass music culture. It forms part of a large “Oriental” ethnopop music phenomenon in the Balkans that includes Bulgarian chalga or popfolk, Serbian and Bosnian turbo-folk, Albanian muzika popullore, and Greek laika. While much of the ethnopop discussed here is characterized (in its appropriation and/or mimicry of Turkish and Middle Eastern music) by “Oriental” associations, by no means is all of it branded in this way. A great deal of it is also “ethnic” pop music, music with a local (but not necessarily “Oriental”) imprint. There are many similarities between manele and the various other Balkan ethnopop genres. They emerged during the mid- to late-twentieth century as industrialization advanced and cities in the region experienced tremendous growth. They are largely distinguished by Middle Eastern–inflected musical content and style and clichéd song lyrics. Wedding parties and other family celebrations, as well as taverns, restaurants, and urban nightclubs, have provided the main contexts for the performance of Balkan ethnopop; the music also circulates widely on music videos (formerly on cassettes and CDs). Moreover, all of the regional genres have engendered intense responses—both positive and negative—from either adoring or disapproving local audiences. Resemblances between the Balkan ethnopop musics are perhaps not entirely surprising given the larger southeast European continuum in which Romania is situated and the longtime geographical, historical, social, and cultural ties that have existed between Romania and the other regions there. But there are also significant differences between the ostensibly pan-Balkan affiliations within these musics. The most significant, in additional to linguistic diversity, pertains to the identity—primarily gender 95

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and ethnicity—of its vocalists, which affects performance and many of the themes expressed in the songs. Whereas those who sing turbo-folk in Serbia and chalga in Bulgaria are typically female and more often than not belong to the ethnic mainstream of their societies, the singers of manele in southern Romania are, by and large, male and Romani. These distinctions influence the song lyrics, music videos, and style of live performances. Other contrasts relate to how various types of institutional control have been exerted over the various Balkan ethnopop forms during the past several decades. In this chapter I compare southern Romanian manele to analogous Balkan ethnopop forms, especially the Serbian turbo-folk and Bulgarian chalga, with brief commentary on comparable genres in other South Slavic regions of the former Yugoslavia (Bosnia, Macedonia, and Croatia).1 Southern Romania, Bulgaria, and Serbia—what I will henceforth term the “east-central Balkans”—form a useful regional cluster for my discussion of popular music trends for a number of reasons. They are contiguous: Romania is situated directly north of Bulgaria and northeast of Serbia, and Serbia and Bulgaria are adjacent to each other. In historical terms, they all formed part of the Ottoman Empire for hundreds of years, a factor of critical importance. Despite local differences, they also all share cultural traits informed by a traditional, rural way of life and a religious (Eastern Orthodox) identity. Later they experienced communist rule during the mid- to late-twentieth century, a period that defined the political, economic, social, and cultural circumstances of each during roughly fifty years, followed by the collapse of their respective communist systems in 1989 and the 1990s. Moreover, all were predominantly village societies until the mass industrialization and urbanization of the mid-twentieth century. The substantial migration of southeastern European villagers to cities during the past century has determined, in many ways, the “hybrid urban-peasant culture” (Roman 2003:41) that characterizes aesthetics and taste in the major urban areas of the region: Bucharest, Belgrade, and Sofia. Finally, each has a significant Romani population that has suffered marginalization and prejudice for centuries but has also provided their respective cultural landscapes with a class of highly skilled professional traditional musicians.2 These shared features profoundly inform the manner in which the Serbian, Bulgarian, and Romanian “Oriental” ethnopop genres developed and the roles that they have played in contemporary society since the last decades of the twentieth century. Addressing ethnopop forms in southeast Europe, Donna Buchanan acknowledges “an emergent Balkan cosmopolitanism, where the Ottoman Empire’s musical legacy has become part and parcel of the local grassroots creative lexicon” and asserts that “contemporary Balkan popular musics display remarkable similarities which . . . indicate the presence of a growing Balkan geopolity and concomitantly, an emergent popular music circuit” (2007c:260, 229). This premise underlies my own reasoning as I examine manele in the context of the east-central Balkan ethnopop genres. Numerous shared relationships enrich our understanding of them and, more specifically, how Romanian manele compare to them. But there are also conspicuous contrasts between manele and the other pan-Balkan musics. As Jane Sugarman points out, while a “kinship” between the various forms seems to “affirm a common ‘Bal-



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kan’ identity, . . . these musics do not all sound alike. Aside from obvious linguistic differences, they are still distinctly and even deliberately national in their stylistic references, and their social role is often to nourish a space for a cultural intimacy that is experienced as ethnically specific” (Sugarman 2007:270). Each of the genres that I explore possesses its own sound and style in both language and music, but each is also distinguished by cultural and historical conditions that inform who performs them, what they sing about, and their role in society, engendering questions that in general have not been posed as fully in a comparative light as those concerning the various individual genres in the larger “Ottoman ecumene.”3 The questions that I ask here include: What is the history of east-central Balkan ethnopop? What characteristics connect manele with the other genres, and how are they distinct from them? How do we read these similarities and differences? My discussion focuses on answering these questions by exploring, first, the emergence of late-twentieth-century, communist-era, “Oriental” ethnopop music genres in Yugoslavia/Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania, followed by commentary on the more contemporary turbo-folk, chalga, and manele—genres that developed subsequent to the dissolution of communism and persist in the twenty-first century. I reflect on Balkan ethnopop from the standpoint of genre (music, dance, and song), commenting on the nature of the discourse that underlies them. I argue that although the genres have developed generally in consort with each other and display significant similarities, the South Slavic (Serbian and Bulgarian) and Romanian have also evolved in more culturally explicit directions, resonating in unique ways and shedding light on local post-communist society and culture, especially in terms of ethnicity, gender, and vernacular discourse. It should be clear that I observe tendencies in east-central Balkan ethnopop, not neatly packaged, foolproof absolutes. Exceptions to the assumptions and conclusions that I make can, of course, at times be found, and I recognize this. Accordingly, this chapter is presented as a discussion of overall trends in turbo-folk, chalga, and manele when regarded within a continuum of Balkan ethnopop. I point out representative patterns within the context of the east-central Balkans with particular emphasis on how manele fit in. First, however, I provide a few background remarks on traditional and popular music-making there. Traditionally, male musicians (often Romani professionals) have played instruments in public throughout the Balkans, whereas women have sung, typically in the private sphere. Thus, South Slavic female ethnopop vocalists accompanied by small bands of male instrumentalists find a precedent in traditional Balkan practices. In southern Romania, music-making at weddings, baptisms, and other family celebrations has been monopolized for generations by lăutari (sg. lăutar): professional male Romani musicians who pass their occupation from father to son. By the fourteenth century, Roma had settled in the Romanian principalities4 where they were enslaved by the state, Church, and nobility. Among the house slaves was a class of male musicians who served the elite, later also performing in villages and towns. Although the emancipation of slaves in Romania took place

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in 1864, the profession of music-making by Roma persisted. To this day, lăutari continue to perform widely at traditional social gatherings in southern Romania. Their repertoires have changed considerably since the revolution of 1989, at which time the communist state control and censorship of them ceased. Lăutari—male musicians—dominate the performance of manele in southern Romania; vocalists of the genre are sometimes called manelişti (sg. manelist).5

THE EMERGENCE OF “ORIENTAL” ETHNOPOP IN THE BALKANS Novokomponovana Narodna Muzika The story of Balkan ethnopop begins with a consideration of novokomponovana narodna muzika, or NKNM [newly composed folk music], a Serbian, urban-based, pop-folk genre influenced by Turkish music that originated in Yugoslavia in the 1960s.6 It was critical to the evolution of the neighboring ethnopop genres that developed in Bulgaria and Romania. Both a musical and social phenomenon, NKNM brought together local traditional and commercial pop music forms and styles in a synthesis of village and urban cultures. It consisted of an “urbanization” of “folk” music; for one thing, it was composed, not anonymously authored, music. While NKNM was especially popular among “peasant urbanites” (Simić 1973) who inhabited Yugoslav cities, the genre also resonated in towns and villages. NKNM developed as a consequence of the relocation of rural Yugoslavs to cities and the swift urbanization that ensued. It generated a new aesthetic: a cultural blending of rural and urban. As Ljerka Vidić Rasmussen points out, it was a fusion “genre drawn from local folk music sources (rural nostalgia) and commercial pop patterns (aspirations to progress), thus reflecting the conflicts inherent in migrants’ adaptation to institutions of urban culture” (1996a:100). It was not until the late 1970s and early 1980s, however, that NKNM became firmly established in the Yugoslav mass popular music circuit as “a new generation of young singers and pop-oriented production” emerged (Rasmussen 2007:58). NKNM was an amalgamation of Yugoslav influences, which became hallmarks of the genre: Macedonian rhythmic patterns, Bosnian “Oriental” singing style, Serbian dance music, and Romani music (Rasmussen 1995:247). The band Južni Vetar [Southern Wind]—which suggested lower Balkan and Middle Eastern sources of inspiration for its music—advanced, in the mid-1980s, an eclectic style within the existing NKNM frame that they termed “Oriental” since it bore resemblance to Arabic and other Eastern influences and brought together music from Southern Serbia, Bosnia, Macedonia, and Turkey. It was comprised of Serbian and Bosnian male musicians (singing and playing the accordion, synthesizer, electric guitars, and drums) and was based in Belgrade. Dragana Mirković (b. 1968), a folk singer from an eastern Serbian village who became one of the most celebrated singers of both NKNM and turbo-folk, sang with Južni Vetar for four years. As



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Rasmussen notes, “Južni Vetar emerged as a self-created attraction that generated a large audience, substantial music influence, and a boycott of their music by the media,” due to its “Eastern” connotations (1996a:99).7 NKNM was heard live at weddings and other family celebrations, as well as on the radio and recordings. It was also frequently performed at the iconic kafana [tavern or café, pl. kafane] that proved so vital to the development and character of the genre.8 During the mass urbanization of Yugoslavia, NKNM proliferated and spread throughout the country in kafane. There working-class and peasant men gathered while itinerant musicians and local vocalists performed. The instrumentalists in the kafane were male—sometimes Roma—who occasionally accompanied male singers, but far more frequently, attractive young Serbian or Bosnian women sang. As a quintessentially male institution, the kafana promoted patron-performer relationships that were often determined by sexual liaisons. The pretty, young performers who were willing to sell their voices and more were thus enabled to launch and maintain singing careers.9 Some became well-known vocalists. Among the most celebrated stars whose careers started in the kafana were Silvana Armenulić (1939–1976),10 Lepa Lukić (b. 1940),11 and Lepa Brena (b. 1960).12 Stardom, a concept imported from the West in the late 1970s and early 1980s, was associated with Yugoslav singers who originally found their calling in the kafana.13 NKNM generated celebrities and celebrity culture: the NKNM singer became “a new type of popular culture icon” (Grujić 2009:78). In fact, the “icon” of 1980s NKNM was Lepa Brena, who essentially embodied the genre at that time. Stardom as a phenomenon in Yugoslavia set the stage for a subsequent star culture in the entire east-central Balkans. It would eventually arrive among ethnopop vocalists in Bulgaria and Romania as well; it just had to wait until the 1990s, when communist controls no longer regulated every aspect of life. NKNM initially met with resistance from the authorities in Yugoslavia, due in large part to the hybrid character of the music and the “low-class” associations of its female performers who sang in kafane and often had shady relationships with the male clientele there, their sponsors. But NKNM was also wildly popular among ordinary Yugoslavs. It provided a new, popular genre that combined traditional, pan-Balkan, and “Oriental” music with easy, sentimental verses sung by attractive young women. Svatbarska Muzika and Muzică Sârbească Political, economic, social, and cultural conditions in Bulgaria and Romania were very similar in the communist period: repressive regimes virtually locked down the borders to influence from abroad (particularly the West), and the harsh dictators Todor Zhivkov and Nicolae Ceauşescu each governed for decades.14 The eclectic NKNM from multiethnic Yugoslavia, however, managed to migrate unofficially via radio and pirated cassettes to Bulgaria and Romania, where it was admired and imitated, often going underground. NKNM played a key role in the development of comparable genres in Bulgaria and Romania in the 1970s and 1980s.

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In Bulgaria, svatbarska muzika [wedding music], a virtuosic instrumental genre that was performed mainly by Romani and Turkish instrumentalists at weddings (hence its name), emerged in the mid-1970s and was flourishing, albeit illegally, by the 1980s.15 The musician largely responsible for introducing it to the Bulgarian public and its biggest star was Ivo Papazov, a clarinetist of Romani-Turkish descent who formed his own band, Trakiya [Thrace], composed of other Romani musicians.16 Example 4.2,17 a solo performance from 1987, illustrates Papazov’s signature style. Officially banned by the government since it represented Romani and Turkish musical styles, svatbarska muzika was anathema to those who championed the allegedly “mono-ethnic Bulgarian” state. It was a countercultural genre: performed illegally, it also circulated underground on cassettes. Svatbarska muzika eventually became so popular that by the late 1980s the Zhivkov government was compelled to recognize it (Silverman 2007a). Inspired, in part, by NKNM, svatbarska muzika was a hybrid form that embraced traditional music along with various regional Balkan idioms and “Oriental” nuances.18 It synthesized Bulgarian narodna muzika [folk music] with Serbian, Macedonian, Romanian, Greek, Turkish, and Romani styles, as well as American rock and jazz. Characteristic instruments for svatbarska muzika included the accordion, clarinet, saxophone, drum set, and electric guitars.19 The genre was characterized by instrumental virtuosity and improvisation—attributes that were greatly admired, along with extremely high volume.20 Throughout east-central Balkan ethnopop, earsplitting amplification in performance was (and is) perceived as a mark of status, representing musicians’ adoption of the devices of Western rock. Svatbarska muzika paved the way for chalga, the genre that captured the public after 1989. In Romania, the music that would later give way to a local “Oriental” ethnopop style began, in the late 1970s, to filter unofficially into the country over the southwestern and southern borders. NKNM from Yugoslavia drifted into Romanian Banat, while Bulgarian svatbarska muzika eventually found its way across the Danube. It was these genres that musicians in southern Romania, many of them Roma, heard (primarily on pirated cassettes) and imitated for over a decade before the revolution (1989); the pan-Balkan, Romani, and Middle Eastern–inflected music that characterized NKNM and svatbarska muzika was a style that resonated among them. Musicians—both Romani and Romanian—picked up and reworked NKNM, dubbing it muzică sârbească [Serbian music] and sometimes muzică bănăţeană-sârbească (Serbian-Banat music). Muzică bănăţeană-sârbească was “a version of NKNM that had a vaguely Romanian imprint.”21 Coded as Romani, muzică sârbească was deemed “alien” by its detractors due to its Balkan, Middle Eastern sound, a characterization further reinforced by what some considered the “foreign” identity of its performers—mainly Romani musicians. It was viewed as incompatible with the purportedly homogeneous ethnic makeup of “national” Romanian culture. As Speranţa Rădulescu remarks, the Romanian Communist Party considered it “‘folclor poluat’ [polluted folklore] and determined that lăutari who performed it would be punishable by law (including fines and the confiscation of their right to practice



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their profession).”22 Despite being outlawed, it was unofficially performed, mainly at weddings, and was taped, manufactured, and vended underground by its fans. Bands that performed Romanian muzică sârbească during the 1980s included Azur, Odeon, and Albatros (De la prima mea vedere [From the first time I saw you], in example 4.3,23 was recorded by Albatros ca. 1984).24 The most outstanding innovator of Romanian-style Balkan “Oriental” ethnopop at that time, however, was Dan Armeanca (b. 1961), a Romani guitarist from a family of lăutari. In the years preceding the revolution, he was the most creative musician to circumvent the system and craft a popular hybrid style that was NKNM-based ethnopop with a Romanian and Romani stamp (see example 4.4, performed by Armeanca and ensemble in 199025).

ETHNOPOP GENRES AFTER 1989 The year 1989 in the communist world of East Europe was a time of dramatic political upheavals. When the governments were dismantled in Bulgaria and Romania, the controls that had long dictated political, economic, social, and cultural behavior collapsed. Surveillance of what came in and out of these countries folded, and previously forbidden culture flooded in. Music from the West, East, and everywhere in between bombarded societies that had been denied contact with the outside world for decades. A thriving cassette culture was nurtured, and with it came much piracy.26 Music styles from within, especially Romani forms in Bulgaria and Romania, banned just years earlier, also took center stage in the popular music market. In Yugoslavia, the communist system crumbled later: more gradually yet more violently. There, too, the 1990s heralded popular music forms that represented change. Each of the three east-central Balkan regions in the 1980s had nurtured—officially or unofficially— ethnopop genres: Yugoslav NKNM, Bulgarian svatbarska muzika, and Romanian muzică sârbească. As the 1990s progressed, these forms evolved. In Yugoslavia/Serbia, turbo-folk grew out of NKNM, becoming a more strident form with strong political overtones. In Bulgaria, the vocal genre chalga (pop-folk), a synthesis of pan-Balkan folk style with Turkish, Romani, and wedding music, was inspired by the culture of both NKNM and svatbarska muzika. And in Romania, muzică sârbească evolved into muzică orientală [Oriental music], a flashier, more electronic, and more popular form with more pronounced “Eastern” musical effects. The South Slavic cultural tradition linked the Serbian and Bulgarian ethnopop genres and informed many of their mutual characteristics (performers, music, and lyrics) starting in the 1990s. By contrast, sharing more repressive communist systems as well as the more conspicuous plight of Roma in their societies, the Bulgarian and Romanian ethnopop genres developed in fairly parallel fashion. As Buchanan points out, in “its ethnic eclecticism, strong Romani associations, controversial social position, and musical substance, muzică orientală bears close resemblance to Bulgarian pop-folk or chalga” (2007a:xxii), both of which came to fruition in the mid-1990s. Moreover, although permitted after 1989, both genres

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were despised by the Bulgarian and Romanian political and cultural elite. And in Yugoslavia/Serbia, turbo-folk was also loathed by intellectuals yet by and large sanctioned by the government of Slobodan Milošević. Turbo-Folk The “harmony” of the multiethnic state of Yugoslavia under the leadership of Josip Broz Tito began to erode after his death in 1980, and by the 1990s, due to the pressures wielded by the burgeoning nationalist Serbian leadership, the country imploded in ethnic hostilities, wars, and disintegration. As is well-known, the various republics of Yugoslavia declared independence or fell apart, and then, driven by nationalist forces, became engaged in bloodshed and war with each other (in 1992–1995 and again in 1998–1999). This affected culture significantly and, in fact, played a role in generating turbo-folk. Indeed the failure of the “myths” of Yugoslavia and the ascent of nationalism “helped turbo-folk to acquire the role of ‘authentic’ Serbian folk music entertainment” (Grujić 2009:121).27 Turbo-folk was the “new folk music” of the 1990s and was, as an outgrowth of NKNM, promoted and employed by the Serbian politicians to create support through a “populist” cultural mechanism. As Yugoslav communism weakened and Milošević’s “Greater Serbia” advanced, NKNM was bolstered and reconceived as a tool of nationalism. Eric Gordy argues that due to government and commercial support, turbo-folk supplanted rock music, an inherently rebellious Western form that had permeated Belgrade by the mid-1960s; this occurred in part to dampen the popularity and “threat” of rock in Serbia and in part to become the “theme music” of the militantly nationalist Milošević regime.28 A “reinvented” genre, turbo-folk merged NKNM “with the consumer highlife, synthesized and amplified sounds, beats borrowed from western commercial dance music, and styles of presentation borrowed from MTV” (Gordy 1999:133).29 Rory Archer questions, however, whether turbo-folk’s appeal was so uniformly derived from and endorsed by the Milošević leadership, noting that “a pro-regime/anti-regime dichotomy attributing turbofolk to nationalism and rock to democratic opposition forms problematic analytical categories” (2012a:185). After all, some rock musicians at that time also supported Milošević, and some of the Yugoslav/Serbian governing elite were not favorably disposed to turbo-folk. There was plenty of ambiguity in the public reading of turbo-folk, and many “public figures in the realm of cultural production saw turbofolk as an attack on the Serbian spiritual tradition” (Archer 2012a:189).30 Media exposure throughout Yugoslavia was extremely important for disseminating the vernacular texts of NKNM, and with the spread of television, the “commodified consumption of folk music took place” (Grujić 2009:75). Music videos in the 1990s became the primary means by which turbo-folk was established as “a dominant mass culture and popular culture style” (Kronja 2004:107). TV Pink and TV Palma (launched in 1993), the primary channels for NKNM in Belgrade, aired solely turbofolk and received considerable support from the three state-run television stations,



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while the broadcasting of rock was limited (Gordy 1999:121). The promotion of turbo-folk clearly signaled an upsurge of militant and criminal culture, mirrored in the wars of the 1990s and the increased corruption and violence in society. The lyrics and music videos of turbo-folk became more graphic, vulgar, and aggressive. The genre was eroticized, disseminated through music videos, and used by the government, feeding the criminal and war audiences. Intellectuals in general were critics of turbo-folk; they despised its “cheap,” “kitsch” qualities and were offended by its associations with the militant government of Milošević, involved in Greater Serbia and ethnic cleansing. Although it had evolved significantly from NKMN, turbo-folk in the 1990s continued to be performed at parties, clubs, weddings, and other celebrations. The music, however, became more electronic (the synthesizer was mandatory), and the volume was amplified considerably. In the meantime, represented primarily by Lepa Brena, the longtime “queen” of NKFM and “mother of turbo folk” (Longinović 2000:633), a Bosnian-Muslim ethnopop variant grew out of a regional NKNM style that had circulated for several decades before the wars of the 1990s.31 Indeed, some of the greatest NKFM stars were from Bosnia, the most recognized being the Bosnian Muslim Brena. The genre shed the Serbian moniker “turbo-folk” in the 1990s and came to be called “sevdah-rock,” representing a new “local authenticity” (Rasmussen 2007:78). Among its most representative performers were Bosnian Hanka Paldum (b. 1965) and Dino Merlin (b. 1962). Contradictions posed by the paradox that turbo-folk exhibits overt “Oriental”/ Turkish traits analogous to the music of Bosnian Muslim society, against which Serbian nationalists in the 1990s so ardently fought, not to mention against which the entire Serbian national “project” of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries established its struggle, are problematic. Rasmussen observes that the “stylistic distinction of orijental, in fact, lies in its ‘turkisms’”; ironically, as she admits, “it is precisely these features, once considered religiously and intrusively Middle Eastern, that survive in the present production of turbo folk” (2007:69). The army of sexy young singers, exploited by the Yugoslav/Serbian government to promote its ideology—with Orientalist scripts—was also paradoxical, to be sure. As Mattijs van de Port wryly comments: “Long-legged peroxide chanteuses in revealing dresses with plunging necklines sing the whining, deeply oriental love songs” (1998:57). But even more puzzling, especially given the exploitation of turbo-folk as a device of Serbian nationalism, was the fact that some of the stars of the genre were, in fact, Muslim. Carrying on the tradition from NKNM, women remained the principal vocalists of turbo-folk. Their sex appeal was flaunted more flagrantly as they became the gendered Other, exploited as the heralds of stridently nationalist Serbia. One of the biggest stars of early 1990s turbo-folk was Dragana Mirković, who had begun her career as a folk singer in the late 1980s singing with Južni Vetar. She later took on a new persona, embracing urban elements in her music-making: disco and synthesizer sounds, lyrics that reflected city life and values, and professional dancers who

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accompanied her at performances (Grujić 2009:144). She also adopted Turkish and “Oriental” musical effects and made them acceptable and popular even among urban youth (Grujić 2009:157). The real superstar of 1990s “Oriental”-inflected turbo-folk, however, was another “girl” from a Serbian village, Svetlana “Ceca” Veličković (b. 1973). As Rasmussen so cleverly puts it, her “eroticized nationalism effectively canceled out the threat of the East upon which her music so heavily depends” (2007:73). Ceca was drawn into the sadistic and underworld culture of the 1990s when she married the most notorious crime boss and paramilitary leader at the time in Serbia, Arkan (Željko Ražnatović), in 1995.32 By then a superstar, her marriage underscored the sinister connections that the music she represented had with the criminal world. Yet she insists that her songs were/are not political (Archer 2012a:188). There is little doubt, however, that turbofolk had links to the “new criminal elite” at that time (Gordy 1999). Chalga (Pop-Folk) While turbo-folk became a signature genre of the early 1990s in Yugoslavia/ Serbia, analogous genres in Bulgaria and Romania—chalga and muzică orientală (manele)—were emerging in newly liberated societies that had been under communist rule for decades. They were spurned by the intellectual and professional elites who considered the genres low-class and vulgar. But they were adored by less-educated and nouveau-riche segments of Bulgarian and Romanian society. For many of them, chalga and muzică orientală represented what they had been denied for decades: a form of cultural expression that allowed for dissent and individuality.33 Moreover, Romani musicians involved in their performance permitted another statement: otherness. One of the earliest bands in Bulgaria to establish the “Oriental” character of chalga was the groundbreaking Romani ensemble Kristal.34 As Buchanan notes, chalga “was often performed by Romani and ethnic Turkish musicians, and even when Bulgarian Slavs were involved, the predominant performance style was Romani-Turkish” (2007c:239). Chalga, like turbo-folk, which it imitates, is an amalgam of styles and influences from East and West. Carol Silverman describes its components: “[f ]rom wedding music, chalga drew instrumentation, from Romani music it drew the ubiquitous kyuchek rhythms plus eastern melodic and visual motifs, and from pop it drew a slick presentation style plus rhyming texts about money, sex, and corruption” (2007a:83–4). The most significant inspiration for chalga was Serbian ethnopop.35 Bulgarians felt a kinship and fascination for NKNM and turbo-folk, which they also called Yugo-folk. For many Bulgarians, chalga “responded to the desire for a contemporary urban Bulgarian kafana culture, one typified by a similar OttomanRom-derived ‘Bulgofolk’ pop music style, complete with eroticized ‘Oriental dance’ ranging from kyuchek to bellydance” (Buchanan 2006:436–7). Moreover, turbo-folk’s most celebrated vocalists were, in some cases, more popular in Bulgaria than their own ethnopop stars were (Buchanan 2007c:233).36



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During the first decade or so after 1989, Bulgarians were sorting out their identity after forty-five years of communism (not to mention centuries of Ottoman rule that had ended roughly a hundred years before that). As post-communist Bulgaria developed during the 1990s, the dynamics of popular music also changed in several ways: previous controls over culture were lifted, thus permitting public performance of rock, jazz, foreign musics, and kyuchek. The identity of chalga in Bulgaria was and is somewhat muddled; it is “criticized as too Romani, too eastern but simultaneously too western, too much like Euro-pop” (Silverman 2007a:93).37 Many intellectual elites favored banning chalga; they found it repulsive.38 It was also associated with Roma; for some of its detractors, “chalga has become the enemy of the nation, and the Roma are to blame” (Silverman 2012:196).39 Nonetheless, chalga indisputably became, during the 1990s, the chief genre in the Bulgarian media. Indeed, a massive “chalga media empire” emerged in 1990s Bulgaria, “encompassing radio and television stations, fan magazines, tours, clubs, hotels, and CDs and DVDs,” forming what became “a soft-porn industry featuring scantily-clad female sex symbols” (Silverman 2007a:84). The chalga industry is essentially managed by production companies such as Payner Music, one of the principal chalga enterprises in Bulgaria, originally involved in launching the genre. Planeta, Payner’s cable channel, was established in 2001 and effectively controls the industry, including dictating the chalga trends.40 And although “popfolk sells more recordings than any other kind of music in Bulgaria today, popfolk singers and musicians make most of their money by performing at concerts and in dance clubs and restaurants” (Rice 2004:97). Chalga’s fans are primarily youth and working-class Bulgarians.41 In Bulgaria, many female chalga singers, like ethnopop singers in kafane in Serbia, initiated their careers in the comparable Bulgarian kru˘chma [tavern, pl. kru˘chmi]. Such was the case of Sashka Vaseva (b. 1962), the voluptuous “Bulgarian Lepa Brena,” among the best-known chalga stars. Taverns and clubs provide venues for the performance of chalga, as do weddings, other social events, and concerts (for well-known soloists). Influenced by practices employed at some concerts and music videos in the West, “live” performance of chalga is frequently based on playback techniques.42 This is due to the functioning of a commercial hierarchy of singers and the market. Two categories of chalga singers perform in contemporary Bulgaria based on celebrity. The star singers (who have “signature repertoires”) have the most status: they have contracts with record labels through which they are hired for gigs and make their living performing over instrumental or full playback. Below them are kru˘chmarski pevci [tavern-singers]—vocalists who do not have name repertoires or contracts with record companies and who are typically “employed in taverns and clubs and sing there every night . . . sometimes . . . with live music, sometimes over instrumental playback.”43 In other words, the star singers lip-synch in performance and are paid significantly more than the less-popular singers who do not and thus sing live. Adopting a cynical attitude, one could also argue that the female chalga stars lip-synch because they sell their sex appeal, not their singing skills.44 Chalga (like turbo-folk and manele) has also had ties to the underworld in the post-communist years. In fact “the mafia

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emerged as a force in Bulgaria in the 1990s, and had its finger in music, especially chalga” (Silverman 2012:155). Moreover, chalga, as well as “the clubs and discos devoted to it, is a favorite of Bulgarian gangsters, who have flourished in the postcommunist period” (Rice 2004:97). Muzică Orientală (Manele) In the Romania of the 1990s, muzică orientală represented a welcome break from the draconian cultural controls implemented in Ceauşescu’s repressive years in power. And for some, the genre’s direct connection to Romani culture enhanced its exotic appeal. For both Romania and Bulgaria, ethnopop presented a jumbled web of meanings that informed debates on aesthetics, taste, and—ironically, considering the dictatorial environment of the just-toppled communist governments—questions as to whether or how much art should be controlled or censured. Equally contradictory were matters concerning grassroots music that expressed an array of “democratic” subtexts: minority ethnic identity, market capitalism, freedom of expression, and individual liberties in everyday matters of preference and taste. Once the Romanian Revolution (1989) took place, muzică orientală was no longer forbidden. Uncensored by January 1990, Romania’s own ethnopop became so popular that by the mid- to late-1990s, it was by far the most frequent and favorite social dance music played at weddings and parties and was sold on cassettes wherever merchants—both authorized and unauthorized—sold their wares. Like the South Slavic genres, muzică orientală is a fusion of Romanian, other Balkan, and Turkish musics, Romani style, and pop forms. Silverman writes that “chalga has both drawn from pan-Balkan styles and been exported to many countries, most notably Romania in the form of manele” (2012:195). While the post-1989 lăutari who shaped manele were influenced by the style of chalga, there was already a precedent in the earlier twentieth-century urban song-dance form termed “manea” long before chalga arrived in Romania. It was an acoustic genre characterized by the signature syncopated “Oriental” rhythms (çiftetelli) and melodic patterns and was performed most famously by Romani vocalists Romica Puceanu (1928–1996) and Gabi Luncă (b. 1938), as well as by lăutari such as Aurel and Victor Gore (1938–2008).45 And, as Robert Garfias (1984) noted years ago, urban and rural Roma were dancing to the music of such manele already by the 1970s. The musicians in southern Romania who sang (and played) muzică orientală (manele) after 1989 were—and continue to be—lăutari. Some have become superstars and are called manelişti. Like most lăutari, manelişti typically go by nicknames (see chapter 6). Among the best-known are lăutari who began their careers as young accordionists/vocalists and came of age in the 1990s as the manea craze developed: Adrian (Copilul) Minune [Adrian (the Child) Wonder] (b. 1974),46 Florin Salam (b. 1979),47 and Vali Vijelie [Vali Whirlwind] (b. 1969],48 all from Bucharest, as well as Nicolae Guţă (b. 1967), from Timişoara. Not all manelişti are celebrities, however. In addition to the stars, there are also numerous lesser-known, modestly paid, local



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lăutari—both urban and rural—who struggle to earn their living performing manele and other genres at weddings (see chapter 8). While manele are clearly a major popular cultural phenomenon in Romania, they have not spawned as massive a media empire as chalga has in Bulgaria. This may be because, when all is said and done, manele are still essentially a Romani genre, and Romani culture is not fully accepted in Romania. In other words, “the general public associates manele with Gypsies. For most listeners, the songs are ‘Gypsy music’ (muzică ţigănească), embodying Gypsy aesthetics and ethical values” (Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă 2012:329). Moreover, the production of manele is, like the performance of the genre, largely dominated by Roma.49 The leading manager and producer of manele in southern Romania is Dan Bursuc (b. 1970), a clarinetist from a lăutar family who is also a composer and owner of several profitable record companies.50 The presence of the Turkish “Oriental” influence in manele generates a powerful reaction locally, engendering fervent sentiments of either aversion or delight. But just as importantly, the Romani “Oriental” character of the genre also influences its identity as “Other.” Regarding the gulf between East and West that Romanian culture intrinsically bridges, Ioana Szeman observes that Whereas in one instance Romania represents the East—the less developed pole in opposition to Europe—within Romania the Gypsies stand for the East, the Orient within, while Romania stands for Europe in contrast to the Gypsies. This opposition also spreads across musical tastes, with the elites looking westward and despising manele, which are hugely popular and associated with Gypsies, kitsch, bad taste, and a dangerously contagious Orient, identified most often with Turkey and the former Ottoman Empire. (2009:101)

In each of the east-central Balkan ethnopop genres, such “nesting orientalisms”51 describe ethno-cultural dimensions and mechanisms within society as West European–East European-Balkan–Turkish/Romani in descending order of negativity. They typify perceptions of culture: music that teeters on the threshold between East and West or “bad” versus “good” taste. “Bad” as an attribute of Balkan ethnopop in Romania also characterizes the illegal activities that some of the patrons of manele in the post-1989 world are engaged in. Manelişti are hired by crime bosses and their associates to perform at their social events, singing, as described in chapter 7, “praise poetry” for their patrons. Like in turbo-folk and chalga, ties between manele, manelişti, and the underworld run deep.

ETHNOPOP TERMINOLOGY The east-central Balkan ethnopop genres all underwent name changes as they evolved. Neither of the terms NKNM and turbo-folk carry overt “Oriental” baggage but instead exploit their connections with “folk,” which was, after all, the

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original source for the early genre. “Chalga” and “manea,” by contrast, are both etymologically Turkish terms and thus convey Ottoman subtexts. As Jim Samson remarks, linking the Bulgarian and Romanian designations for their local genres each “announces a particular historical genealogy and a particular range of associations” (2013:515). The term “novokomponovana narodna muzika” [newly composed folk music] simply described the genre that emerged in 1960s Yugoslavia. And the music that developed from NKNM was given the name “turbo-folk” in 1989 by the Montenegrin rock musician Rambo Amadeus (b. 1963), who was lampooning his own imitations of rock combined with “folk” elements.52 “Turbo-folk” supplanted “NKNM” wholesale but is shunned by some musicians, such as Ceca and others who wish to distance themselves from the “Eastern” in favor of the alternative “pop” or “European” music label (Silverman 2012:179). Post-1989 ethnopop in Bulgaria was called both “pop-folk” and “chalga,” each evoking significantly different connotations.53 “Pop-folk” is considered a more respectable—and certainly a more Western—label than “chalga” and is modeled on the Serbian turbo-folk. The vernacular “chalga” derives from the Turkish çalgı, which designates a musical instrument or instrumental music (Silverman 2012:177). Buchanan explains that after 1989, “the definitive role played by Romani musicians, genres, and dance styles in shaping Bulgarian ethnopop prompted audiences to dub the genre ‘chalga,’ a tangled term whose lengthy history is steeped in associations with Romani-Turkish culture” (2007c:236).54 Because of its Ottoman connotations, the term “chalga” is seen by some as derogatory and is often circumvented by its marketers and performers. Gloria (b. 1973),55 a Bulgarian ethnopop superstar, claims “that she sings pop/folk as opposed to chalga because she has a more Western approach and her lyrics are not gross”; moreover, Payner Company prefers to use pop-folk and other non-Turkish terms over chalga (Silverman 2012:179). Much of the history of manele, including the use of the term, is discussed elsewhere in this book (see especially chapter 2). While an acoustic urban form called “manea” was performed in southern Romania earlier in the twentieth century, the term was put on hold for some years as other designations were employed for local ethnopop. “Muzică sârbească” [Serbian music] was adopted during the 1980s, referencing NKNM. Other adjectives modifying “muzică” supplanted “sârbească” as the 1980s proceeded, such as “turcească” [Turkish] and, in the 1990s, “orientală” [Oriental]. In each case, the various adjectives suggested Eastern cultures, reflecting how the music was viewed—belonging to an admittedly foreign, exotic sphere. Like “chalga,” “manele” infers—etymologically—Romani-Turkish ties. But unlike “turbofolk” (Serbian) and “pop-folk” (Bulgarian), there was never any “folk” or “pop” in the various terms for manele; only the noun muzică [music] remained constant in the earlier designations. By the early 2000s, all of these terms were abandoned, and “manea” was resurrected. By then the meaning had expanded to represent a louder, more conspicuously Middle Eastern–inflected song-dance genre. This label has persisted for over fifteen years.



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ETHNICITY AND GENDER: THE SINGERS The majority of vocalists of NKNM/turbo-folk were and are women from the Serbian and Bosnian ethnic mainstreams inhabiting Yugoslavia and later its postcommunist states. A number of male stars also sang NKNM and were important in the early years of turbo-folk,56 for example, the Bosnian Halid Bešlić (b. 1953) and Halid Muslimović (b. 1960). There were also several male Romani vocalists who formed part of this narrative. In the early 1980s, the foremost Romani singer, Šaban Bajramović (1936–2008), was instrumental in articulating the local “Gypsy” sound that was emerging within NKNM.57 The popularity of Bajramović during the last decade of Yugoslavia’s existence, combined with the appeal of NKNM, proceeded, to some extent, legitimize Romani singers and style within the genre before it became turbo-folk and was espoused by the Milošević government.58 Moreover, the Serbian Romani vocalist Džej Ramadanovski (b. 1964) bridged NKNM and turbo-folk at the beginning of the 1990s, but his appeal was somewhat short-lived during that particularly xenophobic period in Yugoslavia.59 Mainstream chalga vocalists closely resemble those who sing turbo-folk in both gender and ethnicity: the majority are attractive young Bulgarian women.60 In other words, “most chalga stars are non-Romani women who capitalize on sex” and receive “large media promotions by the companies” (Silverman 2012:181, 183). Imitating Western celebrities, they often go just by first names (e.g., Gloria, Ivana, Vesela, Tsvetelina). There are also a few Romani chalga vocalists who have gained prominence, including Sofi Marinova (b. 1975), who, because of her ethnicity, does not identify with the conventional ethnic-Bulgarian female chalga stereotype.61 Perhaps the most notorious Romani chalga personality is Azis (b. 1978), an atypical, ostentatious singer who is “ambiguous sexually, transgendered, and transvestite” (Silverman 2012:188).62 Although there are now more male singers of chalga than previously,63 women still make up the vast majority of the vocalists. In southern Romania, by contrast, those who sing manele (often called manelişti), are virtually all Romani men. Most are from lăutar backgrounds; accordingly, many are versed in muzică lăutărească [lăutar music], an urban Romani song-and-dance style,64 although their fame rests on their performances of manele.65 Non-Romani vocalists of manele are generally the exception in southern Romania; the best-known is Costi Ioniţă (b. 1978), who performed some manele in the early 2000s and has sung with Adrian Minune and Vali Vijelie.66 There are also some female singers of manele, the best-known of which is Carmen Şerban (b. 1971). They rarely sing alone in performance, but instead usually accompany male vocalists, often in recordings. Denisa, Claudia, Andra, and Ruxandra Prinţesa Ardealulu [the Princess of Transylvania] are also popular and, like in South Slavic ethnopop, typically go by only their first names. Gender and ethnicity inform who the singers of Balkan ethnopop are and why. South Slavic female vocalists have monopolized the genres in Yugoslavia/Serbia and Bulgaria. NKNM, which spawned turbo-folk and chalga, was a form that grew out

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of rural folk music (narodna muzika) in the Yugoslavia of the 1960s. Within South Slavic, and indeed Balkan, folklore, there has always been a strong female, nonprofessional folksong tradition. Thus, the self-consciously “newly composed” folk music genre in the 1960s and 1970s appropriated the role of the traditional female voice and transported it to a more commercial and evolved hybrid vocal genre: ethnopop. In other words, women in South Slavic turbo-folk and chalga carry on the “tradition” of female singing. An innovation in contemporary ethnopop that was established decades ago is that vocalists be not only women, but also young and attractive. They figure in a commercial and market arrangement whereby both singing and sex are supported by male patrons and form part of the profession. As Marija Grujić observes, the “‘turbo’ mode of production of music, entertainment and visual and audio pleasure privileged female performers over males” (2009:139). By contrast, those who sing manele are by and large young men. In Romania, as opposed to Yugoslavia/Serbia and Bulgaria, the ethnopop genre finds a precedent in the acoustic manele of the earlier twentieth century, which did not grow out of a rural folk music tradition but rather evolved as an urban genre. Urban music-making in southern Romania has traditionally been the domain of professional musicians— male, Romani lăutari, whose occupations and social positions have been institutionalized in part due to the legacy of slavery.67

MUSIC AND DANCE: TURBO-FOLK, CHALGA, MANELE Balkan Ethnopop as “Oriental” Music The most striking similarities between the genres of east-central Balkan ethnopop are revealed in their musics, most conspicuously the “Oriental” features in them (especially rhythm, melody, and instrumentation). Buchanan observes that the tunes emphasize, to varying degrees, the electronic instrumentation of pop music— especially synthesizers and drum machines—in association with a collage of Middle Eastern (especially Turkish) elements. These include Arabo-Turkish melodic gestures, rhythmic modes, ornamentation, and scale types, particularly those most easily adapted to the tempered intervals of European and American music. . . . In general, pitch play around augmented and minor seconds provides further oriental flavoring. (2006:434)

Yet “Oriental” in these genres is sometimes hard to pinpoint, because its main components, “Turkish” and “Romani,” are so similar that it is difficult to distinguish them. Regarding the character of turbo-folk, Rasmussen points out that the “nature of orijental [Oriental] is extremely diffuse” (2007:69). Kurkela, claiming that chalga “is stylistically such a hybrid that defining it is not an easy task” also remarks that “‘Easternness’ in orientalist art is a very elusive and relative quality” (2007:144, 155). He maintains that “the oriental tinge of chalga’s overall sound is typical of and attributed to Romani musicians. For . . . centuries, in all the Balkan countries



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Romani musicians have been the messengers of popular music from the eastern Mediterranean and even from India” (Kurkela 2007:156). Such broad reasoning also easily embraces the “Oriental” in southern Romanian manele, an ethnopop genre performed more consistently by Roma than any of the other east-central Balkan ethnopop genres. In my fieldwork, musicians are very aware of the Romani and other “Oriental” features of their performances, and they sometimes refer to them as “secrets” that they guard. Buchanan also notes that “popfolk performers are consciously emulating or trying to achieve Middle Eastern sound” (2006:434). One of the most explicit markers of the “Oriental” in east-central Balkan ethnopop is the çiftetelli rhythm—coded as both Turkish and Romani. It is rendered on the synthesizer and percussive instruments. While early NKNM utilized a variety of South Slavic rhythms,68 turbo-folk is more often characterized by the “Middle Eastern” çiftetelli patterns (such as in Dragana Mirković’s 1995 Plači zemljo [Weep, O earth]; see example 4.969). The comparable kyuchek is a conspicuous emblem of the “Oriental” in chalga (as in Levovete v marki [Leva (Bulgarian currency) to Marks], sung by Sashka Vaseva in 1997; see example 4.7).70 In manele, the syncopated duple çiftetelli rhythm, with analogous patterns, is considered simultaneously Turkish, Oriental, and/or Gypsy (Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă 2012:324).71 It is a defining “Oriental” musical sign in Romania’s own Balkan ethnopop (heard, for example, in Ce frumoasă e dragostea [How wonderful love is], sung by Florin Salam and Claudia in 2012; see example 4.1772). It is also self-ascribed: in my fieldwork, musicians who perform manele consistently insist that the distinctive çiftetelli rhythm forms the key “Oriental” indicator of the genre.73 Furthermore, it is persistent: when earlier twentieth-century (acoustic) manele are compared to contemporary electronic examples of the genre, the most stable feature in all of them is the çiftetelli rhythm.74 “Oriental” in east-central Balkan ethnopop is further identified by melodic structures including improvisation, ornamentation, and specific intervals, hallmarks of Middle Eastern sound (illustrated by the NKNM/turbo-folk hits by Lepa Brena in her 1987 Jugoslovenka [Yugoslav woman]; see example 4.6,75 and Ceca in Pustite me da ga vidim [Let me see him] from 1990; see example 4.1176). Some of the most representative of the “Oriental” elements in NKNM included “pseudo-modal setting of songs, [and] melismatic improvisation” (Rasmussen 1996a:107), while among the most “Middle Eastern” qualities in turbo-folk are “ornamentation practices . . . characteristic of the sevdalinka [urban Bosnian melancholic song genre] singing style” (Rasmussen 2007:69).77 Rice remarks that svatbarska muzika and chalga “share, along with NCFM, an oriental sensibility, located in the use of microtones and makam-like instrumental improvisations” (2002:30). Moreover, “the taksim or mane, the improvised free-rhythm solo” is the distinguishing trait of kyuchek (Silverman 2012:180).78 Free-form passages typify manea performances, as well; individual instrumentalists often solo, drawing from thematic material and improvising in virtuosic displays. In addition, Turkish arabesk influence on manele as well as chalga includes ornamental instrumental figures at the end of vocal phrases (illustrated in Florin Salam’s manea from 2006, Iar am pus-o [I’ve done it again]; see example

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4.24).79 In addition to improvisation and embellishment in chalga, the minor second and augmented second also define the “Oriental” (Kurkela 2007:158). Turkish scale types and melodic motifs inform the “Eastern” in manele, as well (see chapter 3), including the signature augmented second and chromatic passages (such as in Tu eşti femeia visurilor mele [You are the woman of my dreams] from 2001 sung by Liviu Puştiu; see example 4.2080). The melodies of manele are “in ‘orientalist’ moods, often built on scales reminiscent of Middle Eastern maqam, and performed with a richly melismatic style of ornamentation” (Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă 2012:324).81 The sonorities of Balkan ethnopop—in both instrumental and vocal styles—are also representative of the “Oriental.” The synthesizer became essential in the various genres in the late 1980s and has continued to play a central role since that time, providing the fundamental rhythm, among other roles.82 With its versatility, the synthesizer can imitate “Oriental” instrumental timbres with great facility. In the NKNM of the late 1980s, it was “programmed to simulate the sounds of the šargije, zurle, and other instruments typical to parts of the Middle East” (Grujić 2009:143) (such sonorities created by the synthesizer are heard in Sama [Alone], sung by Dragana Mirković, ca. 2000; see example 4.1083). The features that branded NKNM as “Oriental” also included the “nasal timbre of singers’ voices” (Rasmussen 1996a:107), an effect that was perpetuated in turbo-folk.84 As turbo-folk evolved from NKNM in the 1990s, acoustically “folk” elements continued “falling out of the mix” (Gordy 1999:134) until only the accordion was left; electronic sounds, including “Oriental” timbres on the synthesizer, took the place of the abandoned instruments. Key to the svatbarska-muzika sound, instruments included the accordion, clarinet, saxophone, drum set, and electric guitars. Synthesizers, at times supplanting drums and the guitars, joined the ensembles in the late 1980s. As for the present, the “orient is evoked in chalga via symbolic Eastern instrumental styles,” and “synthesized flutes and zurnas and arabesk-like instrumental fillers, signal ‘easternness’” (Silverman 2012:131, 180). (Gloria’s 2010 chalga, Tseluvai oshte [Kiss me again], demonstrates the flexibility of the synthesizer; see example 4.1585). Urban manea bands also adopted the synthesizer wholesale during the 1990s; it became the signature instrument to evoke the “Orient” in manele;86 (Salam’s Iar am pus-o [I’ve done it again] in example 4.2487 illustrates the “Oriental” coloring of the synthesizer). Combinations of instruments in these bands include, in addition to synthesizers, accordions, electric violins, clarinets, keyboards, and electric bass guitars; drum sets also join in, although the synthesizer can (and does) replace them. Augmenting the “Oriental” sound of east-central Balkan ethnopop, musicians have increasingly turned to electronic instrumentation. Principally because of the “Oriental” sound of instrumental and vocal styles, the east-central Balkan ethnopop genres have also polarized, in parallel ways, the listening publics in Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania, who either adore the “seductive,” “exotic” sounds that the music exudes or loathe its “kitsch,” “foreign” timbres. However, not only can synthesizers (and other electronic instruments) simulate the “Orient” in east-central Balkan ethnopop, but they can also signal how “in touch” the musicians are with global culture, especially after decades in communist “seclusion.” Combined



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with drum sets, for example, synthesizers generate a Western pop-style texture. Music technologies and techniques of the Occident embedded in the synthesizer enhance the overall transnational sound of the genres. Synthesizers provide, thus, a bridge between East and West. Balkan Ethnopop and Dance Both Romani and Turkish influences are also present in the various social dances that are associated with east-central Balkan ethnopop. They include the distinctively Romani Balkan solo dance forms čoček (Yugoslav/Serbian), kyuchek (Bulgarian), and manea (Romanian).88 Traditionally, they were solo female Romani dances that took place in relatively private contexts and were sensuous yet fairly subtle. The post–1989 years, however, have brought changes to them that have affected who dances, when, and how. Due to the transformations that the east-central Balkans underwent in the 1990s, many social conventions were loosened, profoundly affecting expressive culture. Thus, although remaining by and large a solo dance, čoček/ kyuchek/manea came to be danced to turbo-folk, chalga, and manele not only by Roma but also non-Roma, as well as by both women and men.89 While the various “Oriental-Romani” dances had long been traditional to Roma in these regions, they afforded, in the 1990s, especially to non-Romani dancers, a novel, liberating, and expressive solo alternative to the formalized steps of traditional group and couple dances, furnishing a more overtly sexualized style and momentary “escape” into the world of the “Other.” It became extremely popular among non-Roma throughout the east-central Balkans to dance the čoček/kyuchek/manea at wedding banquets and other celebrations, as well as at nightclubs. Ethnopop has also inspired a variety of other dance steps, some of them traditional, others pop/rock. As Ivana Kronja notes, “Dancing to turbo-folk and new folk music may often include the Serbian national folk dance, the kolo” (2004:108). My own fieldwork reveals that the steps and style of the manea have become progressively freer over the years as dancers move to the music “however they wish.” At the present time, the manea is danced solo, by both genders, as well as in traditional group and couple (e.g., rock ’n’ roll) formations. As east-central Balkan ethnopop developed and spread in the 1990s, music videos also proliferated. Western music videos permeated the region and significantly influenced the dance styles, promoting novel, “modern” ways to perform the čoček/ kyuchek/manea. Dance in the local videos has become, on the whole, more blatantly sexualized. Often styles representing both East and West are represented. In Serbia, “[t]urbo-folk female singers in solo performance combine western techno and disco dancing with dancing with Oriental motifs—holding their arms up and ‘twisting’ them, and even with the elements of belly-dancing” (Kronja 2004:107–8). In music videos produced in Bulgaria, chalga singers and dancers emulate the highly sexualized manner of the female performers in turbo-folk, generating a type of “soft porn.”90 Moreover, chalga “moves and choreographies are also influenced by jazz dance and hip hop, and stagings reflect MTV aesthetics” (Silverman 2012:178). Cable

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television stations in Romania that specialize in manele (especially Taraf and Favorit) and music videos likewise feature female dancers who writhe suggestively to manele. Manea performances in music videos include female dancers, but their main role is to complement the male manelişti. Even at the Miss Piranda belly-dancing contests in Romania, where female competition is the alleged focus, the male musicians take center stage.91 The countless concerts and albums devoted to “Miss Piranda are basically pretexts for selling manele sung by the male stars.92 In the Romanian manea videos, women sometimes sing and sometimes dance, but virtually always in order to accompany men. By contrast, South Slavic music videos focus almost entirely on female singers as well as dancers.

NARRATIVE MEANINGS IN TURBO-FOLK, CHALGA, AND MANELE The narrative meanings in east-central Balkan ethnopop songs are rendered primarily through lyrics, but also in the imagery of music videos. In terms of form and general content, many of the song texts resemble Western pop music. They are stanzaic, usually with four-line verses and refrains, and contain patterns of rhyme or assonance such as AABB, ABAB, or ABCB. This contrasts with South Slavic oral traditional poetry, which does not rhyme, as well as with Romanian oral poetry in which verses rhyme consecutively but in irregular formations. Like pop songs everywhere, the universal ups and downs of love and romance provide the most common topics, although everyday concerns in the contemporary world are also expressed. The lyrics are communicated in the first person and delivered from a youthful perspective. In NKNM, turbo-folk, and mainstream chalga, most vocalists are young, pretty, non-Romani women; the standpoint in the lyrics is ethnic-majority female. In music videos, they epitomize the soft porn that became the norm in Yugoslavia/ Serbia and Bulgaria in the 1990s. Contrasting with this, manele are generally sung by Romani men—manelişti—and involve male protagonists whose identity is informed by an implicitly Romani, trickster, and often nouveau-riche perspective. In a clear double standard, the female stars of South Slavic ethnopop are conventionally attractive, while their male counterparts in manele evidently are not required to meet the same criteria.93 Music videos that accompany ethnopop songs focus on the vocalist, presenting her/him either in a staged performance or narrative context that mirrors the song lyrics. In the pages that follow, I treat songs that deal with contemporary society; romantic love, attraction, and deception; male power; and family relationships. A considerable portion of my discussion in this chapter is devoted to the meanings of the texts of east-central Balkan ethnopop because they reflect significant diversity between the South Slavic and Romanian genres. I argue that the variety of meanings encountered in the songs (and music videos) of turbo-folk, chalga, and manele are profoundly influenced by the ethnicity and gender of the vocalists who perform them.



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Contemporary Society Contemporary society provides the focus for a cluster of songs that, broadly defined, touch upon political, economic, and social realities; identity; and the role of the individual in society. In general, they do not relate to pop-music themes. Early lyrics commented on the mass urbanization and industrialization in southeastern Europe that occurred with the imposition of communist rule after World War II and the plight of Gastarbeiter from Yugoslavia who worked in Western Europe. Later, the transition from socialist Federal Yugoslavia to the independent states that emerged in the 1990s, the dismantling of communism in Bulgaria and Romania in 1989, and the entry of both into the European Union in 2007 provided topics. Most of them, since the 1990s, mirror in greater or lesser degree the societal adjustments that have occurred in the post-communist period in the realm of gender roles, social mobility, economic survival, and identity, although they decreasingly turn to these topics as the twenty-first century proceeds, preferring the more timeless themes of love. NKNM, the first Balkan ethnopop genre to materialize, included songs that addressed the social conflicts that surfaced after World War II and were informed by the rural migrations to cities in Yugoslavia. The early songs of NKNM sometimes treated tensions between rural and urban life, such as Lepa Lukić’s “Od izvora dva putića” [Two roads lead from the water spring], issued in 1964 (see example 4.594), a song that is “iconic of NCFM beginnings” (Rasmussen 2002:70). The song is in 2/4 meter, the instrumental melody is dominated by the accordion, and vocal ornaments enhance the idyllic images in the verses. Framed within a tale of lost love (a man leaves his sweetheart behind), it resonated in Yugoslavia of the 1960s, where the migration from village to city and the ruptures that this created were central concerns. The point of view is feminine, as the singer laments her separation from her love who has taken the “path” to the city, while she remains solitary and forgotten in the village. She is depicted strolling alone on the streets of Paris, merging the loneliness of personal abandonment with the isolation of living abroad. Early NKNM songs also generated nostalgia for the homeland and were enormously popular among Yugoslavs working in West Europe.95 In “Jugoslovenka,” popular fifteen years later, Lepa Brena represents a beautiful Yugo-everywoman who is admired—symbolically—by three well-known male pop stars: a Bosnian, a Croat, and a Montenegrin.96 The music video takes the viewer with Brena throughout Yugoslavia in a panoramic tour of the country by air (see example 4.697). The refrain is: Oči su mi more Jadransko, kose su mi klasje Panonsko, sestra mi je duša Slovenska, ja sam Jugoslovenka.

My eyes are the Adriatic Sea, my hair—the Pannonian ears [of grain], my sister is the Slavic soul, I am the Yugoslav woman.

A song that expresses the ostensible contentment and harmony of multinational postTito Yugoslavia, it circulated only a few years before the secessionist wars in Yugoslavia broke out. The music is “Oriental” in rhythm, melody, and instrumentation.

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The songs of east-central Balkan ethnopop that were performed in the transitional 1990s and 2000s reflect the novel, unfettered, but also often fraudulent social opportunities and ideals of post-communism. They mirrored new social realities and the materialism that permeated society in the 1990s. In Yugoslavia/Serbia, the ideals of the socialist years, depicted in NKNM, changed as those of the post-socialist world—articulated in turbo-folk—evolved. Mirrored in the lyrics of the songs, the “new social developments ‘prescribed’ renegotiated images of social success, new images of masculinity and femininity, and a reworked concept of power relations” (Grujić 2009:145). The model of social mobility that NKNM had embraced (the village-to-city transition, education, and landing of a job) was adjusted. These new trends were present in the flourishing ethnopop genres in post-1989 Bulgaria and Romania, as well. The novel standards and expectations engendered during the secessionist wars and the subsequent chaotic post-socialist years in Yugoslavia became the new backdrop for turbo-folk. As Grujić explains, “there was a strong tendency within turbo-folk production to incorporate and manipulate the elements of subcultures, minority identities, and in general the motifs of the lower-class boy or girl who achieves great fortune and power” (2009:147). New ambitions throughout the east-central Balkans included getting rich at any cost, thus generating rampant corruption and sometimes a gangster lifestyle. The immediate goals, primarily for men, were swift success, money, cars, beautiful women, and the ownership of other high-status emblems. Compared to the “parent” NKNM in Yugoslavia, the turbo-folk offspring of the 1990s aggressively presented—in lyrics and music videos—themes of sex and power, harsh reflections of the social and political changes in Yugoslavia. The music video for Ceca’s 1995 “Ljubav fatalna” [Fatal love] is conspicuously sexual and brassy; the camera focuses on both female and male bare skin, and tight clothing outlines eroticized parts of the body (see example 4.1298). As we will see in the following pages, a frequent theme of South Slavic ethnopop is also presented here: the singer’s subordination to her man, who can be anywhere and do anything he wants. He is free, but she—a symbol of the Balkan woman—is “imprisoned” by their love. Mainstream chalga songs and videos included social commentary, particularly on local issues in post-1989 Bulgaria.99 Silverman observes that “[m]any chalga songs in the 1990s offered pointed critiques of social conditions, targeting local politicians, the mafia, and the banks” (2012:181).100 Among the best-known was “Levovete v marki,” performed in a flashy music video in 1997 with distinct “Oriental” sounds by Sashka Vaseva (see example 4.7).101 It is a humorous critique of Bulgaria’s dismal economic problems after 1989, in which marks and dollars have buying power but leva do not. Petra’s “Danutsi” [Taxes] from 1999—also musically “Oriental”—is likewise a parody: a song and a video narrative about tax collection.102 And in 2000, the Romani singer Valentin Valdes issued “Zhega” [Heat], a song and a music video that exposed local corruption and crime in Bulgaria.103 Vaseva’s more recent “Evro i dolari” [Euros and dollars] addresses, once again with tongue in cheek, the economic corruption and fiascos still present in EU-admitted



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Bulgaria. As twenty-first-century chalga becomes more geared to pure entertainment, however, there are fewer political themes expressed (Silverman 2012:183). While manele that overtly articulate social themes are relatively rare, politics is the focus in a CD from 2004 that contains songs about elections in Bucharest at that time (Voiculescu 2005:276). Manelişti sing about the poor local governmental infrastructure, run-down roads, and inadequate housing; Traian Băsescu (the former mayor of Bucharest and past president of Romania) is also criticized, along with the neo-fascist Greater Romania Party. Another example from four years later, soon after Romania joined the European Union, features young Babi Minune (Babi Wonder), who sings “Made in Romania,” a music video that addresses the all-inclusive democratic system that EU member Romania allegedly represents. Dancing the solo manea to rhythmically and melodically “Oriental” music as he sings, Babi identifies regional, political, and ethnic groups in Romania, reminding listeners that all are “made in Romania” (see example 1.29). The song is, at times, self-consciously Romani; not only does it refer to “ţigani” [Gypsies] within the ethnicities indexed, but the refrain, consisting of a series of syllables (“Da dumla, dumla da, etc.”), is coded as Romani. Like the other ethnopop forms, however, social content in manele is expressed less and less frequently. In spite of the fact that both South Slavic and Romanian ethnopop texts about social issues form the smallest group of songs, these texts respond in candid ways to real anxieties in society: the breakdown of familiar ways of life; the urgency of finding work, even if it means far from home; survival in a faltering system (be it communist or post-communist); local political conditions; and the new globalism. Love and Attraction East-central Balkan ethnopop lyrics, like pop songs everywhere, treat, above all, romantic heteronormative love and sex. They typically depict romance and ensuing dilemmas, usually having to do with deception and infidelity. Women are typically depicted as beautiful, vulnerable, and in unequal relationships with men (who either flaunt their sexual prowess through them or cheat on them); they are sex goddesses and/or victims, objects of male desire and manipulation. Women sacrifice themselves for the men in their lives and are ultimately abandoned by them. Men are portrayed as wielding power, represented by ostentatious wealth and possessions (e.g., fast cars and expensive clothing), sexy girlfriends and/or wives, status, and cunning. Strongly gendered perspectives are implicit in eastcentral Balkan songs of love. Turbo-folk and chalga most often refer to women’s suffering: women are wronged by men, who are in control and dominate them. By contrast, manele reference male dominance: men’s sexual desire and control of their women and relationships. Although the gendered and ethnic orientations of the songs about romantic love in the South Slavic versus Romanian genres differ, many of the messages are simply two sides of the same coin, each furnishing contrasting outlooks on a fundamentally patriarchal Balkan worldview.

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Some ethnopop songs depict pure affection and attraction. The South Slavic singer perhaps most recognized for such songs is Lepa Brena, who bridged NKNM and turbo-folk and whose repertoire includes upbeat and even comic texts. Among her best-known hits was her cheery song and video performance from 1987, “Hajde da se volimo” [Let’s fall in love] (see example 4.1).104 It is a classic example of NKNM: a pop-music sound, stanzaic structure with refrain, vapid lyrics, and a young, attractive female vocalist. Manelişti enjoy proclaiming their attraction to girlfriends and wives, as in Adrian Minune’s 2003 manea, “Jumătate tu, jumătate eu” [Half you, half me]. The male “self ” is content to be the object of his adoring lover’s affections, reinforced by his trust that she “won’t lie” to him (see example 4.16105): Tu eşti femeia care ştie să m-alinte. Tu eşti femeia care ştiu că nu mă minte. Bune şi rele am împărţit numai cu tine. Îţi mulţumesc din suflet că ai grijă de mine.

You are the woman who knows how to comfort me. You are the woman who I know won’t lie to me. Good times and bad I share only with you. I thank you from my soul for taking care of me.

Another manea extolling the delight of romantic love is “Ce frumoasă e dragostea.” Salam solos, accompanied by Claudia (see example 4.17):106 Ce frumoasă-e dragostea când eşti tu în preajma mea;  frumoasă, frumoasă cum e guriţa ta.

How wonderful love is when you are near me; beautiful, beautiful just like your sweet lips.

In “Brazilianca” [Brazilian girl] (2013), Salam blissfully describes his sexy new love, as she sits in the background mindlessly smiling and rotating the upper half of her body (see example 4.18107): M-am îndrăgostit atât de tare de o frumuseţe mare, mare; cea mai dulce şi frumoasă fată parcă este braziliancă.

I’ve fallen totally in love with a great, great beauty; the sweetest and most beautiful girl, they say, is a Brazilian.

Love as a heartbreaking experience is a universal topic of pop songs. Silvana Armenulić was an early star of NKNM who epitomized this theme. Among her most famous songs is “Šta će mi život bez tebe dragi” [I don’t need life without you, my dear] from 1969, a powerful lament of a woman forsaken by her love.108



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The augmented seconds in the melody line and emotional vocal style create a lachrymose “Oriental” mood (see example 4.8109): Šta će mi život bez tebe, dragi, kad drugu ljubav ne želim da imam. Sanjam te, sanjam skoro svake noći; samo si ti u srcu mom.

I don’t need life without you, my dear, when I never wish to have another love. I dream of you, I dream almost every night; you alone are in my heart.

Dragana Mirković is also known for her “Oriental” turbo-folk songs about female suffering. She performs with “masochistic sentimentality” (Grujić 2009:15) about unsuccessful relationships in which she is the victim of unrequited love. In her 1995 “Plači zemljo,” she laments her lover’s departure to another woman. Among its effects are “Oriental” intervals and sonorities generated by the synthesizer.110 The video, focusing on the singer’s sorrow, evokes images of death and mourning (see example 4.9111): Što sam tužna cvete moj? Danas on ide njoj. . . . Tužan je život moj; kaži mu da zna. Plači zemljo što sam ja tako nesrećna.

Why am I so sad, my flower? Today he is leaving to her. . . . My life is so sad; tell him so he knows. Weep, O earth, because I am so unhappy.

In “Sama,” Mirković again relates the anguish of being abandoned by her man; life is pointless without him. In a rerelease of it a few years later, the song’s “Oriental” effects are exploited even further as she is portrayed in caricatured Middle Eastern attire lamenting her lost love; she is in a generic desert with palm trees, sand, camels, and nomads (see example 4.10112): Ja drugu ljubav posle tebe nemam, dobro znaš . . . Sama, kao list na vetru, sama, na ovom svetu. . . živim od sećanja na tebe.

Another love after you you know well I haven’t had . . . Alone, like a leaf in the wind, Alone in this world . . . I live on memories of you.

While Brena and Mirković bridged the transition in Yugoslavia from NKNM to turbo-folk, the most iconic post-Yugoslav vocalist identified with turbo-folk emerged during the turbulent final decade of the twentieth century: Ceca. One of her earliest hits was “Pustite me da ga vidim,” in which she sings of the pain of being deserted by her first love. The “Oriental” rhythm and melody combine with the folk sound of the accordion (see example 4.11113):

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He has left, but I don’t know where or whose love called him. But I only know that to him I gave the flower of my youth.

The narratives represented in turbo-folk contain strongly articulated representations of gender that feature highly sexualized women fawning over their “macho” men, some of them with links to crime. Moreover, embedded in this gendered meaning and a key ingredient in the music-video performances of turbo-folk are the “erotically coded female bodies” (Grujić 2009:178), representing the Serbian gender politics that Ceca and other female turbo-folk stars who have found stardom continue to reaffirm. Ceca’s “Ljubav fatalna” (see example 4.12114) illustrates this; it is blatantly erotic. She dominated the turbo-folk of the 1990s and later, but she was also renowned because of her highly publicized marriage to Arkan.115 Following Arkan’s assassination in 2000, Ceca ceased performing in public for over a year but then resumed in 2001, continuing to sing her tales of female suffering at the hands of men. In her case, her “man” in real life did, indeed, desert her—leaving her not to go to another woman, however, as do so many of the men in her songs, but rather to his grave. Ceca has become extraordinarily popular among women; her songs repeatedly tell of the Balkan woman’s propensity to experience pain in love relationships. The gendered ethos of turbo-folk, perpetuated by Ceca and other female singers, prescribe that a woman “stand by her man” despite his behavior to her or to the rest of the world. Accordingly, in her “Dokaz” [Evidence], from 2000, the female voice relates how she is perpetually trampled upon by “him” but she repeatedly picks herself up until she finally can stand it no longer and kills his mistress. As Kronja notes, the lyrics of turbo-folk “underline the importance of the protagonist’s feelings—the masochism which includes self-pity”; moreover, the “heroine does not find any other meaning in life except to worship the man whom she (as it seems) loves no matter how he treats her, whether he loves her or neglects her” (2004:109). In “Mrtvo More” [Dead sea] from several years later, Ceca sings again that “Moj je život mrtvo more/ bez i jednog talasa” [My life is a dead sea/without a single wave] because of “him,” who, of course, has left her. As a victim eternally suffering, Ceca—and the women whom she represents—is “gorgeous but miserable,” while manhood is “violent but superior” (Grujić 2009:188), an outlook rendered yet again in her “Poziv” [The call], from 2013, where she is virtually powerless to say no when “he calls,” and then she “pays for that call” when he callously discards her (see example 4.13116). The lyrics of turbo-folk suggest that there is no viable solution to the endless struggles between the sexes and the “last word” that men always have; the message is repeatedly pessimistic. This sentiment is long-standing in Balkan patrilocal traditional culture. Bridal laments (and other female lyric songs) bemoan the intense pain and gloom of traditional marriage, as each woman departs permanently from her own secure family to her husband’s home—the symbolic “foreign land”—where she is lowest in the family hierarchy, enduring the control of her husband (and that of his mother).



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NKNM and turbo-folk, popular genres in Bulgaria, provided models for chalga in the 1990s. The music, song texts, and performing style by female Serbian vocalists were emulated by Bulgarian singers, especially after 1989, when Bulgarians could finally listen to and make music without restrictions. Resembling the narratives of turbo-folk, the lyrics of chalga similarly speak in clichéd terms about modern life and its predicaments, especially love, sex, and disappointment. Chalga song texts, like those in turbo-folk, are largely tales by women about doomed love, infidelity, and subordinating themselves to the men who dominate them. Sashka Vaseva’s “Ne moga az da te zabravya, Georgi” [I can’t forget you, Georgi], from 1996, with an “Oriental” rhythm, tells of her undying love for “Georgi,” even though he has left her for a new girlfriend. The video depicts Vaseva in various ostensibly alluring poses recalling the man whom she cannot forget (see example 4.14117). Other representative chalga hits—along with erotic music videos—include “Bezumna lyubov” [Reckless love] from 2004, sung by Emilia (b. 1982),118 and her 2005 “Zabravi!” [Forget!], which accompanies a music video with caricatured harem women dancing in diaphanous veils while a young man in “Oriental” attire strikes a gong. In “Tseluvai oshte” from 2010, Gloria tells her man to seduce her one more time, even though she knows he will never stay with her and will only hurt her again (see example 4.15119). Men in these videos are typically represented as sexy and silent; their power is implicit. The lyrics in manele also turn to infidelity, yet it is framed somewhat differently, often within the context of marriage and, when sung by manelişti, from the man’s point of view. As such, it is expressed as adultery. The wife, rendered by the vernacular term nevastă,120 plays a major role in manele. Cheating on her, though relatively common in the lyrics, is a violation against the family, often involving (and offending) children and thus taking this deception to a new low when compared with deception represented in turbo-folk and chalga.121 This dimension is specific to manele and reflects the importance of the family in Romani culture. In “Prinţesa mea” [My princess] (1998), Adrian Minune cheats on his faithful wife; he also invokes his children (see example 4.19122): Am copii şi am nevastă şi am tot ce-mi doresc acasă. Dar am o inimă lovită de o prinţesă denumită.

I have kids and I have a wife and I have everything I could want at home. But I have a heart that’s been smitten by someone I call Princess.

In “Să iubeşti două femei” [Loving two women], he wails over the difficulties of managing two different loves at once. One of them is his wife; again, his children play a role in the discourse of infidelity: Să iubeşti două femei, să nu ştii pe care-o vrei: una e mama la copii; alta e pofta inimii.

Loving two women, not knowing which one you want: one is the mother of your children; the other is the one your heart desires.

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The husband who comes home to an upset wife after a night away is also not uncommon in manele. Nicolae Guţă seeks to appease his wife with flowers when he arrives home the “next morning” in “Bărbate, mă păcăleşti!” [You’re cheating on me, husband!] (2004). The song presents a dialogue between them; the title is her response to his attempts to humor her: “Iartă-mă, iartă-mă, te rog nu mă certa; că tu ştii că tu eşti, tu eşti viaţa mea.”

“Forgive me, forgive me, please don’t scold me; because you know that you are, you are my life (love).”

Such themes are also traditionally evoked in muzică lăutărească.123 As Cerasela Voiculescu points out, as manele first spread in popularity in urban areas in the 1990s, they resembled “trendy muzică lăutărească” (2005:267). In Liviu Puştiu’s popular manea from 2001, “Tu eşti femeia visurilor mele,” the protagonist has an affair with a married woman. The “Oriental” rhythm and melody enhance the transgressive mood of the song (see example 4.20124): Tu ai intrat în sufletul meu, şi să te uit îmi este tare greu. Eu te iubesc cu inima curată, dar ce păcat, eşti măritată.

You have entered into my soul, and I simply can’t forget you. I love you with a pure heart, but what a pity—you’re married.

Women in these manele may provide love, comfort, even children and a happy home, but their husbands are inescapably bound to betray them. This bleak reality, like in turbo-folk and chalga, reinforces the dynamics of traditional Balkan marriage and is depicted as an inevitability. The largest category of east-central Balkan ethnopop includes, like pop songs everywhere, meditations on love, sex, attraction, and the self—the driving forces behind youth culture. Most of the songs mirror patriarchal Balkan society. Whether it be women (in turbo-folk and chalga) or men (in manele) who tell their tales, the messages are, to a great extent, analogous: it is by and large men who control relationships with women, from loving them to leaving them. Representations of Power Power in east-central Balkan ethnopop is by and large a male privilege. It is generated most often through status, money, possessions, sex, and crime. Men in the lyrics (and music videos) of ethnopop are often imagined male characters: their attributes (status, wealth, and possessions) are exaggerated, and they are hyperbolic figures. Grujić describes what she calls the “macho” man of turbo-folk (found also in chalga and manele), stating that he is “dangerous” and “robust,” and that his primary interest is money; he is a “criminal or a so-called ‘businessman’” involved in corrupt



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activities through the “grey and black economy. . . . Women are there for him so that he can ‘spend’ them” (2009:110). Even though the South Slavic ethnopop forms represent, for the most part, female perspectives, the male presence is virtually always there, tapping in to at least some of the traits mentioned; men in these songs are implicitly part of the narrative as they exploit and manipulate women. On occasion, when a man in South Slavic ethnopop is the vocalist, he has a direct male voice; he is actively present in the texts and controls the discourse. In the 1997 turbo-folk song/video, “200 na sat” [Two hundred (kilometers) per hour],125 Halid Muslimović sings about masculinity and power, symbolized in the car that he is driving at a high speed as the video takes him on a pleasure trip from Sarajevo to Frankfurt, where he meets and “enjoys” beautiful German women. He is featured smoothly changing gears (a manly gesture) as he drives, symbolically “switching” from East to West; later he accompanies a pretty young woman into a hotel room, where they begin to undress. Most frequently in turbo-folk and chalga, however, men are implicitly a part of women’s narratives. A female singer typically laments “him” and “his” deception, departure, and the misery “he” has left her with. Nameless in the lyrics except for masculine singular personal pronouns, men are typically powerful in their abilities to abuse the women who sing about them. Men are also represented visually, but often silently, in the music videos that accompany them. In Ceca’s “Ljubav fatalna” (see example 4.12126), a bare-chested young man playing an electric guitar (a masculine pose—with its own traditional subtext of men playing instruments and women singing) is flashed intermittently between longer footage of Ceca in various alluring poses as she sings. And in Gloria’s Tseluvai oshte (see example 4.15127), the man in her tale—who, naturally, has hurt her—is represented in the music video with impressive muscles alternately practicing boxing with great determination and trying to write a letter. These are men with influence who control their women according to the lyrics that female vocalists in South Slavic ethnopop sing. In manele, by contrast, the male voice is central to the lyrics (and music videos). Moreover, key to understanding the mechanics of manele in live performance is the tradition of song dedications. The participants in a dedication include the manelist, the person requesting that a song be dedicated (announced and sung), and the person to whom it is sung (at a wedding banquet, this could include the bride, groom, godparents, parents, and other notable guests).128 The requester tips the manelist for the song, giving him money, thus displaying not only his gratitude for the song, but perhaps more importantly, his own “wealth,” to the assembled guests.129 This process takes place among the wedding guests over and over throughout the evening, with tips progressively increasing in size. As Voiculecu points out, dedications “function as signs of honour and social recognition,” and there is a strong competition between guests in the spending of money in order to dedicate songs to others. Dedicating manele to others seems to be stimulated by differences in status and class relations in the sense that a rich person or the “patron” of the party will always expect to receive songs from other participants as dedications from them. (2005:277)

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Dedicated manele are formulaic in terms of textual content, but they also necessitate some amount of improvisation in order to match appropriate verses to individual recipients (see chapters 6 and 7). The manelist sings dedications in the first person, shifting his own identity momentarily to the recipient and praising him/ her (with anticipations by the manelist to please him/her and thus receive good tips). Thus, the manelist sings verses that flatter the recipient, but the recipient must also publicly flatter the manelist by showering impressive amounts of money on him, which simultaneously enhances his own public image.130 Accordingly, a “heroic,” imagined first-person male voice repeatedly emerges in the dedication manele: a self-confident and successful man whose tale reveals his supposed power. Masculine “narratives” in which fiction and reality merge in performance are unique to manele sung live by manelişti and contrast considerably with the public performance of turbo-folk and chalga. Manele—in the moment—include dramatic displays of social rank and recognition, as well as entitlement and boasting in terms of self-confidence, sex, cunning, power, and wealth. As Voiculescu remarks, manele in this context “reflect a given configuration of power relations” (2005:280). The mechanics of this type of performance—based on rapid-fire, spontaneous discourse—clearly preclude lip-synching such as those that occurs in public performances by chalga singers. A manea that is dedicated in live performance is effectively praise poetry, expressing imagery that pleases. The manelist utilizes conspicuous emblems of status in such songs, including money, things (especially cars: tangible symbols, par excellence, of prestige and power), and beautiful women. Embedded in the lexicon of the successful male, and indeed of Romanian Romani culture, is also the iconic personal enemy [duşman]—one who envies someone else for what he has.131 Adrian Minune’s “Am o casaˇ-aşa de mare” [I have such a big house] (2000) is a typical example of such a manea, complete with reference to enemies (see example 4.27132): Am o casaˇ-aşa de mare şi maşina cea mai tare, şi mor duşmanii mei c-am bani şi femei!

I have such a big house and the fastest car, and my enemies are dying [of envy] ’cause I have money and women!

Sharing money as a gauge of personal wealth and status also figures in manele. Adrian Minune celebrates “chef” (chef/kef is a pan-Balkan term that refers to pleasure, enjoyment, partying, and being in high spirits)133 in his 2004 “Chef de chef” [Time to party] (see example 4.29134): În seara asta mă simt bine şi vreau să chefuiesc. De nimic nu-mi pasă, nici de banii pe care-i cheltuiesc.

Tonight I feel good and I want to party. I don’t care about anything, not even how much money I spend.



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The protagonist is in an absolute state of bliss—chef. As the song continues, we learn that he is buying drinks for everyone around him (friends and enemies alike), because when he has money, he loves to spend and share it: it demonstrates to the public that he is successful and generous. A similar example also celebrates “chef”: Salam’s “Asta seara vreau să beau” [Tonight I want to drink] (2004) (see example 4.28135): Asta seară vreau să beau toţi banii pe care-i am, până la ultimul ban din buzunar.

Tonight I want to drink up all my money, through the last cent in my pocket.

The song conveys a sense of celebration and spending with abandon, accompanying the implicit knowledge that when the money is gone, more will somehow be found, also to enjoy and deplete. Both songs, focused on drinking, encapsulate some of the key themes in traditional Romani cântece lăutăreşti, in which men sing about male topics: drinking, money, and enemies—key symbols of southern Romanian Romani culture. Personal survival in a harsh world is also a frequent topic of manele, reflecting the challenging post-1989 conditions, as poverty, unemployment, and crime became ubiquitous. A variety of new ways to become rich also surfaced at that time. The key to endurance in the ethos of manele was acquiring money [bani], the most prized of all things. And good luck [noroc] is fundamental to that end, since the lucky and successful person is the one who acquires money without hard work—needless to say, a powerful fantasy, reminiscent of Michael Stewart’s “free lunch” among Hungarian Roma: “harvesting wealth without having sown its seeds” through “wit, cunning, and the Gypsy way of doing things” (1997:19).136 Nicolae Guţă boasts of one’s cleverness and “God-given” good luck, which enable him effortlessly to get hold of money in his 2003 “Sunt plin de noroc” [I’m so lucky]; manele like this provide prime dedication material (see example 4.22137): Sunt plin de noroc şi sunt deştept foc. Dumnezeu mi-a dat noroc, şi dintr-o mişcare bag în buzunare sutele de miloane. Din noroc, noroc răsare. Se cunoaşte cine are. Cine e cu mintea seacă nu poate un ban să facă.

I’m so lucky and unbelievably smart. God has given me good luck, so in a flash I stick in my pockets hundreds of millions. Good luck breeds good luck. It’s easy to see who has it. Whoever has an empty head can’t make any money.

Not only does “good luck breed good luck,” but it also breeds status. Sorinel Puştiu’s “Cine-i mare barosan?” [Who’s the big boss?] (2005) underscores the inherent prestige of “lucky” people. Good luck is money, and money is status and power—exemplary dedication images (see example 4.23):138

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Dar cine-i mare norocos? Da, norocos de norocos, da, norocos şi mare bos, da, mare bos, marele bos? Eu sunt mare, eu sunt mare, eu sunt marele baştan.

But who’s the big lucky one? Yeah, the luckiest of the lucky, yeah, lucky and the big boss, yeah, big boss, the big boss? I am great, I am great, I’m the greatest chief.

Manele also privilege tricksters. Salam brazenly announces, “I’ve done it again!” in “Iar am pus-o,” his feat being skirting the system and acquiring money. Despite the hyperbole of lyrics such as these, however, many fans of manele, struggling in the harsh economic conditions of post-1989 Romania, identify with them since they offer ways to “escape to an ideal social order” (Voiculescu 2005:275). Example 4.24139 features gleeful Salam surrounded by the ostensible added benefits of making good money: half-naked girls dancing suggestively: Multă lume când mă vede, cum fac banii nu mă crede. Zice că e vreo şmecherie sau vreun tun la loterie.

Many people, when they see me, can’t believe how I make money. They say there must be some trickery going on, or I’ve won some jackpot in the lottery.

As mentioned in connection with manele as praise poetry, in manea culture, a legacy of the older culture of cântece lăutăreşti, one’s ultimate achievement is to be so great and have so much as to generate enemies.140 In Vali Vijelie’s “Duşmanii îmi poartă pica” [My enemies envy me] (1999), money breeds enemies, and enemies are actually a boon to one’s image (see example 4.25141): De mic copil, eu de când m-am naˇscut, eu am avut tot ce mi-am dorit. Am avut bani, am avut şi dolari, dar şi o mie de duşmani. Duşmanii-mi poartaˇ picaˇ caˇ ei n-au valoarea mea.

Ever since I was a child, since I was born, I’ve always had everything that I wanted. I’ve had money, I’ve also had dollars, but also a thousand enemies. My enemies envy me ’cause they aren’t as great as I am.

Success leads to affluence, social mobility, and enemies. Salam alludes, in his “Îmi place să mă prefac” [I like to pretend] (2013), to one’s own social mobility: one’s rise from way “below” to “higher than high.” His enemies try to put him down, he tells us, but he is a trickster who knows how to outsmart them (see example 4.26142); again, this functions not as Salam’s own narrative, but as praise poetry, especially in public dedications:



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Duşmanii credeau că m-am dus, dar eu mai bine m-am pus . . . Îmi place să mă prefac, să mă prefac să văd duşmanii ce fac, . . . am ştiut mereu să mă ridic de jos mult mai sus decât am fost.

My enemies thought I’d given up, but I’ve proved myself even more . . . I like to pretend, to pretend, to see what my enemies do. . . . I’ve always known how to raise myself from below, much higher than I’ve ever been.

In another manea from the same year, Salam extols the extravagant and cosmopolitan “good life,” thanks to one’s own implicit cleverness and talents. The song “Saint Tropez” is accompanied by a music video in which, as he contentedly gazes at his bevy of scantily dressed beauties, he sings of exotic travels (see example 4.30143). When this song was released, Salam was accused of plagiarizing “Sen Trope,” sung by the Bulgarian Romani chalga star Azis, who—across the Danube—was also brashly flaunting a privileged lifestyle, revealing, if nothing else, how fluid songs and melodies are in the Balkans and the common discourse of escapism. In manele, the “macho” man is a master of sexual prowess, also engendering envy and enemies. One of the most common marks of status in the genre is a gorgeous, adoring wife (nevastă). Embedded in this image is an implicit understanding that others covet her since she is—like her husband—“the best.” Sung by Florin Salam, the title of a manea sung at weddings says it all: “O nevastă ca a mea nu are nimenea” [No one has a wife like mine]. In similar contexts, Salam also sings “Nevastă scumpă” [Precious wife], declaring, “Nu aţi văzut aşa ceva;/nu aţi văzut nevastă şucară ca a mea” [You’ve never seen anything like it;/you’ve never seen a wife as beautiful as mine]; “şucar” [beautiful] is Romani, underscoring a cultural subtext. One of the biggest hits of the summer of 2000 was Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti’s manea „Am nevastă sexy” [I have a sexy wife].144 And a hit in 2001 was „Am nevastă de valoare” [I have a special (lit., valuable) wife].145 More recently, imparting a sense of entitlement, young Ionuţ Cercel sings “Ce nevastă frumoasă mi-am luat;/mă iubeşte cu adevărat” [What a beautiful wife I’ve taken for myself;/she loves me truly]. Men in manele flaunt not only wives, but also attractive girlfriends [fete, sg. fată; slang: gagică146]. In “Eu sunt mare gagicar” [I’m a great ladies’ man] (2000), Vali Vijelie boasts of girls and cars all at once (see example 4.21147): Eu sunt mare gagicar. Fetele pe mine sar. Îmi plac fetele frumoase şi maşinile luxoase.

I’m a great ladies’ man. Girls fall all over me. I love beautiful girls And luxurious cars.

Power is essential to the broader discourse of ethnopop, and it is typically men who wield it. Whether it be implicitly expressed as in turbo-folk and chalga, or boldly declared as in manele, the power of men is depicted as immense and inevitable. The

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female voices of South Slavic ethnopop tell us that they have no choice but to put up with the inequities of power between the genders and just suffer. In manele, a male genre par excellence that reflects a backdrop of topics from lăutar culture, including the wiliness of the trickster, luck, and enemies, men tell us how great they are. They proudly boast of their influence; money, possessions, women, prestige, and enemies are their emblems. For the countless unprivileged listeners in Romania, these manele provide exhilarating fantasies of what male privilege might entail: steadfast, beautiful wives and/or sexy, selfless girlfriends; large, fast cars parked near huge, lavish mansions; endless money; and, of course, a multitude of enemies—all without effort. Such visions became conceivable in east-central Balkan ethnopop, especially in the 1990s, and they provided an imagined world of wealth, opportunity, and beautiful people. Family The need for security in a world surrounded by crime, corruption, and poverty is also expressed in manele through other tropes, in this case, the family. Security lies in social relationships that ensure mutual understanding, support, and reliance, particularly when money is involved. The narratives in which family is invoked in manele are drawn from ordinary, realistic situations. Voiculescu notes that some manelişti told her “that they sometimes write manele inspired by their own feelings towards family members, colleagues, friends, etc.” (2005:276). Salam puts friends, enemies, money, and loyalty into perspective when he sings “Şi prieteni şi duşmani” [Both friends and enemies] (2012): Şi prieteni şi duşmani vin la mine când am bani . . .

Both friends and enemies come to me when I have money . . .

Yet, he continues: Dac’ aş fi, dac’ aş fi sărac o zi, cu toţii, cu toţii m-ar părăsi. Şi sărac de m-ar vedea, nimeni nu m-ar ajuta,

If I were, if I were poor for a day, everyone, everyone would desert me. And seeing that I’m poor, no one would help me.

And so: Un prieten adevărat te iubeşte şi sărac . . .

A true friend loves you when you’re also poor . . .

As is clear from this text, relationships are unstable, since being poor [sărac] puts true friendship on the line; the only ones whom one can truly rely on are within



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the family, where love and honesty are assured. This represents a key theme in manele and is expressed as men relate, in particular, to their brothers and children. “Numai fratele mi-e aproape” [Only my brother is close to me], a song that Nicolae Guţă sang in 2004, conveys a strong sense of this loyalty; “bad times” are implicitly financial predicaments: Numai fratele mi-e aproape. La necaz şi greu, mă ajută mereu— chiar de-ar fi sărac, chiar de-ar fi bogat— frăţiorul meu mă ajută la greu.

Only my brother is close to me. In troubles and bad times he always helps me— even if he were poor, even if he were rich— my dear brother helps me when times are bad.

With similar sentiments, Sorinel Puştiu sings, in 2008, “Fraţi adevăraţi” [True brothers]. And mutual love between brothers is expressed when father and son Petrică and Ionuţ Cercel sing “Fratii care se iubesc” [Brothers who love each other] (2015): Am cel mai bun frăţior din lumea asta. Ne ajutăm şi ne respectăm toată viaţa că orice ţi-ar face şi orice ţi-ar spune el, frate, frate, tot frate rămâne.

I have the best “dear” brother in the world. We’ll help and respect each other all our lives ’cause regardless of what he does or says, brother, brother, he’ll always be my brother.

Manelişti also delight in singing about their children: how much they love them and are ready to sacrifice for their sake (or how much they already have sacrificed); these songs are directly reminiscent of cântece lăutăreşti.148 “Sunt un tată fericit” [I’m a happy father] is a classic manea (often heard at weddings and baptisms as a proud father relays what he has gone through for the children he loves): Sînt un tată fericit: pentru copii am muncit. Am muncit şi zi şi noapte să fac la băiat de toate.

I’m a happy father: I’ve worked hard for my children. I’ve worked hard both night and day to do everything I can for my boy [son].

Love for family, in manele, ensures protection and solidarity. Petrică Cercel sings “Copiii mei” [My children] (2002), in which the prospect of enemies is invoked:

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My children, my children, Lord, how I love them: my daughter and my son. I’ll always work for them to make a good life for them, to have enemies on our side.149

Manele capitalize on songs about family—a topic not typically part of the South Slavic ethnopop or Western pop repertoire. Such songs are fitting at weddings and baptisms, where parental and family love is abundantly displayed. These songs resonate among Roma, who often experience doubt, insecurity, and fear in a system that treats them unfairly. In a world full of inequality and dishonesty, family may provide the only relationships that can really be trusted. Like the trope of enemies, discourse about the family is central to Romani culture in Romania, and it merges seamlessly from cântece lăutăreşti to manele. Many manelişti, in fact, grew up in homes and communities in which cântece lăutăreşti were sung and admired, and many actually prefer them to manele.150 “Manele will eventually pass,” I’ve been told more than once by Romani musicians, “but muzică lăutărească will never die out.”

CONCLUSION In this chapter I have provided a comparative discussion of the history, performance, music, and textual content of turbo-folk, chalga, and manele. They all have a great deal in common, indicating a large regional continuum linked by geography, history, and culture. The genres emerged in the latter twentieth century in Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Romania as the communist systems in these countries unraveled and new political systems materialized. The genres have all followed the political ups and downs in the region and have served as channels to express innovation, dissent, change, and even approval in their respective societies. They also have each generated strong local public opinions in comparable ways—from enthusiastic advocacy to wholesale antipathy. Moreover, turbo-folk, chalga, and manele are all vocal genres sung by soloists accompanied by small ensembles that include, most importantly, the synthesizer (but also more traditional instruments, such as the accordion). East-central Balkan ethnopop is performed most often at weddings, family celebrations, nightclubs, taverns, and on music videos. Furthermore, the music and dance forms of the various regional genres, although by no means identical, all tend more or less toward “Oriental” and Balkan as well as pop and rock styles and effects. But these three genres also demonstrate striking contrasts, especially with regard to the identity of the vocalists and the content of their songs. The singers of both turbo-folk and chalga are, by and large, women from the ethnic mainstream whose stories of painful love relationships comprise their tales. The performers of



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manele in Romania, by contrast, are overwhelmingly Romani men who sing of love (both romantic and family-based) and power. As we have seen, east-central Balkan ethnopop reflects both Eastern and Western influence, what we might call the “ethno” and the “pop” in the three genres. Orientalism—the “ethno”—is fundamental to the identity of turbo-folk, chalga, and manele. The distinctive rhythms (çiftetelli), Middle Eastern melodies, and sonorities (especially created by the synthesizer) in the music provide vehicles for articulating the exotic. The singers and texts also display a direct engagement with gender and ethnicity, likewise expressions of Otherness. Indeed it is women and Roma who are the Others of Balkan ethnopop. Longinović remarks that the “fact that women (invariably perceived as fallen) and ‘Gypsies’ continue to be the main performers . . . manifests the enmeshed cultural coding of race and gender” (2000:629) in the genre. The scripts perpetuated by female singers involve beautiful but helpless victims who experience abandonment, anguish, and the implicit capacity of their “macho” men to cause pain. Buchanan observes that “in today’s Balkan pop . . . men and women are marked such that orientalism as otherness is bound up with the sensuality of the feminine, on the one hand, and a dominating hypermasculinity, on the other” (2007c:251). Moreover, the male Romani performers of manele include tales of trickster-like cleverness and cunning, luck, and superlative status in subtexts mirroring ethnicity. Being Romani furnishes a direct link to the exotic. As for the Western impact, or the “pop” in the genres, the synthesizer produces musical textures that embrace pop, rock, and techno sounds, and the extreme volume of the songs in performance further reflects the influence of rock. The stanzaic structure of the songs, complete with patterns of rhyme, as well as the focus, in the song texts, on love, sex, and contemporary life, also contribute to their connections to pop. I have argued here that the distinctly gendered and ethnic identities of the different east-central Balkan ethnopop singers can be explained—in part—by the contrasting ways in which the power elite in Yugoslavia/Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania have controlled and influenced the gendered and ethnic Others of their societies: women and Roma. The development of NKNM and its offshoots—turbo-folk and chalga—was and is intimately linked to the role of women as carriers of traditional lyric and popular song in the kafana/kru˘chma, a culture that is coupled with the significant role of men as their patrons and intermediaries. As ethnopop vocalists, women’s roles often include both sex and song; accordingly, the male culture that surrounds them commands influence in determining their identities. With regard to the predominantly male, Romani singers of manele in southern Romania, unequal power relationships are also key: in this case, they are ethnic and racial in nature. A historical framework is crucial for an understanding of contemporary manelişti: the centuries-long enslavement of Roma in the Romanian principalities and the important role of lăutari, the male house slaves who provided music for their masters. While slaves were emancipated 150 years ago, lăutari have continued to carry on the tradition of making music for dominant

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society—precisely what manelişti persist in doing today. Mainstream Romanian society controlled Roma—and lăutari—for hundreds of years, and while the nature of the control has changed since emancipation, the legacy of this institutionalized role in society has remained.151 Just as niches were established for male Romani slaves in the historic Romanian principalities, Romani musicians today continue to perform and please their (often ethnically dominant) patrons in order to earn a living. Examining turbo-folk, chalga, and manele in a comparative frame has succeeded in bringing to light a great deal about how these genres emerged and function, what they represent, and the roles they have played and continue to play in their troubled societies, as well as in the region. These are genres that have been widely condemned for decades, yet, as Archer points out, “their popularity has not waned” (2012a:195). They weathered the ups and downs of the chaotic late twentieth century and they continue to persist on into the twenty-first. The east-central Balkan ethnopop genres bring together both East and West in music, song, dance, and performance, resonating in deep and meaningful ways that are both local and global. They also forcefully mirror a complex of gender and ethnic dynamics within Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania, addressing deep-seated concerns and conflicts within these societies, issues that are bound to be pondered and expressed in song for many years to come.

NOTES 1.  I do not treat Albanian muzika popullore, a genre that, while comparable, is not situated within Romania’s immediate orbit; I omit Greece and Turkey and their ethnopop musics for the same reason. (They also both diverged from the post–World War II communist trajectory imposed on Romania, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia, which lasted from 1944 until a series of popular revolutions in 1989 and the early 1990s.) See Sugarman (2007) for a treatment of the Albanian commercial folk music genre muzika popullore, Dawe (2007) on Greek ethnopop music and dance, and Stokes (2007) on Turkish Anatolian pop. 2.  Roma in Romania still experience discrimination as well as widespread unemployment and poverty; see Pogány (2004). 3.  See Buchanan (2007a). Exceptions to this include two recent essays by Rory Archer (2012a; 2012b). 4.  They consisted of Wallachia in southern Romania and Moldova in the northeast. 5.  On the history of lăutari, see Beissinger (1991; 2012; 2014). 6.  NKNM was also called “neofolk” and “nova narodna muzika” [new folk music] in the 1960s–1980s (Grujić 2009:72). 7.  See Rasmussen (1996a:105–12; 2002:123–36). 8.  See Rasmussen (1995); see also van de Port’s depiction of kafana culture in 1990s Novi Sad (1998). 9.  Describing female singing in the kafana, Grujić notes that “female singers were expected to be sexually attractive for the gaze of kafana customers.” Thus, female singers were “not really expected only to sing, but to offer some other sources of enjoyment to kafana guests.” They “could be paid, sometimes even forced, to provide services that would exceed pure visual exposure for male gazes.” The “power dynamics” of this situation suggested that a woman’s



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“voice or musical talent was often not the major requirement for her to get hired.” In other words, the “hunt for future female stars, would . . . often start in [the] kafana. Kafana was the best test for an entertainer whether he or she was meant to be a singer of ‘newly composed folk music’” (Grujić 2009:96–7); see also Rasmussen (1996b). 10.  Armenulić, born Zilha Bajraktarović, initially answered her calling in the kafana scene in Sarajevo and later moved to Serbia; she performed in the 1960s and 1970s (see Grujić 2009:106–12; Rasmussen 2002:73–6). 11. Her real name is Lepava Mušović; she was from a Serbian village (see Rasmussen 2002:70–3). 12.  She was born Fahreta Jahić and was originally from Tuzla (Bosnia). 13.  Grujić notes that “talented singers were usually first ‘discovered’ by a famous musician, composer, or music manager, singing at some kafana, or by being awarded a prize at some folk music festival. Usually they originated from very poor, rural-based environments. That image was . . . an important part of their biographies” (Grujić 2009:90). The trajectory of Dragana Mirković, from a village in eastern Serbia, followed this pattern. 14.  Zhivkov ruled Bulgaria from 1954 to 1989, and Ceauşescu was in power in Romania from 1965 to 1989. As is well-known, the communist system in Yugoslavia was less repressive in its control of daily life than was the communism implemented in Bulgaria and Romania, which was rigorously and often brutally imposed. 15.  As Buchanan notes, svatbarska muzika “became exceedingly popular with people of all class, political, and ethnic backgrounds, despite a concerted effort by the Bulgarian government to eradicate [it]” (1996:203). 16.  Yuri Yunakov joined Trakiya in the early 1980s (Silverman 2007a:72). 17. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-2-video.html&ch=ch6. 18. On Bulgarian instrumental svatbarska muzika (employing asymmetric meters) and Romani svatbarska muzika consisting of kyuchek, see Silverman (2007a:70–2). 19.  See Rice (1996:187); Rice describes an urban wedding that he attended in 1988, where a well-known svatbarska muzika band, Kanarite [The Canaries], included two accordionists, a clarinetist, saxophonist, electric-bass player, and percussionist on the drum kit, while a female vocalist sang (2004:3); see also Buchanan (1996:202–3). 20.  As Silverman points out, svatbarska muzika “as a distinct genre began to crystallize when amplification was introduced to folk music in village settings. The loudness of electric amplification and its affinity to rock music became a symbol of modernity and the west” (2007a:70). Rice observes that the “most striking feature” in Bulgarian svatbarska muzika “was not the brilliance of the musicians . . . but its loudness. . . . Loudness had become an index of modernity, the power of the musicians” (1994:245). 21.  S. Rădulescu, e-mail, 12 April 2014. 22.  E-mail, 12 April 2014. 23. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-3-video.html&ch=ch6. 24.  Azur performed with vocalist Nelu Vlad, and Odeon with vocalist Costel Geambaşu; see chapter 3. Albatros performed with vocalist Naste din Berceni. This and all subsequent translations of Romanian, Bulgarian, and BCS are mine. 25. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-4-video.html&ch=ch6. 26.  See Kurkela (1997); see also Archer (2012a:190–1). 27.  As Rasmussen points out, in the Yugoslavia of the early 1990s, “graphically clear lines of separation were drawn between the genres of pop and newly composed folk music. Croatia eliminated the latter from public circulation, while Serbia propelled it forward in the form

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of turbo folk. Engulfed in protracted war, Bosnian Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks emulated the official, three-way territorial division of their country by each (re-)creating highly selective and homogenized bodies of national music” (Rasmussen 2007:61). 28.  See Gordy (1999:108). Longinović also points out that turbo-folk adopted “elements of rock and hip-hop idioms to broaden its appeal to Serbian urban audiences” (2000:639). 29.  As Gordy points out, the popularity of a “neofolk and its turbofolk derivative could be traced directly to institutions controlled by the regime, the cultural and political orientation of the regime, and the democratic base of regime support. Rather than an ‘organic’ manifestation of public taste, the neofolk ascendancy was viewed as an imposition from above” (1999:144). 30.  Archer notes, for example, that “[u]ltranationalist Radio Ponos [Radio Pride] director Zoran Djokić showed . . . contempt towards the oriental nature of turbofolk,” for example, refusing to play even the music of non-Muslim folk singers if it sounded “Islamic” (2012a:190). 31.  See Rasmussen (2007:76–8). 32. Arkan (1952–2000), born Željko Ražnatović, was charged with war atrocities and crimes in Croatia and Bosnia-Hercegovina. He and Ceca became the most celebrated “power couple” in Serbia at the time, effecting a “symbiotic relationship of crime and glamour” (Rasmussen 2007:72). Arkan was assassinated in Belgrade in 2000. 33. In Bulgaria, as Kurkela notes, “[c]halga’s popularity can be interpreted as a kind of protest and reaction against the communist regime’s mono-ethnic cultural policy of the 1980s” (2007:145). And in remarks that pertain as much to muzică orientală as they do to chalga, Rice observes that the “musical styles on which [pop-folk] is based were popular at least in part because of their status as forbidden fruit under the previous totalitarian regime. Their adoption as a favorite expressive form was partly a political act in a new era of relative freedom” (2004:98). 34.  See Silverman (2012:180–1). 35.  As Buchanan points out, pop songs with romantic texts were composed in Bulgaria “to melodies exhibiting the influence of Serbian NCFM” (2006:432), and it was “exactly Yugofolk’s erotic and stylistically syncretic qualities that attracted Bulgarian listeners” (2007c:247). 36. Moreover, “Bulgarian bands from Vidin and Sofia began performing Yugo-folk for Serbian audiences in Serbia during the early 1990s with good success” (Buchanan 2007c:234). 37.  Rice suggests that pop-folk participates in the “redefinition of Bulgarian national identity” (2002:36). On pop-folk and public opinion, see also Statelova (2005). 38.  See Rice (2002:36–41). 39.  See also Silverman (2007a:84–6) on public contempt for chalga. On the simultaneous popularity of pop-folk in Bulgaria, see Rice (2004:90–1). 40.  As Silverman relates, “Payner now records artists; produces and distributes CDs and DVDs; orchestrates promotions; sponsor tours, festivals, and contests; publishes calendars, pinups, and fan magazines; and runs a radio station, two cable television stations,” and much more, from “a cosmetic surgery business” to “music stores and chalga clubs” (2012:183). 41.  For a discussion of chalga fans, see Silverman (2012:194–5). 42. For chalga, “all videos as well as most concerts and club performances feature lip synching and instrument synching” (Silverman 2012:180). 43.  Eran Livini, e-mail, 21 March 2012. The repertoire of singers without signature repertoires is quite “eclectic: popfolk and chalga hits, folklore, Balkan pop, Western pop, etc.” 44.  See Livni (2013). 45.  Dates are not available for Aurel Gore (violin); his brother Victor played the accordion. 46.  In the 1990s and early 2000s, Adrian included “Copilul” [the child] in his stage name, but eventually he shed it, calling himself simply “Adrian Minune” [Adrian Wonder]; his real name is Adrian Simionescu (see Beissinger 2007:124).



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47.  There is a lack of consensus on the meaning of “Salam” in his stage name. Some claim it means salami [salam], while others interpret it as the Arabic greeting “Salam” (I opt for the latter based on what lăutari have told me, while Stoichiţă, in chapter 6, favors the former). Salam’s previous stage name was Florin Fermecătorul [Florin the Charming]; his real name is Florin Stoian. 48.  His real name is Valentin Rusu; see Beissinger (2007:124). 49.  This contrasts with the degree to which Roma are involved in the management of the ethnopop industry in former Yugoslavia and Bulgaria; see Silverman (2012, Part III). 50.  Bursuc’s real name is Daniel Paraschiv; he owns the Grand Production Bursuc, as well as Ro Terra Music record companies, and he is president of the Romanian Association of Romani Musicians and Lăutari. Other record companies that produce manele in Romania include Amma and L’Esperance Music Production. 51.  See Bakić-Hayden (1995); see also Bakić-Hayden and Hayden (1992). 52.  His real name is Antonije Pušić; see Rasmussen (2007:66–7). 53.  Rice points out that in Bulgarian the “new genre” (chalga) “goes by a bewildering variety of names” (2002:29); see also Silverman (2012:178–9). 54.  Rice notes that earlier, “the root word had appeared in Bulgarian in the forms chalgiya, which referred to a small ensemble that played Ottoman-derived music on a mixture of Middle-Eastern and European instruments” (2002:31). For many, “chalga” is used to designate the music-making style employed by urban Roma (Buchanan 1996:208). Eran Livni notes that “popfolk is the politically correct term in Bulgaria. Chalga is either ethnically loaded or relates to the 1990s” (e-mail, 21 March 2012). Kurkela provides yet another meaning, claiming that “chalga” was “a previously derisive word for anything of poor quality with a strong association to Romani culture” (2007:147). 55.  Her real name is Galina Peneva. 56.  See Rasmussen (2002:118–19). Reminiscent of manelist, one who sings manele, the Serbian word turbaš refers to “turbo man” or male singer of turbo-folk (Rasmussen 2007:71). 57.  The promotion of Bajramović as a quintessential “Gypsy” musician at that time signaled a “breakthrough of Gypsy popular music” into Yugoslav popular culture (Rasmussen 1991:131). 58.  See Rasmussen (1991:133). 59.  See Grujić (2009:138–9). 60. Nonmainstream chalga does sometimes include “Romani, Turkish, and wedding music collaborations,” but “they receive less media attention and sometimes the production values are inferior” (Silverman 2012:183). 61.  See Silverman (2012:185–8). Valentin Valdes, a male Rom, also sang chalga in the 1990s (Silverman 2012:318). 62.  See Silverman (2012:188–94). 63.  Stanislav is a popular young male Bulgarian chalga singer. 64.  See chapter 8, note 28. 65.  Jean de la Craiova, Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti, Adrian Minune, Florin Salam, and others sing cântece lăutăreşti in addition to manele. 66.  Ioniţă is from Constanţa (see Beissinger 2007:125–6) and has also collaborated with some Bulgarian chalga stars (Silverman 2012:183). He is presently a singer, songwriter, and producer of pop music. 67.  In rural Romania, as in the rest of the Balkans, a rich tradition of (ethnic Romanian) female singing also exists. But manele did not evolve from rural music-making, as did turbofolk and chalga, hence the alternative gender roles.

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68.  These included Serbian dvojka [double meter] and Macedonian asymmetric rhythms, key stylistic markers of the genre (Rasmussen 1996a:102). 69. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-9-video.html&ch=ch6. 70.  Rice also notes that the “basic musical marker of popfolk is the Rom kyuchek rhythm” (2004:91), while Kurkela concurs, stating that “the most striking feature” in chalga is the “bellydance rhythm” or çiftetelli (2007:157). http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-7 -video.html&ch=ch6. 71.  They are eighth (note) + quarter + eighth + quarter + quarter or dotted quarter (note) + dotted quarter + quarter; see figure/example 1.4. 72. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-17-video.html&ch=ch6. 73.  See Beissinger (2007:110). 74.  For example, “Şaraiman” and “Ce frumoase-s fetele” [How beautiful the girls are] sung by Romica Puceanu; “Maneaua” [the manea] sung by Gabi Luncă; and “Maneaua florăreselor” [The flower girls’ manea], played by Victor Gore and ensemble bear this out; see also Beissinger (2007:109–10). 75. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-6-video.html&ch=ch6. 76. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-11-video.html&ch=ch6. 77.  “Singers favor extensive, elaborate trills over measured appoggiaturas, the latter representing the more ‘disciplined’ approach to ornamenting characteristic of the sevdalinka singing style,” and “instrumental openings and interludes by synthesizer as well as accordion and lead guitar trade off with or echo a singer’s phrases” (Rasmussen 2007:69). 78. The taksim or mane is “a highly improvised free-rhythm or metric exploration of the scale or makam, often using stock motives and figures, played over a metric ostinato. In the mane musicians display their improvisatory virtuosity” (Silverman 2012:28). Silverman also notes that “Romani elements are still (post-2000) visible and audible in mainstream chalga, but they have become part of a more stylized and abstract ‘orient’ and absorbed into formulaic narratives”; moreover, “there are fewer and shorter solo taksims and the synthesizer has taken over” (2012:184). 79.  On this feature in chalga, see Silverman (2012:177). http://manele-in-romania.ro/video .php?video=6-24-video.html&ch=ch6. 80. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-20-video.html&ch=ch6. 81.  But the style is also distinctly hybrid; in addition to the “Oriental” character of the scales and ornamentation of manea tunes, “the chord progressions which accompany these melodies are typical of Western tonal music” (Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă 2012:324). See chapter 3; see also Beissinger (2007:111–3). 82.  Synthesizers were played in Romanian pop/rock starting in the early 1980s. See also Silverman (2012:131). 83. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-10-video.html&ch=ch6. 84.  Turbo-folk also entails “nasal singing” that creates “a specific ‘oriental’ color” (Longinović 2000:640) and integrates “pevanje sa trilerima” (singing with a vibrato effect and distinct nasal sounds) (Grujić 2009:143). 85. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-15-video.html&ch=ch6. 86.  See chapter 8 on how the synthesizer dictated the performance of manele in village ensembles. 87. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-24-video.html&ch=ch6. 88.  As Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă observe, “In connoisseur talk, manele tend to be linked with dance, and with the [çiftetelli] rhythmic formulas” (2012:324).



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89.  Generally speaking, women still dance it more often. 90.  See Silverman (2007a:84). 91.  See chapter 1. 92. Beauty contests between Romani girls/women that include music and dance also take place in Macedonia, where, since 1991, they provide a “forum for music, dance, and costume display, and sometimes music and dance contests are imbedded in them” (Silverman 2012:120). 93.  Adrian (Copilul) Minune [Adrian (the Child) Wonder], one of the top two manelişti in Romania, for example, is less than five feet tall. Silverman also points out that in chalga, “[m]ale singers, unlike females, are not required to look sexy, or to dance” (2012:181). 94. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-5-video.html&ch=ch6. 95.  NKNM was also sometimes called gastarbajterske pesme [Gastarbeiter songs] (Gordy 1999:107). 96.  They were Alen Islamović, Vlado Kalemver, and Danijel Popović. 97. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-6-video.html&ch=ch6. 98. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-12-video.html&ch=ch6. 99.  As Kurkela notes, the issues expressed in chalga are sometimes so provincial that “the outsider cannot understand it without the guidance and explanation of local cultural experts” (2007:145). 100.  The “social and political problems that chalga videos target are usually connected to corruption, economic insecurity, and civil rights,” writes Kurkela, and “‘political’ here refers to all kinds of expressions and phenomena that are connected to cultural oppression and power relations” (2007:153). 101.  See Kurkela (2007:151–3). http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-7-video .html&ch=ch6. 102.  See Kurkela (2007:150–1). 103.  See Kurkela (2007:153–5). 104.  It figured in a film from 1987 with the same name; two sequels followed in 1989 and 1990. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-1-video.html&ch=ch6. 105. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-16-video.html&ch=ch6. 106.  I also heard Salam sing this manea solo in November 2012 at Balkan Club in central Bucharest. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-17-video.html&ch=ch6. 107. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-18-video.html&ch=ch6. 108.  See also Rasmussen (2002:74–6). 109. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-8-video.html&ch=ch6. 110.  The melody in the instrumental introduction and interludes is a pan-Balkan tune— heard also in manele—that has clearly traversed borders. 111. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-9-video.html&ch=ch6. 112. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-10-video.html&ch=ch6. 113. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-11-video.html&ch=ch6. 114. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-12-video.html&ch=ch6. 115.  Ceca was also associated with Milošević and implicated in the assassination of Serbian Prime Minister Zoran Djindjić in 2003. 116. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-13-video.html&ch=ch6. 117. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-14-video.html&ch=ch6. 118.  Her real name is Emiliya Valeva. 119. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-15-video.html&ch=ch6.

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120. “Nevastă” is of Slavic derivation, while “soţie” is the literary (Latin) noun for wife. 121.  Parents in traditional Romani homes often view their children with more affection than they view each other. 122. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-19-video.html&ch=ch6. 123.  For example, “Spune-mi unde ai fost, bărbate!” [Tell me where you’ve been, husband!] is a comparable cântec lăutăresc [lăutar song]. 124. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-20-video.html&ch=ch6. 125.  This equals roughly 125 miles per hour. 126. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-12-video.html&ch=ch6. 127. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-15-video.html&ch=ch6. 128.  Rarely does a woman request a manea. 129.  See chapter 8 for my discussion of dedications, including transcribed texts of them. 130.  See Voiculescu (2005:277–9). 131.  On envy and enemies among Roma, see Ries (2007). 132. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-27-video.html&ch=ch6. 133.  Cf. “a chefui” in the excerpt [to celebrate and drink]. 134. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-29-video.html&ch=ch6. 135. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-28-video.html&ch=ch6. 136.  Stewart’s “wit” and “cunning” are equivalent to Romanian “şchmecherie” [slyness, cunning]; see Stewart (1997). 137. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-22-video.html&ch=ch6. 138.  See also chapter 6. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-23-video.html& ch=ch6. 139. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-24-video.html&ch=ch6. 140. Classic cântece lăutăreşti on this theme include “Doamne, duşmanii îmi vorbesc” [O Lord, my enemies are telling me], or “Mă gândesc de atâţia ani, ce să le dau la duşmani” [I’ve been thinking for so many years what to give my enemies]. 141. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-25-video.html&ch=ch6. 142. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-26-video.html&ch=ch6. 143. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-30-video.html&ch=ch6. 144.  See chapter 8 and examples 8.4 to 8.7 for different renditions of this manea. 145.  It was sung by the manelist Costel Ciofun. 146.  The slang gagică—meaning “female lover” or “young, attractive woman”—is from the Romani gadźo meaning non-Romani person (Fraser 1995:8); a gagicar, by extension, such as in Vali Vijelie’s song text, is a ladies’ man. 147. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=6-21-video.html&ch=ch6. 148.  Traditional analogues to contemporary manele about parents and children include songs such as “Sunt fericit că sunt tata” [I’m happy ’cause I’m a dad], “Fata mea, floare de mai” [My daughter, like a May flower], and “De cand s-a născut băiatul meu” [Ever since my son was born]. 149.  I wish to thank Speranţa Rădulescu and Marius Wamsiedel, who both helped me with a difficult translation in this excerpt. 150.  I have heard this over and over from lăutari in my fieldwork. Some say that they just “put up” with manele while they actually love and wish to preserve cântece lăutăreşti. Voiculescu also notes that as a genre, Romani musicians consider muzică lăutrească “much more valuable than manele” and “‘more authentic’” (2005:277). 151. The same argument can be made for African American entertainers in the United States; there is no doubt that a legacy of slavery exists in the prominent role of today’s African American musicians and sports figure—those who entertain mainstream society. It goes without saying that another, tragic, legacy of slavery continues to be the deeply ingrained racism in both contemporary American as well as Romanian society.

5 Actors and Performance Speranţa Rădulescu

Shared ideas coming from barely identifiable sources, which people agree upon and circulate without giving them too much thought, infiltrate public space in many tortuous ways. In Romania, the idea that Romani composers and performers are the only ones responsible for the existence, promotion, and even the success of manele is common currency. Is this, indeed, the truth? Is it really only musicians who promote manele, thus ensuring their longevity? The idea probably was launched by intellectuals. It is fostered chiefly by a type of chauvinistic nationalism, programmatically cultivated in the communist period but rooted in interwar nationalism, in turn an offspring of Romantic and postRomantic nationalism that Romanians do not easily give up. According to this ideology, it is convenient if the reputation of manele as “evil,” “ugly,” “immoral,” and “unacceptable,” all features of manele that have taken on public space in insidious ways, emanate from “others”—the “local exotics,” who are blamed for many other wrongdoings anyway. The acceptance of this idea, however, and its transformation into cliché, obscures some of its complexity. Romanians have an acute perception of their subordinate condition in the concert of European nations. From various sources (newspapers, radio and television, the Internet, public speeches, discourses of authority by intellectuals, conversations among individuals), they have “found” that manele are a “vulgar,” “wicked” music that does nothing but discredit Romanians. As a consequence, many have hastened to dissociate themselves from both the music and its producers. This view has also appeared and taken root because people ignore the peculiar ways in which oral music and manele in particular work. For instance, intellectuals who take academic music as a point of reference believe that the responsibility for producing manele lies with their creators alone. After all, present-day academic composers do not take public opinion particularly seriously, but rather they keep their 139

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work on whatever course they may have chosen, without running the risk of severe financial loss. (A limited case is that of avant-garde and neo-avant-garde artists who have been indifferent to the overall scarcity of their audiences for decades.) Intellectuals think that this is what manea composers have been doing as well. But their supposition is wrong. With one notable exception,1 oral music is not financed by state institutions or by patronage, but by customers who pay, whose goodwill popular musicians are immensely interested in capturing. The musicians submit their works, and the customers accept them (implicitly contributing to their popularization), only to the extent that they satisfy, at least in general lines, their patrons’ needs and tastes. In fact, manele owe their success not only to their creators and performers, but also to their audiences, dancers, and fans as well as their adversaries and the media. When people “blame” them, the musicians—not by accident—point their fingers at their customers: “People want them!” Overwhelmed in turn by their opponents’ invectives, the latter often point back at the musicians. Who is right, and to what extent? In this chapter we will analyze, one by one, all of the actors involved in the processes of production, consumption, and evaluation of manele with a view to identifying the contribution of each to their relative durability and success.

THE MUSICIANS [MUZICANŢII] In Romania, muzicanţi (sg. muzicant) is the name given to those who live off the production and sale of oral music (Romanian: muzică populară or folclor).2 The term muzicant has two meanings: one generic and the other restrictive. As a generic term, it designates any “folk” musician. As a specific term, muzicant usually indicates a member of a folkloric ensemble or orchestra subsidized by the central or local authorities,3 one who supposedly uses musical notation4 and is capable of performing music that is “edited,” “corrected,” or processed, elevating the prestige of the institutions he (or she) works for (see examples 5.1 and 5.25). Muzicant also indicates a more highbrow musician, usually an employee of a restaurant where various popular musics are performed, including café concert, considered “cultured” [cultă].6 In other words, muzicanţi, usually Romani urban residents, are superior, “cultured” musicians (see examples 5.3 to 5.5).7 The muzicanţi are, indeed, more “cultured” than lăutari but not exactly in the suggested way. Some of them can vaguely read musical notation, but they seldom put this to use.8 On the other hand, they do have a broader musical horizon and are able to perform, more or less expertly, oral traditional music from all of the cultural areas of the country as well as various other urban, Romanian, and foreign musics. Members of state folkloric ensembles have a stable, albeit mediocre, financial situation. To round out their incomes, on the weekends they ply their musical trade for any potential employer who organizes social events. This means that they produce different music in different circumstances. “On the job,” it can be (“corrected,” predictable, optimistic-triumphalist) “folklore” under the command of a



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conductor, while at smaller gatherings, it is regional music and any other live music that the employer or the guests might expect. They are all thoroughly convinced that folkloric music is superior to the (“wild,” “unpolished,” often “impure”) traditional music (which peasants sing or play). Musicians who are members of folkloric ensembles perform manele only in exceptional circumstances. Indoctrinated by the managers of the institutions where they work to oppose manele, they are the first to condemn this music in harsh terms. As for restaurant musicians, they perform manele without prejudice. The Lăutari Musicians specializing in the production and sale of local and/or regional musics are known as lăutari. The lăutari, men almost without exception,9 can also perform musics of the minority ethnic groups (Hungarians, Roma, Ukrainians, Jews, Greeks, Aromanians, etc.), “national musics,”10 romances, “party music,”11 pop music, canzonettes and chansonettes, waltzes, tangos, and various other popular musics of sundry origins—European, Balkan, Latin American, etc.—varying with the historical period (Stoichiţă 2008:51). Like muzicanţi, lăutari perform in small instrumental or vocalinstrumental ensembles generically called tarafuri (sg. taraf).12 Most of the lăutari are Roma, either villagers or city dwellers (see examples 5.6 to 5.1013). Rural lăutari usually have a narrower repertoire than urban musicians, albeit more stylistically coherent and with a comparatively clear regional identity. On the other hand, their rendition of urban music, music from other Romanian cultural areas, and popular musics of all times and places is rather inept. The cosmopolitan urban lăutari claim that they are able to perform “any music.”14 Their active repertoire is indeed richer, incorporating music from all over the country and from many foreign countries (Lortat-Jacob 1994:119–23). When they stray, however, from the specific style of the music of their native region, their performance becomes inexact or confused. Whatever the case, when they are required to perform a piece that they do not know, lăutari, be they rural or urban, never say, “I don’t know it,” but instead ask the client to hum it so that they can catch the tune, or they take a chance performing another piece that sounds similar. When they sign a contract, lăutari know that they assume a series of professional obligations that they cannot shirk.15 One of the most important is to respond to every request from the patron (the person who has hired the lăutari and is in charge of the event), or any of the guests there. The lăutari fulfill this last obligation in proportion to the size of the tip that comes with each separate request.16 Those who pay little or nothing, however, are never disregarded (Stoichiţă 2008:23). If no precise requests come from the guests, the lăutari have the freedom to choose the pieces and performance style that they deem appropriate for all. If the audience is homogenous and familiar, they will satisfy everybody without effort, but when faced with an unknown audience, they may fail. This occurs when they try to “sell” hits recommended by the media as “genuine folklore” to intellectuals attending a rural party; or it may happen

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to lăutari who roam the streets of European cities, annoying everyone with badly performed French chansonettes, German waltzes, or Italian canzonettes. Since the 1990s, some lăutari feel that they can take more liberties with their clients’ requests than formerly. They wish to perform what (and in the style that) they believe will bring them anadvantage, without always heeding their customers’ wishes. The latter certainly have the means to sanction them for inappropriate or unsatisfactorily performed music.17 But, as musical professionalism has grown in the last century in Romania (Lortat-Jacob 1994:101), the ordinary people’s competence and demands have constantly shrunk so they no longer react except to great excesses. Lăutari seek to launch themselves into bold “musical explorations” (Lortat-Jacob 1994:123; S. Rădulescu 2002:18–9). Young lăutari take their chances with the big tip-making manele. Those who are not skilled enough in this kind of music hire a manelist for their taraf, a vocalist with a specific vocal timbre who is plugged into the latest hits. If the patron forbids them to perform manele, they observe the interdiction until midnight, then violate it, claiming they did so following the guests’ insistent requests.18 One may assume that the peasants—poor, without opportunities, losers in contemporary Romanian society, and often treated accordingly—are the most easily duped by abusive lăutari. On the contrary, they are the fiercest opponents of manele, relying on a musical tradition that is still alive, at least in the memory of some of them. As of late, both villagers and urbanites have been giving signs that they are getting bored with manele, pressing the lăutari to return to their traditional music. The old lăutari are relieved: they do not like manele anyway and are not very proficient in producing them either (S. Rădulescu 2004). But the young have an interest in keeping them in sight of those present; therefore they go on performing them until somebody—preferably the person in charge of employing them—asks them to stop. In short, some of those who attend major community festivities, in particular those who are being denied “their” music, sometimes claim their old rights. Lăutari, they say, who only half a century ago were still humble servants of their clients and all the guests, have lost measure, and it is about time they were brought back to order. The wiser have chosen to negotiate from the very beginning: They prepare playlists for the events in which manele alternate with other types of music. As they perform, they condense or extend the time allocated to manele depending on how they are received. The Manelişti The word manelist (pl. manelişti) describes a musician who “puts out” manele,19 is well-trained to perform them, and has a reputation in this sense, consolidated by appearing in nightclubs and shows, on CDs, on television and videos or Internet postings, and especially at celebrity events attended by businesspeople, wiseguys, politicians, journalists, and eccentric intellectuals (see examples 5.11 and 5.1220). Manelişti in performance convey to their audiences (or rather conveyed until recently) a base message that, in my opinion, is as follows: manele consist of music for winners, performed by us winners for you the listeners—real or potential winners.



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This statement can be completed with a “philosophical” addendum, enciphered mainly in lyrics such as: the world is a jungle in which, in order to push one’s way through enemies lurking on every corner, one—that is, we (the manelişti) and you (the listeners)—must be strong, self-confident, without scruples, ruthless. Even so, a man has got a few oases of hope and refuge: his girlfriend, family, and friends; yet these do not seem to be entirely secure either, since one’s girlfriend/wife may leave him, and one’s brother may rise up against him, as it sometimes/often happens. A means to attract the audience’s attention, this message is elaborated by manelişti through all the means of expression at their disposal. The patron, they seem to say, is the most important person in the gathering. And the homage we manelişti pay to him is well-deserved because he is powerful and has a lot of money that he can afford to waste. But we manelişti belong to his world, too; look, we even throw away the money he gives us!21 You, the others, have good chances to become like us if you learn the wiseguys’ methods. Therefore, there are no losers in the audience—only winners. Nevertheless, it is obvious that some are more “winning” than others (such as those who cannot afford to order their favorite songs or receive dedications). In order to convey their message (which I have schematically presented in a wording that is perhaps too personal), manelişti, first of all, avail themselves of the image of winners that they have built for themselves, maintained, and honed in every public appearance. A typical manelist who has reached or aspires to stardom often conspicuously presents himself as: First, he is a prosperous businessman, as evidenced by his stylish Western attire, Oriental gold jewelry (chains and rings), villa, cars, and swimming pools, which he exhibits on private television stations and websites. He makes sure that everybody knows that he has a lot of money and knows how to make profitable investments. In fact, the only business he is really adept at is managing his own career: selecting his clients, negotiating his contracts, protecting and exploiting his copyrights as an author and performer (which he does in cooperation with professional agents), and cultivating useful social relations while, strictly professionally speaking, he continues to “put out” new manele and choose suitable ones for the events that he “stars in.” Second, he is a dynamic macho man with commanding gestures (who is often bearded and wears an unbuttoned shirt, revealing his chest), around whom scantily clad young women swarm, as seen in videos. He pays attention to them, however, only if they are his performance companions (see examples 5.13 and 5.1422). Third, he is a “sensitive” man, capable, in the world that he ostensibly creates, of love and commitment to one woman, one indication of this being the love songs he frequently performs, sometimes in dialogue with a female partner. Fourth, he is a modern, cosmopolitan man who, along with his collaborators, deftly handles modern technology—sophisticated smartphones, iPods, photo and video cameras, high-tech amplification equipment, etc.—all of which he displays on every possible occasion. He is very proficient at using the Internet and is up-to-date on the latest hits. His musical horizon, confined in the 1990s to his own country and the Balkan region, has now opened up to the world. His repertoire has lately incorporated arrangements or parodies of samba, reggaeton, rumba, rap, and

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even segments of academic European music. Fifth, he is a man capable of getting down to the level of ordinary society from which he originates. Sometimes he even seems determined to change the fate of the world to the benefit of many, taking action as a local politician or, more frequently, campaigning for politicians at election time. (The truth is that his involvement in public affairs is usually motivated by his interest in protecting his real estate investments. He gathers his voters from among manea fans and rewards them by descending like a king in their midst and dedicating heartening songs to them.) Sixth, he is a “democratic” man, although this behavior is offset by the pretentious conditions that he insists on in his employment contracts: to be transported in luxury vehicles (sometimes by airplane even between relatively nearby localities and/or in an imposing car) and accommodated in a sumptuous apartment. Seventh, he is a vigilant man who knows how to defend himself from those who deny his status, hamper his career, or impair his earnings. He does not accept being offended, robbed, lied to, or cheated by his fellow manelişti. Should this happen, his retaliations soon become a public affair.23 Finally, eighth, he is a provocative man who, for instance, sometimes disguises himself as a nomadic Rom: he puts on “Gypsy” clothes—a lively colored shirt, belt, broad-brimmed hat—and surrounds himself with extras who dance and holler around the fire by the tent.24 It is his way of showing off his “ethnic background” and at the same time complying with the Western cliché that, with a bit of luck, he can exploit it to his own advantage. Thus, wealth, physical strength, power, adjustment to the requirements of the modern world, sex appeal, sexual potency, and affective availability are the qualities of the manelist that no one can ignore, because our “heroes” give more or less unimportant clues that mutually complement and strengthen their significance. The manelist tries by instinct to be the embodiment of the hero in today’s children’s stories and the victorious “good guy” of a timeless mythological pattern. This is how the graphics of some of the CD and DVD jackets and posters represent him: a man driving, at full speed, motorcycles and race cars with which he crushes his imaginary enemies. This is what the nicknames they take show: X-Wonder, Y-Goldlips, Z-Charmer, which they sometimes embellish with aristocratic designations: “of Vâlcea,” “of Piteşti,” “of Craiova,” etc. Each manelist doles out his arrogance, however, depending on his own professional prestige, the importance of his employer and guests, or where he performs. At a club frequented by poor young people or a country wedding, for example, the manelist will display rather modest behavior. Manelişti introduce themselves as lăutari or evoke the noble lăutar profession of their ancestors. In fact, the present-day stars used to be specialists in muzică lăutărească25 in their youth. They partially reconsidered their duties as lăutari. Since they charge high fees, they are often invited to enliven opulent banquets, the main role of which is to reconfirm publicly their wealth, power, and high connections to rich patrons and their families.26 There, with the patron’s implicit consent, they put themselves, from the start, in a position of power with respect to their audience, just as they do in their private lives. They pay attention to the patron and other important participants at the event: the godparents, groom’s parents, and bride and groom



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at weddings, and the celebrated persons at birthday and saint’s day parties, not to mention notable guests recommended as such by the patron. Usually seated at tables visible from all angles and near the dance floor and the bandstand of the manelişti, the guests vie with each other in giving the performers generous tips. The manelişti pompously utter these guests’ names into the microphone and count the tips in full view of everyone, using the standard formula “Fără număr, fără număr” [Countless, countless]. The lower-ranking guests—seated at less important tables and unable to join the inner circle’s ceremony—may expect to be neglected. It goes without saying that the manelişti perform almost exclusively manele, whether all of those present like them or not. During the performance, they compel the cameramen who film the events for the patron to record their songs without omitting any fragment (as the cameramen are wont to do) and to give them a copy, which they will then post on the Internet to promote themselves (see example 5.1527). (Other copies will be proudly shown around by their patrons, who will thus unwittingly contribute to their promotion.) The manelişti conduct the party authoritatively and expertly. First of all, they master the many ritual gestures used in recent years during the banquet at weddings (largely unknown to the newlyweds), especially since companies like Pro Nuptia have “enhanced” them with all sorts of practices inspired by Hollywood movie weddings.28 Then, starting with the music—the manea—as a pretext, they elaborate the copious events described below (see also example 1.2529).

THE MESSAGES OF MANELIŞTI ENCRYPTED IN THE OVERALL DISCOURSE OF MANELE The physical strength, sexual potency, and financial power of winners are translated into sound intensity. Manele must be penetrating and silence all those present— which they, indeed, do since any dialogue during their performance is out of the question. Performing fortissimo, transforming sound into toxic noise, is common practice in popular music, both in Romania and in the contemporary world at large;30 given their pretension of being superior to all, manelişti have no solution but to apply the highest possible intensity. During the performance, the volume is turned up to the maximum, and background noise turns into bluster. Those with something to say must yell from the bottom of their lungs to be heard. The connection with the audience, necessary to enhance the attractiveness and penetration power of the message, is established by manelişti by quickly adjusting their discourse to the physical and psychological movements of those in attendance. Thus, they hail the arrival of new guests by interrupting the ongoing manea with a reception march, during which they announce the names and social status of the newcomers, accompanied by flattering comments.31 The manelişti are careful to greet and pay tribute periodically to the major participants in the event (parents-in-law, godparents, the bride and groom and their close relatives, the celebrated person and his “bosses,” the impresario, the organizer of the show, the sponsor, etc.) and

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sometimes to all those present; during this interval, the melody of the manea is put on hold, but the rhythmic-harmonic accompaniment goes on. The melody is both accessible and cosmopolitan, often incorporating long-familiar clichés borrowed from musics of various origins, transformed and sequenced in unexpected ways.32 With the aid of the melody, manelişti produce two complementary effects: they keep up the feeling of comfort provided by the “déjà connu” while giving the satisfaction of easily digestible novelty. When asked (by shouting straight into their ears) to make a dedication,33 manelişti instantly announce it on the microphone together with the requester’s name and social position and the value of the tip offered for the purpose. From time to time, they urge the guests to dance using exclamations (“Hey!” “Zum!” “One!”) or they put the song on hold again to make room for genial, joking comments, funny stories, etc.34 At weddings, the “herald” role—the equivalent of the front man role in rock music (Fabbri 2003:999)—is covered by the vocalist, who spares no physical effort to fulfill it. In live concerts, the role is shared by the presenter and the singer. The overall discourse of manele, thus, accumulates many events, some of which are not sound-related. All are congruous, because they originate in the same social and aesthetic area; in other words, the space of the event—overpopulated with lively colored artifacts, the participants’ clothes and behavior, the dance, music, lyrics, dedications, and praises for the wiseguys—imparts an unmistakable “family air.” The events coexist in space and time, simultaneously and/or in succession. When one or several components are temporarily missing, the audience is able to imagine them. Their superposition and concatenation generate a rich information flow made up of familiar details that everybody understands. The production of such a complex event requires the vocalists’ intense concentration, presence of mind, and energy, which some manelişti achieve by using drugs: bigger stars use cocaine, while beginners and low-income performers use marijuana or heroin.35 Manele that are commodified (i.e., recorded or filmed in studios and made into videos) are inferior and less expressive. When manelişti perform them, they focus primarily on virtuosity and technical perfection, hoping to impress their rivals. The events produced or stimulated by the audience, which turn the manea into a dense syncretic fact, are absent here (see example 5.1636). Manele performed in concert are also rather lifeless despite great efforts by the MCs to interact with the audience. That is why some manelişti prefer to exploit manele recorded at social events commercially: they stand a better chance of attracting attention and bringing them new clients. Manelişti have been posting their new works on websites for a good number of years—either videos or audios mostly based on live recordings. They also remove old manele with the exception of those in which they appear in the company of celebrities (politicians or nouveaux riches). The comments elicited by the posted songs allow manelişti to evaluate their success, get to know their adversaries’ objections, and garner potential employers for performances. Up until 2010, manea websites contained many comments about the music (especially the tunes), soloists, and their style. The stars’ websites featured dozens



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of comments, most of them enthusiastic. The commentators were generally poorly educated people with mediocre, vernacular vocabulary. Grotesque insults against Roma and their music also used to fill the comment section followed by violent replies from fans. Beginning in 2011, these websites have been less visited, and the comments have become more sparing and comparatively apathetic. One can hardly find three or four laconic interventions posted over two to three weeks. Some bluntly criticize the stars’ uninspiring new songs. There are also fewer vulgar insults against Roma, a sign that the opponents have lost interest in manele. Faced with this significant decline in popularity, which is jeopardizing their economic and social status, manelişti are trying to draw attention to their sites by augmenting them with commercials and foreign job ads. They have begun to scatter a few other types of popular music among the manele. For example, Florin Salam posts quasi-romances that bear a resemblance to manele only in the soloist’s ornamented vocal style. Carmen Şerban has reoriented her repertoire to rumbas and local “party music” [muzică de petrecere]. Adrian Minune turns international hits into manele chiefly by altering their rhythmic-harmonic structure and melodic ornamentation. Only second-rate manelişti keep posting on the Internet manele displaying the most visible features of the genre: the amphibrach-spondee rhythmic accompaniment (together with its syncopated correspondent) and the special timbre of the solo vocals (see example 5.1637). The lyrics are now almost entirely erotic: it is as if manelişti, now more cautious, have decided to remain on the safe ground of unanimous preferences.

THE “AUDIENCES” OF MANELE What shall we call those who listen to or just hear manele? When they hire manelişti for events, they are the “clients” and, at least in theory, are entitled to control most of the music production. When they are invited to an event organized and paid for by others or to a manea nightclub, they are more or less the satisfied beneficiaries of the music that is being offered but have the right to order the music they like. When they go to a manea concert/show, they are an “audience” that has chosen to attend the event, because they like the genre although they know that they cannot either request their favorite songs or decide on the playlist. When they buy and listen to CDs or download manele from the Internet, they are “consumers” or “beneficiaries,” hence the possibility, after an initial hearing, of their making a musical selection in accordance with their own tastes. But when manele come to their ears from random sources (e.g., an acquaintance’s television, a bus driver’s CD player, a passerby’s mobile phone, a neighbor’s radio, etc.), can they be considered listeners or just people who have to put up with an imposed flow of music? Does it make sense to group them with the others in the all-encompassing legion that we conventionally name “manea audience”? I believe it does: they have

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in common the fact that they willingly or unwillingly witness them and manifest explicit or implicit attitudes toward them. But the “audience” is made up of different people whose reactions depend in various proportions on their social status, age, dwelling in rural or urban areas, ethnic background, level of education, profession, gender, as well as a series of strictly personal factors such as family background, the network of human interrelations of which they are a part, their aspirations, tastes, and musical experience. If we temporarily brush aside nuances, their reaction can only be either acceptance or rejection. Indifference to manele is almost impossible: they are too aggressive and too intensely commented upon to be shrugged off, and the public discourse about them is too vehement not to irritate or trigger one attitude or another. Consequently, based on these facts, I divide the audience into two opposing categories: the fans and the adversaries of manele. The Fans of Manele The fans make up a large category whose hard core consists of teenagers and young people.38 They regard manele as “modern music” par excellence. And why wouldn’t they? Manele are relatively new and their sound and rhythm set them apart both from the other oral music on the market (peasant, “lăutar,” folkloric) and other entertainment music. It is interesting that most young people have chosen manele— music impregnated by “foreign” elements that are ultimately local—as a symbol of modernity although they have a wide choice of international musics at their disposal that could fulfill the same role (pop, punk, hard rock, rap, house, hip-hop, etc.). Perhaps the Oriental-Romanian-European fusion that they are based on satisfies them and expresses them conveniently. It is equally interesting that ethnic Romanian fans are especially attached to truncated forms of manele in which dance is a kind of addition or accessory. One tires quickly of watching Romanians dance—awkwardly, reluctantly, with ambiguous, unclear gestures borrowed from other popular dances to which they are more accustomed. By contrast, to Roma, manele are syncretic “events” with dance at their very hearts—a dance that they perform with fervor and virtuosity in an informal manner. The real manea fans are students, young peasants, apprentices, workers, functionaries, greater or lesser businesspeople, and loafers. Their allies are middle-aged people who symbolically cling to youth or do not identify with any of the music of the past. Age is undoubtedly the main discriminating factor in this category. The level of education is also an indicator, albeit with a less significant relevance: some intellectuals and students are among the fans of manele although, with rare exceptions, both categories avoid showing their sympathy and seldom turn into fervent supporters of the genre. The ethnic background may also be an important, albeit not decisive, factor: Romani manea fans may be proportionally more numerous than Romanians or members of other ethnic groups, but a popularity opinion poll has yet to confirm this. Whatever the case, today ethnicity differentiates between the fans to a far lesser



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extent than thirty years ago when manele were without a doubt a mark of Romani identity in communities in Romania’s southern cities (Garfias 1984). Since they are more numerous, young people are the main upholders of the manea fashion—a lengthy one by current standards since manele have been “in” for at least fifteen years. It is young people who request manele in nightclubs and discos; they hum them on the street and in parks and pubs; they buy CDs containing them—or rather, used to buy them since in recent years they have been downloading them for free.39 They listen to them again and again, dancing to them at parties; they go to manea concerts; they set them as ringtones for their cell phones, sometimes playing them to annoy those whom they dislike.40 At wedding banquets, well-off young people are those who order manele, imposing their taste on the poorer or older guests. Among the most urgent clients are the emigrants to the West who have worked hard, saved money, and now are paying for their weddings “back home” in Romania with their own money, without relying on their parents’ help. As “winners” at home for a short time, they forbid their fathers from having a say in hiring the band (as was customary until recently) and take charge of the choice of musicians, be they manelişti or simple lăutari, and the preliminary instructions.41 The manele and other new musics are performed after midnight, and when the young guests are more numerous, richer, or more aggressive, they last all night long. The adults and the elderly, who barely tolerate them, often give up participating at the wedding banquet but never forget their obligation to send their gift to the newlyweds. To them, the banquet has always been an opportunity to socialize; but since personal contact and conversations have become all but impossible in the infernal manea hubbub, they see themselves condemned to group solitude, which they refuse. Moreover, in some cases, attending the banquet forces them into the humiliating condition of being seated at a lesser table, on the periphery of the community of guests. This is why they prefer to lose the battle against the young by default.42 The extreme intensity of the music, which to the young audience is a socializing force (Gemeinschaft bildende Kraft apud; Fabbri 2003:998), is destructive to the community of the elderly. Until a few decades ago, traditional arrangements provided a way of satisfying the musical tastes of all the wedding guests: during the banquet, the hired band was divided into two sections, one at the disposal of the adults and elderly, the other (sometimes including a percussion instrument) set for the young people wishing to dance. The two sections performed in separate premises not far from each other (such as in two rooms of the same house). This solution has become, of late, impracticable: the intensity produced by the amplification equipment makes soundproofing impossible. Obviously, one of the sides in this competition must give in, and it is taken for granted that it must be the elderly. The determination with which the young impose their will on the elderly is worth an in-depth ethnological analysis which I am not either planning or capable of. Nevertheless, I hope the observations I have made in recent years entitle me to the following conclusion: the young have become authoritarian toward the elderly chiefly because social life as a whole makes them predisposed to this behavior. The

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discourses, commercials, news, and American movies on television strengthen their belief that power is rightfully theirs. In everyday life, they meet people in their forties or older who are poorly paid and incapable of learning new skills, have few chances to be employed, and/or receive meager pensions—in a word, losers. Unlike them, it seems easier for some young people to find more attractive, better-paid jobs such as bodyguards, police officers with imposing uniforms, or sales representatives, which make them as self-confident as their job descriptions require. Many of the “wiseguys” (or “kingpins”) whom I have met who have succeeded in corrupt ways and to whom manele are usually dedicated are also comparatively young. In people’s minds, the equality sign between youth and power is taken almost for granted. Through manele, the young affirm their will to bypass their parents and take control of their own lives. Their parents are “guilty” of failing to understand the social game of the present and its major stake: money. In addition, the elderly proved incapable earlier of removing the old communist structure (about whose unfairness, oppression, and induced poverty the young people know from hearsay) and replacing it with a system that would have given them a better start in life. Why, then, should they stick their noses in our musical preferences, the young ask themselves. A few decades ago, a country boy would not have asked such a question without shaking because of its impropriety. The overthrow of social hierarchy and moral values in the traditional Romanian world, as much as is left of it, is unprecedented. The elderly generally accept this without hard feelings because their mind-set is that of “losers.” Yet some have rebellious outbursts that sometimes touch on musical topics: a bridegroom’s father insists that he choose the musicians for his son’s wedding, forces the musicians not to perform manele, or severely reprimands them when their frequency becomes intolerable. But in most cases, it is the young who win.43 The young are interested in keeping manele in the market, because it is through them that they assert themselves both as a generation and as individuals. This imperative of self-expression is stronger than any other reason, including the most rational calculations. A telling case is that of the lăutari in “Le taraf des Haidouks,”44 an ensemble of Romani musicians from the village of Clejani, north of the Danube River. The band gained worldwide fame due to the traditional peasant repertoire of its founders, senior lăutari from the village. But as they passed away, one by one, their places were taken by their sons and grandsons, whose commercial music is noisy and modern, similar to that of all the young lăutari in present-day Muntenia. It seems that, at least in the beginning, the artistic director of the “Haidouks” tried to convince them to keep the band’s music along the lines of the style that had brought success to the older members, but the young were fiercely opposed to it. The director gave in. The music of the taraf gradually became “modernized” under the influence of world music; the band’s success then waned, the tours became rarer, and revenues dropped. Despite all of this, the young band members unflinchingly maintained their decision to get rid of their predecessors’ music and replace it with their own.45 The category of fans also includes a smaller, but powerful dynamic group that is visible from all angles: the “wiseguys.”46 Always ready for carousal with manele, they need conspicuous



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consumption to produce “situations that act as a symbol of social ‘status’ and power, and by extension competitive instruments of emulation of individual prestige” (Sorce Keller 2003:57447). The “wiseguys” make a point of being sure that all of the guests find out and communicate right and left that “they” are powerful and “their” will is above all law. Most ordinary people find out about “wiseguys” only when they are arrested or criminally prosecuted and are shown on television news. On the same occasion, normal people also see images from the social events of the “wiseguys,” with the manelişti always occupying a central position (see examples 5.17 to 5.1948). In the mid-2000s, fans of manele received unexpected support from a few intellectuals, either Romanians or people of Romanian origin who settled in the West (Teodorescu 2005; Matei 2006; Giosan 2006). The articles they published in cultural magazines in Bucharest went unnoticed. Only in the last few years have a few scholars attempted to support manele unequivocally and even to approach their world. In order to produce irritation and trigger reactions, Adrian Schiop published a deliberately aggressive article and presented a paper at the Romanian Society for Cultural Anthropology (2011a, 2011b). At the National University of Music (Bucharest), two of the coauthors of this book delivered six lectures about manele that enjoyed balanced coverage in some of the media but triggered panicked, hostile reactions from tabloids and even some professors from the university.49 The National Dance Center (in Bucharest) is considering a program that will include the performance of manele, the role of which has yet to be decided (Manuel Pelmuş, personal communication). A manea club was founded that is frequented by students or former students who explicitly defy their mentors (Adrian Schiop, personal communication). It is significant that they do not deny the features of manele pointed out by their opponents but interpret them in a different way. To them, the vulgarity of the lyrics is, in fact, brutal sincerity. The aesthetic value of manele exists but is misconstrued by improper comparison with academic music, eclecticism and ethnic impurity are unquestionable but positive and fertilizing, the Romani component is enriching, and the Oriental component imparts substance and color to the music so that Romanians should simply accept it just as they should accept the three centuries of Ottoman influence on their culture. The Adversaries of Manele Most adversaries are intellectuals, cultural activists, old people, and old-style lăutari. They are joined by various people of all ages from villages and cities, different ethnic backgrounds, professions, and levels of education. All of them oppose manele in the name of an “ideal” music kept in mind as a reference point although they do not necessarily avow it. Peasants usually (but not always) resist manele in the name of the rural music they have grown up with. City dwellers with a secondary or lower education do so on behalf of the television “folklore” that accompanied their youth as “genuine,” “representative,” and worth loving. Intellectuals defy manele either on the part of “true” Romanian music, which, according to them, is the rural music

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of the early twentieth century (still preserved in archives and in the songs of some godforsaken old people), or lăutar music [muzică lăutărească].50 The young oppose manele in the name of Euro-American popular music with no connection to Romania. There is yet another category of people, however, who reject manele, not on behalf of an ideal alternative music but merely because they view them as a symbol of the moral decay that, in their opinion, has spread like the plague throughout society. Intellectuals and Cultural Activists The fiercest and most vocal opponents of manele are intellectuals, closely followed by cultural activists. Over the years, both groups have caustically voiced their opposition to manele while also stating the reasons for their indignation. First, manele allegedly contain a reprehensible “Oriental” element, and the Orient is synonymous with “laziness, moral decay, vice, and corruption” (Eugen Lovinescu, quoted in Oişteanu 200151). This is a point that Romanians are uncomfortable with because it alludes to the “shameful” historical period when part of present-day Romania was under Ottoman suzerainty (the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries and the first two decades of the nineteenth century). Second, manele extol money and debauchery, therefore they undermine public mores. Their lyrics are vulgar and have no artistic value, thus they undermine the education of the members of society as well. Since they are also cosmopolitan, manele undermine the pure “genuine folklore” (also termed “our forefathers’ folklore” or “millennial folklore”). (The last opinion is spread mainly by cultural activists who spent their youth internalizing the official national-communist ideas and now spend their later years and old age handing down these ideas to their successors.) Toward the end of the 1990s, some intellectuals suggested a ban on manele in public space. However, their more rational colleagues rejected the idea, considering it unacceptable. The intellectuals who do not express themselves publicly content themselves with voicing their outrage in small circles. In their struggle against manele, however, they are often much more efficient: as teachers, they instill their students with hatred and scorn for manele, and the young people end up sharing or mimicking these feelings to show solidarity with prestigious adults. Some of them produce their own antimanea discourse, whose virulence is comparable to that of the seniors. A typical case is that of a group of anonymous people from Galaţi who launched the “Anti-Manea Campaign of Romania” on the Internet, vainly hoping to convert it into an ample national movement. In their manifesto, they assert that We live at a time of universal illusion. A time when ordinary values are proclaimed artifacts of our own excellence; a time when the purpose of human existence is reduced to a minimum of routines and preset patterns. Such a pattern is the manelist subculture, an artistic and social tendency that encourages radical selfishness, obscenity, extreme attachment to material trifles, debauchery, and theft, all for personal pleasure. Most of the higher values evoked by intellectuals are sidelined in this culture of narcissism and



Actors and Performance 153 ignorance. The outcome is a monotonous life that transforms us into base, primitive creatures—a flock of sheep incapable of emancipation.52

The authors of negative public discourse avoid mentioning an important consideration of most adversaries of manele: with few exceptions, their composers and performers are Roma. The main reason is that a politically incorrect statement referencing this could discredit them in their world. But there is also a more subtle aspect: Romani musicians have generally been less exposed to racial prejudice than other Roma. They have even enjoyed appreciation and sympathy as professionals and cautious, conditional acceptance as ethnic Romani (fellow) citizens.53 On the other hand, some ordinary people, mostly from the very low, uneducated strata of society, do not see any reason to stifle their abysmal racial hatred. The following is a brutal, virulent Internet post, dating from 4 August 2009, of an unknown person (whose almost illiterate comment was elicited at that time by the appearance of an anti-manea virus): “Wake up, Romania. . . . A clever guy, a true-blue Romanian is he who created this virus which is a blessing for Romania clean up this country guys of the Gypsy filth if you can make more versions that block every computer which stomachs the stench of Gypsy music on a par with Romanian music. Bravo.” Whatever the case, defamatory discourses only raise tension between fans (most of whom are average people) and their real or alleged adversaries (most of whom are intellectuals or people with intellectual ambitions) and indirectly keep the manele in the public eye. Under their pressure, some of the citizens of Romania have become active fighters against manele, while others take up positions on the fans’ side, to which I refer below.

ROMA AND THE AMBIGUITY OF THEIR POSITION Ordinary Roma seldom show aversion to manele. In the last decade and a half, the manele have been so insistently attributed to them by their prestigious denigrators that, more or less persuaded, they have ended up accepting them.54 Rejecting manele may be tantamount to dissociation from their fellow ethnics. Are there any Roma willing to take such a risk? Well, there are: the old-style lăutari, who also prefer to be called “Gypsies” (ţigani). First of all, they claim that manele are definitely not “Gypsy” (S. Rădulescu 2004). Second, they think that manele are a derisory kind of music that they must learn if they want to survive in the market and which they perceive as a professional disgrace. The argument that they bring forth is, rather unusually, aesthetic: lăutari usually claim that the value of a song, genre, or musical style lies in its marketability. Nevertheless, the best lăutari, especially those with old repertoires and traditional styles, are aware of the cultural value of the songs that they perform and feel that it is their duty to propagate them. According to the older, downtrodden lăutari (and this brings us to the gist of the issue), the manea makers, who are at the same time their rivals, are often young impostors who, due to their

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ability to handle high-tech equipment, get undeserved success, depriving the lăutari of the customs that they know best. The last argument puts the commercial criterion back in place as one that matters decisively in their profession.55 Up to a point, the veterans are right: it is true that regular manelişti are sometimes mediocre or poor musicians, but those at the top are excellent instrumentalists and some even experts in lăutar music, the acid test of their profession. The Politicians In the conflict between fans and adversaries, the politicians hold a duplicitous position. On the one hand, it is in their interest to give satisfaction to young voters, many of whom are manea fans or sympathizers. On the other hand, they cannot ignore the intellectuals, opinion leaders who may reignite the fire of stigmatization campaigns at any moment. Between a rock and a hard place, the politicians have chosen to dodge clear statements about this sensitive issue. Still, during election campaigns, every political party applies for the services of one or other manelist-star and his band. No matter what his personal political options are, the manelist accepts to join one political side or another, writes a special manea for the politician’s party, and accompanies low-ranking candidates on their trips out of the capital and to the countryside. The Media The National Audiovisual Council of Romania is the institution that decides, among other things, what may be broadcast and what may not, for example, what is moral, decent, educational, politically correct, etc. The Council vigilantly and severely penalizes the media operators who do not comply with its decisions. Out of carelessness and in an unofficial context, one of its members opined that manele are a musical genre “for Romanians with simple minds.” I have reason to believe that this opinion is shared by all the members of the institution, although never overtly expressed. Fearing possible repercussions, as well as “public opinion” (i.e., the hyper-acidic opinion of intellectuals with a high public profile), the national radio and television have decided to keep manele entirely out of their programs. Although their courage is mixed with caution, major television channels Pro TV, Antena 1, and Prima TV do broadcast manele in entertainment shows, sometimes under the politically hypercorrect pretext of allocating air time to the culture of the Romani minority. But some minor private channels established later have broadcast manele without any reservations. The most active are Taraf-TV, Mynele, Balkanika, and Euforia. Some of them have also found a way to make the broadcasting of manele attractive and profitable: by phone and for a charge, viewers can request songs for dedications and give a “vote” to each song.



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Despite the tricks used by television personnel to cast an aura of glamor and enliven them, television manele are as pale as those produced by manelişti in their own recording studios. Performed for “machines” instead of people in flesh and blood, they are not adjusted to specific circumstances and therefore do not incorporate many of the events and features that are part of their live performances. They do not necessarily serve as support for dance, they do not feature the comments of the vocalists, the “dedications” of the audience are not visible, and there are no cash tips counted before everyone’s eyes. In brief, media manele are deprived of the components that lend them dynamism. Moreover, in most cases they are standardized just like media “folklore,” which makes lip-synching possible. The manelişti are fully aware of the difference between the rigid manele of television shows and live ones from weddings and nightclubs. It is true that television shows are important because they put manele in the public eye and ear and bring them clients, but they do not present them in all their glamour, and most of all they do not provide feedback, the pulse of the market that they need so much. That is the reason why some of the manelişti prefer to communicate with young people directly, via the Internet.

CONCLUSION I will now reiterate the question posed at the beginning of this chapter in a slightly rephrased form: Who contributes to the promotion of manele, implicitly supporting this long-lasting fashion? To what extent, and for what reasons? The most important contribution is perhaps that of the manelişti because it is they who invent manele, most often perform them, and have the most explicit interest in keeping them in vogue. In their footsteps follow the young lăutari, although they do not compose them but only reproduce them at a rather modest level, making efforts through them to access benefits similar to the manele of their rivals. But the manelişti would not invent them and the young lăutari would not join them in disseminating manele unless they relied on the complicity of three categories of fans: young people, “wiseguys,” and emigrants. Their respective reasons are all different. The manelişti want to squeeze thoroughly a recipe that brings profit and prestige. The young wish to perpetuate a music with an appearance of modernity and originality that enables them to stand out and express themselves. The “wiseguys” have an acute need of an emblem of social power that they either hold or aspire to, a symbol that, through skillful use, can help to strengthen their power. Finally, the emigrants are in need of something from home that will make the drama of their estrangement more bearable. What they all have in common is the belief in the absolute power of money, nurtured by an unstable, disoriented Romanian society undermined by the corruption in which they live or originate. On the promoters’ team, the manelişti, lăutari, young people, “wiseguys,” and emigrants are not equal partners. Many lăutari take up manele out of the need to

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survive and earn a comfortable living in the music market. As for ordinary young people, they are enthusiastic but duped accomplices: embracing the offer of the illusion-peddlers, they dream of Power and Wealth that only the manelişti and “wiseguys” really fully possess. In fact, they are poor and insignificant. But, like everyone else, they contribute, with simulated innocence, to the “depraved system,”56 because they think there is no other way: they bribe anyone and are bribed by anyone who does or requires a legal or illegal favor. They believe that bribes are the “right” of the strongest.57 They provide or ask for contacts, they cheat in exams, they give short weight; in other words, they do whatever they can to attain the ideal of wealth and power. Although, in principle, they may not agree with the “depraved system,” they have grown accustomed to it and have learned to activate it for more or less significant rewards or just to survive. That is the reason they side with the rich and powerful, with those who are adroit enough to manipulate it for a maximum of profit. The emigrants, most of whom are young people from rural areas, have other reasons. Many have lost the illusion of getting rich overnight but still keep it in their memory as an enticing dream, expressed in manele. The range of their options includes other music that could populate their estrangement. But the music of their parents is too outmoded and at variance with the modern life they lead in a foreign country; “folklore” is too artificial and phony, and popular music does not ring a familiar bell. Whereas the manele are “from home” and speak to them in present-day language about events and feelings of the present, they are at the same time comparable to the popular music to which the Western people among whom they live listen. They either take this music with them (in the commodified form of CDs) or make superhuman financial efforts to invite bands of manelişti from Romania to the countries in which they work. When on vacation, they go home, organize weddings, throw parties, and trumpet their success with a band of manelişti brought from nearby cities. The strong position that persists of manele in the landscape of oral music in Romania is the result of interaction between the musicians (broadly speaking, manelişti, muzicanţi, and lăutari), audiences (which subsume a significant number of passive and active adversaries), media, and critics. The first group proposes a music that still gives them a chance for considerable profit—a music that, on the whole, is Romanian despite the “foreign” elements it incorporates. The audiences take a stand on this music, accepting, rejecting, or formulating reservations and opinions about it. All of this happens against the background of public discourses that attempt to influence one side or the other. Government milieus, unwilling to take risks and afraid of quarrels, have chosen to ignore manele. Unlike them, private media are trying to keep up without bothering their adversaries too much. Manele are gradually entering the logic of Euro-American popular musics, however, which withdraw from public attention after a short while, following competition from other music. The statistics of 2010 and 2011 have already recorded their decline. Whatever the case, a fact that I am convinced of is worth remembering: local elements crossbred with “Oriental” and European elements and pigmented with “exotic” elements from other sources seem to satisfy average Romanians. It is hard to tell for how long. When the



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book you are holding in your hand now is published, the manele perhaps will have changed so much as to bear a new name. Even so, the Oriental component that has marked their course and is still present in the structure of most will probably endure or come to the foreground of popular music culture again in Romania as it has been doing for the last two centuries, every few decades (S. Rădulescu 2000). The pages above show how young musicians of today are gradually and continuously distancing themselves from part of their audiences. They no longer accept to be mere executants of music imposed by customs or required by clients; they aspire to be artists who offer their listeners the musical works and changes they deem fit, reformatting their tastes in the process. Even when they take a specific order, apparently keeping within the confines of traditional obedience, they present the requested song in unexpected timbral, harmonic, and orchestral forms quite remote from tradition. The audiences no longer penalize excessive novelty as they used to because they are no longer competent enough, and their attention is drawn by the tunes rather than the timbres and harmonies. When they become manelişti, the young lăutari take more steps in a different direction: any time the circumstances allow them, they openly favor a minority with considerable financial resources to the detriment of simple people. In other words, they strongly underscore a social hierarchy based entirely on money: the hierarchy of the present time. From the ranks of the manelişti, the stars are born. From the ranks of their audiences, a division occurs between the sympathizers and fans on one side and the enemies of manele on the other. The transformation described here concerns in fact the metamorphosis of certain Romanian oral music into manele. After an ample, fertile incursion into the musical world of the Balkans at the beginning, they are now more firmly fixed in the “NorthAmerican footstall . . . of modern popular musics” (Martin 2000:458), preserving at the same time the tradition of continuously and massively incorporating various musical elements from the most varied and unpredictable sources. This transformation takes place as the country becomes more westernized, for example, as the power center of cosmopolitanism gradually shifts from the southeast to the west, without entirely distancing itself from the original center: the Balkan world (Turino 2003).

NOTES 1. The exception refers to “folklore”—the body of traditional musics, “adjusted” and reformatted for performance in concerts or broadcasts. It was mainly promoted by institutions named “folkloric ensembles” [ansambluri folclorice] and “popular orchestras” [orchestre populare]. For details see also note 2. 2.  At the beginning of the communist period (the late 1940s), the terms folclor and muzică populară were synonymous, hence interchangeable, and to some extent they are so now. As such they entered the current vocabulary of the common people. However, the latter term is becoming inadequate because it makes the translation, adoption, and adaptation of the English phrase popular music impossible.

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3.  In the communist period, there were over forty folkloric ensembles in Romania, one for each county plus several in the capital city, to which were added ensembles financed by various institutions: factories, ministries, unions, the army, the Securitate [secret police], etc. Today, the number of folkloric ensembles has dwindled, and so has the number of musicians employed by each separate ensemble. 4.  Knowledge of musical notation is a quality that popular musicians greatly admire. 5. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-1-1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-1-2-mic.png. 6.  The music generically known as café concert includes arrangements of popular academic works (by Mozart, Brahms, Schubert, Sarasate, Fritz Kreisler, etc.). 7. The name muzicant excludes academic musicians, named muzicieni (sg. muzician), as well as those specializing in popular musics (such as rock, pop, hip-hop) who are: soloist, singer, bassist, guitarist, drummer, etc. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-2-1-mic .png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-2-2-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-2-3-mic.png. 8.  It must be remembered that the muzicanţi (as well as lăutari) know the names of notes and tonalities and use them when they cooperate in their small bands called tarafuri (sg. taraf). What they do ignore (or know very little) is musical notation. 9.  Women—usually singers or singer-accordionists—have occasionally been included in tarafuri in the last forty years. 10.  National musics, also called “national arias” by the lăutari, are oral works generally composed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, widespread all over Romania and emblematic for the nation and the country. 11.  “Party music” [muzică de petrecere] is a mixtum compositum that includes urban oral musics and authors’ songs stylistically similar to urban oral musics. 12. A taraf used to be made up of members of the same nuclear or extended family. In the last decades, however, some of the children of musician families have abandoned their fathers’ trade. Today, musicians band together following other criteria: the degree to which the instruments that they play complement each other, affinities of style and repertoire, friendship, vicinity, and circumstantial availability. 13. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-3-1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-3-2-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-3-3-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-3-4-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/ manele-i/ch3/3-3-5-mic.png. 14.  In his book Fabricants d’émotion. Musique et malice dans un village tsigane de Roumanie, Victor Stoichiţă portrays the muzicanţi in relation to the lăutari. In his opinion, the latter are different in “leur flexibilité extrême, qui leur permet de s’adapter à toutes sortes de publics et de situations” (2008:19–20). 15.  Some obligations concern behavior: the lăutari must drink in moderation and behave courteously with all the guests, play a “march” whenever guests make their appearance, and satisfy the express musical demands and requirements of those present irrespective of their social status. Other obligations refer to the musical performance proper: the lăutari must know the pieces inextricably bound to the ritual moments (if there are any), the most cherished music in the particular region, and as much other “fashionable” music as possible. The employer often puts them to a test on the last requirement before signing the contract. 16.  The tips are added to the remuneration agreed to in the contract. Their value has a direct influence on the duration of the pieces performed on request. For example, someone



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who requests a dance tune and pays a €100 tip will be entitled to listen to the music and lead the collective dance himself for a long time (twenty minutes); another one, who requests a different tune, paying only fifty lei (about €15), must content himself with only a few minutes of music and dance (Ciuperceni, Gorj County, 2008). 17. In the first half of the twentieth century, lăutari who displeased their clients were severely punished: they were beaten, forced to climb trees and perform there in awkward positions (“Play, crow!”—an allusion to their Romani origin), or their backs were smeared with tar or coal, and their instruments were broken, etc. Today, the musicians from a Moldovan village smile as they make fun of their Romanian peasant clients during a break in the Romani language, labeling them as uneducated and primitive (Stoichiţă 2008, personal communication). Unhappy guests accumulate frustrations that sometimes degenerate into violent scuffles. 18.  In recent years, I have attended a few wedding banquets in which, with or without the express order of the bridegroom’s father, the manele either were altogether absent or performed sparingly, only toward the end of the banquet, often scattered within local music. 19.  In the musicians’ jargon, to “put out a song” means either to popularize or to compose it (Stoichiţă 2008:54–5), using, to a large extent, tunes or melodic phrases from preexisting musical pieces. 20. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-4-1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-4-2-mic.png. 21.  Indeed, when they receive a lot of money, the manelişti throw it in the air with a gesture that mixes contempt and satiation. Then one of them gathers it and puts it in a bag. 22. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-5-1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-5-2-mic.png. 23.  Such retaliations are thoroughly described in blogs, forums, and tabloids. 24.  In Soviet Ukraine, Adriana Helbig notes that “Similarly, Roma (Gypsies) were represented as exoticized nomads, deeply steeped in their cultural practices through films such as Tabor Ukhodyt v Nebo [Camp descends to the heavens] (Helbig 2014:149). In everyday life’s reality, lăutari, who have been sedentary Roma for centuries, disdain their fellow ethnics, the nomadic Roma. They consider themselves superior to other Roma, from which they distinguish themselves. For example, many lăutari prefer to call themselves and be called “Gypsy”: “We are Gypsies, not Roma who steal on TV,” claimed a female singer and accordionist from the village of Tomeni, Olt County (2000). 25.  Lăutar music (also named Gypsy lăutar music) was created by lăutari in the southern cities of Romania for their own social events, probably at the beginning of the twentieth century. Soon muzică lăutărească became the simple urban people’s favorite and emblematic music. 26.  For wedding rituals, clients also hire a band of lăutari: a taraf. The taraf is usually requested before the marriage ceremony and wedding party for the wedding “customs” carried out in the bride and groom’s yards, at crossroads, by the nearest public fountain, etc. The lăutari, more modest and tractable, are willing to make physical efforts without hesitation to do “what must be done,” that is, perform walking at the head of the wedding retinue, without amplification, in the cold, in the rain, in the heat of the sun, in the crowd. 27. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=3-6-video.html&ch=ch3. 28.  Pro Nuptia is one of the companies that provides complete nuptial services, which include Western-inspired sequences: torchlight-lined church alley, doves released upon the newlyweds’ exit from the church, removal of the bride’s garter by the bridegroom with his teeth, production of a sentimental wedding video, etc. 29. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=1-25-video.html&ch=ch1.

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30.  As an objective point of reference, at a wedding in the village of Ciuperceni (Gorj County), which took place in the summer of 2008, we measured the intensity of the music performed in the groom’s yard: 98 decibels. We must also mention that the wedding in question was less noisy than others, especially city weddings. 31. The appreciations are “prompted” to the vocalist by a close friend or relative of the groom’s family. 32.  Manelişti are often accused of plagiarism. To them, the accusation seems absurd: in their culture, the new/renewed pieces are most often reworked versions of those already in circulation, whose origin is irrelevant. Somebody recently accused the manelist Adrian Minune of using without permission the tune of pop singer Rihanna’s hit “Man Down” (see http://www .libertatea.ro/detalii/articol/adrian-minune-despre-maneaua-man-down-rihanna-s-a-inspirat -din-muzica-balcanica-356890.html, accessed 28 January 2014; see also chapter 3). 33.  Making a dedication runs like this: Guest X hands a hefty tip to the manelist, asking him to dedicate a manea to Guest Z (followed by the mentioning of the social position of Z and the friendship or kinship that binds them). Before performing the requested song, the manelist conveys on the microphone the information about Z given by X, adding a few additional praises on his own initiative. 34.  The vocalist and the first violinist often walk a few meters away from the other members of the ensemble to be physically closer to the addressee. The powerful amplification of the instruments allows everyone to keep in synch without seeing one another. 35.  This information was given to me by a close acquaintance of such manelişti. 36. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=3-7-video.html&ch=ch3. 37. http://manele-in-romania.ro/video.php?video=3-7-video.html&ch=ch3. 38.  According to an opinion poll by the Center for Urban and Regional Sociology and the Center for Media Studies and New Communication Technologies, in 2005, 32.8 percent of teenagers between eleven and fourteen, and 21.9 percent of teenagers between fifteen and eighteen were manea fans (Cobuz 2006). 39.  From my conversation with a CD seller from the Bucharest Bucur Obor department store (September 2011), I learned that manea CD sales have plummeted. The only buyers left are emigrant workers and poor young people (Romanians and Roma) who cannot afford a computer. The others download manele from the Internet. 40.  This information was provided by music teacher Nicola Mazilu: in the school attended mostly by Roma where she works, students harass unlikable teachers with the manea ringtones of their cell phones. 41. In the preliminary discussions between the patrons and musicians, the former pin down their preferences: the instruments they are keen to hear, the categories of songs they like or dislike, the regional music they want to give precedence to, etc. 42.  It is interesting that young people who have stayed in Romania (unemployed and living off their parents’ small pensions) also sometimes adopt the attitude of “winners,” giving orders and showing contempt. Some arrogantly turn down jobs that pay below their expectations; others are revolted by the toughening of school exams, which have recently shown that their instruction and competencies do not justify their pecuniary pretensions, etc. 43.  Quarrels in public between young and old guests have been described in detail to us by lăutari from the Piţigoi family (from Târgu Cărbuneşti, Gorj County) as well as from the Cinoi family from the village of Glina (Ilfov County). 44.  The group was famous in international show business in the 1990s and 2000s.



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45.  The truth is that no one can tell if, by preserving the repertoire and “old” style of their parents for a longer time, the young musicians would have actually secured long-term international success. In show business, a band that wants to keep on top must substantially renew itself with every public appearance and every released CD. This means that the modernizing changes of the music from Clejani would have been inevitable at any rate. 46.  By “wiseguys” [şmecheri], ordinary people mean the well-to-do whom everyone knows (or suspects) have acquired their wealth by illegal means. The “wiseguy” category also includes many politicians. 47.  “Des formes de gaspillage pratiquées en général dans les classes sociales élevées afin de produire des comportements et des situations fonctionnant comme symbole de « statut » social, de pouvoir et donc comme instruments d’émulation compétitives du prestige individuel.” 48. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-8-1-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania .ro/manele-i/ch3/3-8-2-mic.png; http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch3/3-8-3-mic.png. 49.  Speranţa Rădulescu and Anca Giurchescu gave lectures titled “The manea as a phenomenon, the manea as a subject of public debate” in March and April of 2011 that were financed by Erste Stiftung (Vienna) through its Patterns Program. 50.  It is interesting that in the case of muzică lăutărească, anti-Romani prejudice shared by many Romanians seems to be suspended. 51.  Eugen Lovinescu was a literary critic during the interwar period. 52.  The excerpt is from the http://www.antimanelero.evonet.ro/, accessed 11 August 2009. 53.  This kind of nuanced social appraisal is hard to put in a few, penetrating words, so it is better left unsaid; for a detailed account of this situation, see Beissinger (2001). 54.  Many ordinary Roma, however, claim that there are “Romani manele” and “Gagican [non-Romani] manele.” The only criterion that sets them apart seems to be the language of the lyrics (S. Rădulescu 2004). 55.  About the grievance of old-style lăutari against manele, see also Bonini Baraldi (2013). 56.  This expression is recurrent in Romanian public discourses, especially in those of opposition parties. 57.  The expression “I-am dat dreptul lui X” [I gave X the right], X being a police officer, judge, bureaucrat, or teacher, is part of the Romanian vernacular. 58.  In the original, “le socle nord-américain (ou afro-euro-indo-americain) des musiques populaires moderns.”

6 The “Boyar in the Helicopter” Power, Parody, and Carnival in Manea Performances Victor Alexandre Stoichiţă

When I was poor, I was praying to become rich to humiliate my enemies as they were humiliating me. But the wheel of life turned; I no longer see life from underneath; I see life from above ’cause God is on my side. —Gicuţă din Apărători1

MUSIC OF THE NEW TIMES In Romania, the manea (pl. manele) has been a popular musical genre for more than twenty years, especially amongst the younger generations. One may hear manele on television and buy recorded media on many popular markets, along with fruit and vegetables. However, this chapter concerns primarily their live performances, which occur at events such as weddings, christenings, village fairs, and nightly in some pubs.2 In Romania, the word manea has come to designate a wide musical and choreographic array (see Giurchescu and S. Rădulescu 2011, chapter 1). Here I will use it in a narrow sense, to designate what is arguably the epicentre of the phenomenon: a song and a dance, based on one of these rhythms (see figures/examples 6.1a, b). This is also the most frequent understanding of the word by musicians in performance contexts. Manele can be performed on all kinds of instruments, but the most emblematic songs are always played with amplification and synthetic sounds. 163

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Figure 6.1 (a & b).  Manea rhythms Notation: Victor Stoichiţă

The musicians who perform manele are usually ethnic Roma. They are called lăutari or manelişti. Lăutari generally denote professional musicians playing on demand.3 Manelişti refer to performers who specialize in manele, a skill that some lăutari may acquire. Broadly speaking, the manea tradition is deeply rooted in Romani professional music-making. It should be stressed, however, that according to manea performers, there are far more Romanian than Romani clients for the genre (S. Rădulescu 2004). It seems unlikely indeed that the Romani minority (which represents only 3.08 percent of the population according to the 2011 national survey4) could account for such a large phenomenon. Manele are often criticised in Romania for their alleged immorality and low aesthetic value (Giurchescu and S. Rădulescu, chapter 1; Schiop, chapter 7). Their lyrics touch upon sensuality, quick money-making, pride, and violence. They often use slang words and turns of regional or popular grammar (commented upon as nongrammatical in the “educated” world). “Educated” people tend to think that manea songs voice the opinions and thoughts of the “underworld.” They note the revengeful tone of some songs, of which the epigraph of the present chapter may be an example. Once peripheral, the underworld is said to have taken control of the whole society since 1989. In the following, a sample of such criticism, the author writes for an online journal and refers to himself as an assistant lecturer: The life of the manelişti and their fans is centred on money, kitsch, explicit sexuality, “cunning” [şmecherie], and playing with the boundaries of law and society. The ostentatious display of wealth has become a value in itself, the promotion of the disregard of moral norms seems like second nature, and to “not give a damn” about the law is the crowning achievement of their success. The manele are the soundscape of non-culture, “parties” held at midnight in the middle of the street, clan violence, and the moral



The “Boyar in the Helicopter” 165 construction of a new and parallel world: the world of informal business, neighbourhood Mafiosi, and the dismantling of an already shaky society. (Tasenţe 2010)

The position of manele in Romanian society is puzzling in several respects. Firstly, it is surprising how little debate surrounds comments such as the above. Although manea lovers do have access to all kinds of media (e.g., two television channels are entirely devoted to the genre), they do not seem to care to reply. When they do, their main argument is about freedom. Here is how Bogdan (a twenty-year-old manea fan from Bucharest) puts it in an interview: The . . . educated people, or those who pretend to be so, they have like a . . . restraint when it comes to manele. They have prejudice. People from the countryside or suburb districts, they don’t have this kind of complex. They are not stressed by this. They don’t fear so much how they’ll be judged by others. They are . . . freer. They do what they want and what they like. (Bogdan L., profession unclear, Bucharest, 2010)

In Bogdan’s opinion, this freedom does not necessarily imply disrespect for the morals and institutions of the country. His point is rather that “ordinary people” feel freer to joke about these things than elites do. It is not the manea that is “marked” in this view, but the elites’ position. They have a “complex,” “stress,” a need to assert something. They cannot just have fun, instead taking the manea more seriously than they should. Many fans whom I have met considered that there was no need to debate this any further. It is true that on the critics’ side, the manea is hardly ever discussed as a simple musical genre. The standard conversation would rather point to it as an omen signalling the end of society or the state and maybe the dangers of freedom . . . manea lovers are portrayed as unfortunate folk who have been brainwashed by communist dictatorship and savage capitalism, irresponsible hipsters, or plainly vicious delinquents. During my fieldwork in Bucharest, I collected, often involuntarily, many specimens of such “sociological” analyses. They appeared in (non-) discussions, which often shared the same pattern. Someone would ask what I was doing, I would answer that I was conducting research on manele, and my interlocutor would reply: Păi, să-ţi spun eu cum e cu manelele astea [Well, let me tell you how things are with these manele . . .]. A self-assured explanation would follow, involving considerations on lack of education, “Gypsiness,” moral perversion, and quite often also the Ottoman legacy, communism, and the transition era. Over the course of one year, I heard the “Let me tell you how things are” from people as diverse as a history professor, jazz man, rock singer, English teacher, philosopher, railway engineer, and radio animator. I was often surprised by the strong confidence which seemed to drive them on these occasions. Their implicit advice (which some formulated explicitly) was that there was no point in studying the manea. Not only was the phenomenon ugly and immoral, it was also self-evident. There is, of course, a persistent gap between “elite” and “folk” people in Romania as in its neighboring countries. Sugarman (2007) has stressed that this kind of discussion surrounds new popular musics in virtually all the societies of southeastern

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Europe. She has proposed that “while some might characterize such discourses as elitist, xenophobic, or even racist, a more sympathetic examination of them can highlight the ways that such musics bring into focus the tensions that have emerged in all these countries over the past fifteen years in the face of massive political and economic change” (Sugarman 2007:290). Where democracy and free markets have challenged the role of the elites as an arbiter of culture, “elite criticisms of commercial folk music can be seen as attempts to shore up a sense of self-worth in the face of a system that has denied them both social and economic recognition” (Sugarman 2007:292). It is, of course, difficult to demonstrate (or to contradict) such an analysis but it seems at least plausible in the Romanian context, too. It may be added, however, that the critical discourse is often endorsed even by people who actually enjoy these kinds of music. It is true in the Albanian communities where Sugarman has studied: “We’re the criminals of Albanian music,” a producer of muzika popullore (the local equivalent of manele) told her, “and you too are a criminal because you like this music” (2007:269). It is also true in Romania, where I met quite a few manea fans who seemed just happy to concede that their beloved musical genre was sonic rubbish for the fools and perverts. One could sometimes sense a kind of teenage defiance in this provocative attitude. Sometimes my “elite” status could also have triggered a duplicity learned over decades of dictatorship (my interlocutors would just tell me what people like me wanted to hear). But sometimes I had known my interlocutors for years and knew that teasing and making fun of everyone (themselves included) was amongst their favorite ways of interacting. Some of my Romani friends, in particular, liked to behave that way. It is striking that double meanings and irony are totally absent from the critical analyses mentioned above. In such theories, manea lovers are always supposed to be serious about the music. Hence, many sophisticated theories about manele are grounded, paradoxically, on the most rudimentary assumption: that songs represent the inner thoughts and feelings of those who like them. But seeing the way the listeners enjoy themselves during manea performances, and knowing the daily humor of some of them, it is highly implausible that irony and (self-)parody would not come into play at some point. Maybe the greatest misunderstanding between “the elite” and “the folk” stems from this: the former do not recognize that the latter can use double meanings and ironies which are not at all transparent. Generally speaking, a rigorous analysis cannot assume that listeners simply endorse the semantic and emotional content of music, and especially not of party music. Parties are usually understood by their participants as “special” time-spaces, where people behave according to motivations unusual to them. “Disconnection” is a key expectation in this respect, in Romania as elsewhere. Party musics are best understood as “techniques of enchantment” (Gell 1988; 1992) that immerse the listeners into artificial universes. In Romania, the lăutari seek to manipulate not only the emotions of their listeners (Stoichiţă 2008) but also their cognitive focusing (Stoichiţă 2009) and their sensations of space and time (Stoichiţă 2013a). This enchanted auditory universe is built into interaction with the participants and enables



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them to live unusual emotional and relational experiences that would not be available to them otherwise (Amy de la Bretèque and Stoichiţă 2012; Stoichiţă 2013b). So why do local critics try to read the past and the future of the country in what could be a playful musical genre? Is there really a link between the success of the manea and the post-communist times? The genre may have older musical roots (Giurchescu and S. Rădulescu, chapter 1; Beissinger 2007; Oişteanu 2001), but it is obvious that it also plays on ideas related to the free market, cultural democracy, and political freedoms that were unavailable before 1989. The problem is that in manele such ideas are not implemented in a “civilized” way. They are rather unleashed with all their savage potential. Could this reflect how they were implemented and understood in Romanian society, too? The analysis proposed here arrives at conclusions similar to those of Sugarman (2007), but through a different path. It insists on the ironic and parodic potential of the manea, which seems to have been overlooked by other analysts. The first section deals with the emotions of power that listeners often describe as the core of their musical experience. It traces these feelings to textual, interactional, and musical characteristics of the manea. The second part discusses the listeners’ ambiguous involvement with these emotions. This leads to the suggestion that manele re-instantiate a model of behavior that was once linked with both carnivals and political upheavals. It is the double nature of revolutions to turn the world upside down (as in Gicuţă’s song quoted in the epigraph on p. 163). Whether this is temporary or permanent is yet unclear for many Romanians. I suggest that rather than “saying” something about this, the musical time-space enables the participants to play themselves with the contradictions of this uncertain situation. So let me tell you how things are with these manele.

EMOTIONS OF POWER Whether local commentators like the manea or not, most of them agree that it plays with ideas and feelings of power: economical, physical, sexual, and even religious (when God is depicted helping the successful manea fan). This impression can be traced to three distinct factors: the lyrics of the songs, the “tipping” interactions during live parties, and the sound constructs themselves. These aspects are described briefly below. Lyrics of Power Consider the following lyrics, by Little Sorin the Kid [Sorinel Puştiu] (see example 6.2):5 Cine-i mare barosan,6 barosan de barosan, barosanul “number one”?

Who’s the big boss, the boss among bosses, the boss “number one”?

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Are bani în buzunar. Are bani, da are bani, da are bani şi are femei; da am şi bani, da am şi bani, da să moară duşmanii mei! Da, da, da, sunt mare barosan; da, da, da, sunt şmecher7“number one”; da, da, da, sunt şmecher, bogat; am multă putere, ca un împărat.8

His pockets are full of cash. He’s got cash, he’s got cash, he’s got cash and women; yes, I’ve also got cash, I’ve also got cash, and may my enemies die! Yes, yes, yes, I’m a big boss; Yes, yes, yes, I’m the clever “number one”; Yes, yes, yes, I’m clever and rich; I have a lot of power, like an emperor.

Not only do the lyrics enhance economic power but the words barosan and şmecher are idiomatic slang words, which most Romanian speakers are likely to attribute to Roma and/or the Mafia underworld. The lyrics are made up of clear statements such as “I am the big boss” or “I am clever and rich.” The most straightforward interpretation would attribute the “I” pronoun to the singer. This is hardly possible in the case of manele, however. They are deeply rooted in the tradition of lăutari, who are not supposed to “express themselves.” They are generally perceived as “emotion makers” rather than actual senders of the feelings that their music evokes (Stoichiţă 2008). This is true of “traditional” lăutari in the countryside but also of modern manelişti from the capital. The following is an excerpt of a conversation with Felix, a manea performer (we are talking here about a manea with the lyrics: Sunt şmecher număru unu;/cad doi când dau cu pumnu. [I’m clever Number One;/and when I hit with my fist, two of them fall.]): These songs are to big up the wiseguys [şmecheri]. They are usually drunk and they are pleased to hear such things about themselves. They really get inflated like roosters. The lăutari are the craftiest, slyest, falsest people. All they want is to please. Because these guys are also dangerous. There have also been unpleasant situations in which musicians have been hit by guys like these. Then you may even say that the guy is stronger than God! Just to please him, to . . . “Ok, that’s enough! Bravo! You are free now, you may go!” There are many lăutari, maybe most of them, and I would even say that there is no lăutar who has never been “terrorized” in his career. Especially here, in the capital. You will have occasions to see such “terrorizations.” If you want, you will. Heh, heh! [laughs]. (Felix, keyboard player, age thirty-seven, interview, Bucharest, 2009)

The idea that musicians are expected to serve and fulfil the fancies of their audiences is clear for all the lăutari whom I have met. Their music has complicated relations with truth and actual facts. The main job of the lăutar, for which he gets paid, is to build an enchanted world for the listener, maybe a world where he would be stronger even than God, like in Felix’s comment. It is also clear that songs about “tough guys,” as in the ones mentioned above, are not only for “tough guys.” Listeners may also command them to “pretend” or for more subtle effects, as we shall see later. At any rate, whether the singer believes or



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not that he himself is a rich and powerful person does not matter when he sings the manea. It would actually be inappropriate for him to boast publicly about his own well-being during a live performance. In the usual paradigm of lăutar performance, when Little Sorin the Kid sings “I’m the boss,” listeners do not even suspect that he could actually mean it for himself. Tips and Agencies The disconnection is enforced by the practice of tipping the musicians while they play. This is actually an old way of paying professional musicians in Central and Eastern Europe (Noll 1991; Pettan 1996; Pettan 2002:245). It attains however an unprecedented level in Romania with the manele. It is while they play manele that listeners are most likely to interrupt the musicians to offer them money. The amount may range from ten to several hundreds of lei (Romanian currency; i.e., $3–$300). The money is called a “tip” [bacşiş] but sometimes also a “bribe” [şpagă]. For maximum impact, it can be given in several steps: €50 now, €50 some seconds later, then another €50. Alternatively, the giver may have prepared a wad of smaller banknotes and pours it slowly onto the singer’s head or at his feet. This is a clear sign of economic power. Even a simple one hundred lei bacşiş, which is not uncommon, is a significant amount of money compared to the legal minimum wage of six hundred lei per month. Some listeners are said to use manele in this way to gain renown in public spaces. Felix (professional keyboard player): So there are people who really correspond to what the manea says. There are others who do not really correspond, but who want to pretend that they are what they are not. So if they have maybe one hundred or one hundred fifty in their pocket9 and are in a restaurant, and at the table nearby sits someone who . . . let’s say it is a clever guy [şmecher], a guy from the underworld [interlop]; then they may want to show off, to assert themselves, and this is how they do it: they give money to the lăutari: “My name is So-and-so”; “From Popescu, fifty”; “A greeting of fifty lei”; “From Popescu again”; . . . and so on. They want to assert their name, to make themselves a name. This is why the şmecheri and the underworld guys have used manele to such a great extent. If it were not for the manele, I doubt that they would have become so famous. V.S.: And why would they want to become famous? Felix: Power! They want to dominate!

The lăutari know well that not only rich people give bacşiş. Under the influence of alcohol, good music, and collective emulation, many listeners go “over the top” and even sometimes transform into Mafioso wannabes. Felix [continuing the previous discussion]: And then, gradually, even those who did not have the pride or cleverness disease—or they may have had it but not so much— they started to borrow these things from the clever guys [şmecheri]. Everyone wants to be clever. Everyone, ’specially those seventeen- and eighteen-year-old kids. They started to do the same.

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There is always an uncertainty about the actual wealth of the tipper. All Romanians know that music and alcohol can push people beyond their normal limits, and parties are moments where excess is to be expected. Going to parties with Romanian and ethnic Romani friends, I would witness how easily even “reasonable” people would go over the top, both emotionally and economically. For example, one of these friends spent part of a wedding tipping the musicians with considerable amounts of money which turned out the next day to have been the money he and his wife had been saving over the year to send their daughter to a better school in town. Another factor of uncertainty is that the musicians sometimes return the tips to the giver discreetly. This happens amongst friends (I was asked, for example, to give big amounts just to “warm up” a party). It also happens in the protective relations between some “wise guys” [şmecheri] and some lăutari:  the former give huge tips during the performance, but the latter have to give back an even bigger amount as a “tax for protection” [taxă de protecţie]. When this is not a plain racket, it is a kind of patronage where powerful people “take care” of less powerful musicians, with complex money flows between them. So here again, the display of power which is accomplished in the “tip” has an uncertain relation to the actual economical wealth of the giver. The giving of bacşiş is always announced on the microphone by the singer. If the amount is small, it may be omitted, but at least the name of the giver is announced: Din partea lui Puiu, mulţumim frumos! [From Puiu, thank you very much!]. Puiu’s name thus enters the universe of the song alongside Little Sorin the Kid, adding to the possible interpretations of the first pronoun in the lyrics (the “I” in “I’m the boss”). Quite often, the listener who gives bacşiş does not ask for a significant change in the music played. It is rather a way to mark his or her appreciation, to ask for a small attention (a specific verse, an instrumental chorus), or “to give a dedication” [a da o dedicaţie]. In the latter case, the singer announces on the microphone the names of the giver and the addressee, with words such as Şi special de la Puiu, pentru Claudiu, să se ştie! [This special one is from Puiu, for Claudiu, just so everyone knows!]. Occasionally, dedications may be “given” without a precise recipient: Pentru toată lumea [For everyone]. With the dedication, the person behind the “I” in the lyrics becomes even more difficult to identify. In the above example, it could be Puiu meaning to say something like “I’m the boss” to Claudiu. But the lyrics may also be understood as representing the latter, either accurately (Claudiu is known as a “boss”) or with parodic intent (he is not so rich, or just pretends to be, etc.). Neither Puiu nor Claudiu actually utter the word “I.” The dedication simply associates both of their names with the song.10 The dedications are often used by guests at live events for complex interactional effects. Through them, many things may be suggested or stated publicly without being clearly assumed by anyone. Several dedications, from various individuals, may follow each other in close succession during the same song. Each of them adds to the intricacy of any attempt to analyze the performance using standard communication schemes.



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Sonic Power Power is also instantiated in the way manele sound. I have already mentioned that their loudness is often brought up, especially by critics who see it as an attempt for manea fans to take control of performance spaces. It is now most common that the lăutari play with loud amplification, whatever the musical style, but during manea sessions the “gain” buttons on the mixer are generally pushed even further. Manele are also performed with characteristically “thick” instrumental and voice textures. For melodic instruments, thickening may be achieved with electronic sound effects such as the “chorus” or the “octave voice.” In addition, when several melodic instruments play together, they try to synchronize in parallel thirds. This altogether fills and enlarges the spectral range of the melodic line. The practice contrasts with the usual synchronization mode of much traditional music in Romania where musicians would rather play in unison or heterophony. The treatment of the voice shows a similar preference for “thick” sounds. Typical manea singers have a rich and “full” [plin] texture. The most famous of them perform in the company of another singer whose role is to keep the ambiance going while the lead singer rests and double the latter’s voice when he sings the chorus. As for melodic instruments, this doubling is also performed in parallel thirds. Not only are the voice and melodic instruments amplified and thickened, they are also multiplied. An electronic “echo” effect is applied to them adding a train of reverberations to any of their sounds. In live performances, the combination of large echo and strong amplification enhances the disconnection between the physical space in which the party takes place and the musical space in which the music develops. Reverberation is one of the basic acoustic clues for guessing the depth of an environment. Playing with electronic echo and pushing the volume high annihilates the natural reverberation of the performance space, replacing it with a musical one. Listeners are immersed in a paradoxical environment where visual and auditory cues of space no longer match (Stoichiţă 2013a). Add to this that wireless microphones allow the musicians to be far away from the loudspeakers that produce the sound, and at very high volumes, in confined spaces, even the loudspeakers’ location leaves few acoustical clues:  the universe constructed in music is no longer traceable to a definite source. It permeates the whole place and becomes a medium comparable to air. This immersion effect is enforced by the continuity and length of the performances (sometimes more than one hour of uninterrupted play). The harmonic and rhythmic section relies on a synthesizer [orgă]. It does not play melodies.11 The left hand performs the bass line, the right hand the chords, and the device is also the source of the basic drum rhythm.12 The orgă stores several pre-programmed patterns, which may run at a metronomic pulse through the whole performance. There is a large rotary knob to adjust the tempo, but it is rarely used more than once or twice every half hour. Many melodies can be chained meanwhile, in perfect continuity to one another. The sonic construction of the manea performance is thus sustained by the precise and relentless patterns emanating from the orgă.

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Experiencing Power There are moments in a party when an observer may think that the dancers are blasé, impassive, or unreceptive to what is played. Their movements, for example, seem narrow and quiet compared to the roaring and dazzling virtuosity of the music. Their faces may not show any visible emotion but rather a quiet placidity. Indeed, they may actually be bored. But quite often their comments on the performance say the contrary. In their words, good music is a violent encounter that “tames” [răcoreşte, literally “refreshes”] the listener. Good lăutari are “strong” [tari]; bad ones are “weak” [slabi]. Hearing a good performance, one may feel “torn/broken apart” [rupt/spart], “destroyed” [distrus], “terminated” [terminat], or “chopped like cabbage” [făcut varză]. The term taraf, which was traditionally used to refer to a small group of lăutari, is now replaced by “troupe” [trupă]. To ask a violinist to perform an improvised solo, the singer may call him “to go on the attack” [treci la atac], meaning both the musical and the physical front-line of the band (the attack is implicitly directed upon the dancers). Furthermore, the singers frequently enhance the instrumental choruses with shouts, cries, and sound effects reminiscent of explosions or gun machines. A good illustration of this musical warfare is the song Bomba bombelor [The bomb of all bombs] as performed by Little Sorin the Kid [Sorinel Puştiu] in an unidentified live event (see example 6.313). The recording was released on the album Şarpe lângă casa ta [Snake near your house]. In the introduction, we hear the singer address the band’s violonist (nicknamed Rooster [Cocoş]) with two rhymed verses: Hai Cocoş, porneşti motorul/Ca să crape difuzorul! [Come on, Rooster, start the engine/ to blast away those speakers!]. This engine is what the lăutari typically call a “trick” [şmecherie] (see Stoichiţă 2008). Playing on two strings at once and starting at their lower ends, the violinist shifts his fingers on the neck toward the bridge. Played acoustically, this slow ascending glissando would not be very impressive. But with the amplified, compressed, and reverberated sound of his violin, the effect is strongly reminiscent of the starting of a plane engine.14 At its climax, the glissando breaks into the chorus sung by Sorinel (S1) and his unidentified accompaniment voice (S2) (see figure 6.1c). (x3) (x3)

S1: Bomba bombelor S2: Eşti bombă! [or variant] S1: Tu eşti bosul boşilor S1: Bomba bombelor S2: Eşti bombă! [or variant] S2: Iei cheful duşmanilor.

S1: You’re the bomb of all bombs S2: You’re a bomb! [or variant] S1: You’re the boss of all bosses S1: You’re the bomb of all bombs S2: You’re a bomb! [or variant] S2: You tone down your enemies.

From a phonetical point of view, “Bomba bombelor” is a rather juicy line. Its repetition emphasizes the iconicity of the word bomba, with its two /b/ plosives (that become four in the syntagm bomba bombelor). These words are set to a pattern of alternating crotchets (quarter notes) and quavers (eighth notes) that parallel the



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Figure 6.1 (c & d).  Manea rhythms Notation: Victor Stoichiţă

asymmetrical tension of the underlying drum rhythm. The second singer replies with variants of “Eşti bombă!” [You’re a bomb!], shouted without definite pitch or precise rhythmic values. In one of his interventions he also shouts, “Hiroshima!” These sonic and textual elements contrast with the stability of the instrumental theme that follows (see figure 6.1d). It is entirely composed of even crotchets contained in a narrow ambitus and symetrically structured in two small motives that only differ by their first note. Whereas the line of “Bomba bombelor” was “molded” onto the drum pattern, this metronomic instrumental theme seems merely to “float” above it. If one were to imagine iconic representations in line with the lyrics, the sung chorus would probably figure the blasting of the bomb, while the subsequent theme would be the methodical and inescapable advance of “bosul boşilor” [the boss of all bosses].”15 Parody and Irony The power embodied in the music can be experienced in various ways by the listeners. Many songs—especially those explicitly related to might—direct the audiences toward playful moods. In a previous study I argued that the manea was particularly pervasive to ironic interpretations and that this possibility was a key factor in both its popular success and its inclusion in semi-ritual contexts like wedding parties (Staichiţă 2013b). I refer to irony as a figure of speech with its cognitive ramifications (see Gibbs

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and Colston 2007) rather than to the post-modern trope for which the same word is sometimes used (Hutcheon 1994; Colebrook 2004). In particular, the psycholinguistic model of irony proposed by Sperber and Wilson (1981) and Wilson and Sperber (1992) offers, I suggested, interesting insights on the ironic plays during manea performances. Here I will bring into discussion the related idea of parody. Literary critics define parody as a form of intertextuality. It is one of the multiple ways in which one text can relate to another. There are divergences regarding the precision to apply in its definition. Some authors favor a narrow approach where parody is to be distinguished from figures such as pastiche, forgery, satire, or travesty (Rose 1993). Others prefer to see it as a broad category of practices, arching over these distinctions. This is the approach favored by Dentith, whose definition I adopt here: Parody includes any cultural practice which provides a relatively polemical allusive imitation of another cultural production or practice. . . . [“Polemical” refers to the] contentious or “attacking” mode in which the parody can be written, though it is “relatively” polemical because the ferocity of the attack can vary widely between different forms of parody. (2000:9)

Dentith is mainly concerned with written text, but his definition is rooted in figures of speech. Here is a minimal example of parody (Dentith 2000:3): Speaker 1: “I don’t like this cold weather.” Speaker 2 (in exaggeratedly feeble and whining tones): “I don’t like this cold weather.”

The basic movement is to echo something in a context where it gains a different interpretation. In the interaction above, the effect relies on the same words framed in a different intonation. Parody is a relation that can be detected between isolated utterances, texts, and styles (like Cervante’s Don Quixote echoing chivalric writings) and also between texts and cultural habits as illustrated in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland (see the tea party or the Queen’s croquet). The account of parody by Dentith (2000) is similar to the account of irony by Sperber and Wilson (1981) and Wilson and Sperber (1992) that I mentioned previously. I will refer hereafter to an irony/parody compound which is primarily an imitation of something in a context where it seems inappropriate or does not “fit” in well. By itself, this unfitness does not constitute irony/parody as such. It could be interpreted just as well as a mistake or a token of bad taste, for example. The choice between these alternatives depends on many factors, but none of them is a definite marker: nothing singles out a text or a behavior as a sure instance of irony/parody (even intonation, which is often quoted as a marker of verbal irony, is ambiguous in this respect; see Bryant and Fox Tree 2005). It is up to the interpreter (reader, listener, etc.) to find out that the element does not fit in and why. This judgment is relatively free, and the above theories predict that some interpreters will detect irony/ parody where others will see, for example, arrogance or kitsch.



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The cognitive factor that directs the interpreter toward irony/parody rather than some other interpretation is normally a hypothesis made by him about the state of mind and the intentions of the emitter (Curcó 2000; Creusere 2000; Hancock, Dunham, and Purdy 2000): Does the latter believe or not in what he says, does he want me to believe it? If I think that he is just pretending and does not want me to believe it either, I will probably think that he is being ironic/parodic of the uttering. Manele add another layer of uncertainty as we have seen in live performances where the emitters and intended receivers are themselves undetermined. Hence, irony/parody is even more difficult to ascertain “objectively” than in the usual study cases covered by psycholinguistics and literary critics. The following examples strive nevertheless to illustrate the potential appearance of this compound or at least the necessity for the interpreter to depart from simple literal understandings of the corresponding interactions. Come for a Ride, Girl Below is an excerpt of an interview with Ileana and Magdalena, two students at a faculty in Bucharest. They both devote much time to their studies but like to have some fun on Saturday nights. They listen to many kinds of music, amongst them manele. Ileana says: “I like the ironical ones [la mişto], those with lyrics. . . . Not so sentimenal [laughs]. For example, there is a tune, well, it’s called ‘Come for a Ride, Girl’ [Hai, gagico, la plimbare]. It is sung by Florin Fish [Florin Peşte], I think. It’s very funny. If you listen to it, you’ll die laughing.” Here are the first lyrics of the manea, sung by Florin Fish [Florin Peşte] featuring Claudia and the band Play Aj (Mr. Juve and Susanu) (see example 6.416): Florin Fish: Hai, gagico, la plimbare. Nu te mai da aşa mare. Îţi dau bani, îţi dau orice ca să facem dragoste.

Come for a ride, girl. Stop being so proud. I’ll give you money, I’ll give you anything to make love with you.

Claudia: N-am încredere în tine că nu te cunosc prea bine. Dar aş face dragoste cu tine şi apoi să văd dacă te ţine.

I don’t trust you ’cause I don’t really know you. But I’d make love to you And then see if you’re still up for it.

Ileana says that she understands these lyrics la mişto, a familiar expression meaning in a “funny,” “ironical,” or “parodic” way. This does not mean that the manea

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is only good for laughing at. Ileana really likes the song and she and her friends dance to it at parties. The video clip of “Come for a Ride, Girl” indeed allows for several interpretations.17 For the most part, it shows Florin Fish with a nice haircut driving a beautiful Mercedes convertible. We also see him offering money to a giggling young woman (Claudia) in something like a modern living room.18 Along with these images, the video clip also features some parodic sequences. An old and visibly defective car is being pulled with great difficulty by a donkey through a muddy village back street. A plate number hangs on one of the animal’s flanks. The driver is Mr. Juve. He is nervous and seems to curse the donkey for not moving faster. Other images in the same setting show two musicians emerging from the roof of the same car (this time at rest). Both look like peasants on a typical work day. One plays an old guitar and the other an old accordion. Interestingly, these parodic images are strictly limited to the instrumental introduction and chorus. They constitute the only appearances of instrumental performers although they are obviously not the source of the electronic sounds heard at that moment. Broadly considered, the video clip confirms the possibility of a parodic understanding of the song. On the other hand, most of it takes place in high-end cars and with scantily dressed women, which is just the usual iconography of manele. Ileana did not mention the video clip during our discussion. She may not even have seen it. The possibility of taking such songs ironically is self-understood anyway. As Ileana’s remark implies (in a continuation of the same discussion), there is a whole class of manele that can be appreciated la mişto. Ileana: And I also like “I’m a ‘barosan’,” from Little Sorin the Kid [Sorinel Puştiu]. Do you know it? V.S.: No, I don’t. Ileana: Well, it’s funny, too. It’s got funny, lyrics.

This is the first song discussed in the present chapter. Here again, Ileana does not simply find the song funny but actually likes it and dances to it with her friends. According to her, it also has a nice melodic line. This song also has a video clip but it contains just the “usual” manea iconography with no obvious tokens of parody. The Boyar in the Helicopter The following stanza is a condensed example of playful unfitness. It was sung by Florin Salami [Florin Salam] around 2010 (see example 6.519): Tatăl meu este boier şi o să-mi ia elicopter, şi o să-mi ia elicopter să-l plimb pe Salam cu el.

My father is a boyar and he’ll buy me a helicopter, and he’ll buy me a helicopter so I can give Salami a ride.



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The melody is a heavy and slowly descending line, in phrygian mode with abundant melisma: something typically “Oriental” [oriental] by local standards.20 The helicopter is a modern Western device, and the boyar a landowner of the Ottoman times. It is likely that nowhere else in Romanian poetry do these two words rhyme. They belong to completely different worlds, not only chronologically but also geographically. Mixing incompatible references is a favorite practice in manele as in many popular musics of the Balkans (Buchanan 2007a; Kurkela 2007; Rasmussen 2007; Sugarman 2007). The last verse anchors the opposition in the actual performance context. It refers to Florin Salami, who is singing it. He distances himself as much as possible from the first person subject in the lyrics, however, by using his own surname. The “I” thus remains available for any individual in the audience and particularly for the bacşiş giver (here a teenager at his eighteenth birthday). Cinderella in the Pub A parodic/ironic effect can also be achieved by mixing the characters of the lyrics with the global character of the song. One day, I asked Felix (previously cited keyboard player) when he had started to perform manele. He recalled the tapes of Azur de la Brăila, Odeon, and other similar bands, which were circulating before 1989 more or less under-the-counter. Their main characteristic was the use of amplification, synthesizers, and electric guitars in Romanian popular music. This was a rare sound at that time. The lyrics were not concerned with state politics but they could allude to political taboos such as theft.21 According to Felix, many of them were “şmecheroase” (with şmecherie, here meaning either cleverness or irony) anyway. This was enough to ban them from official production and distribution networks. Felix was then in his twenties, lived in his parents’ village in Romanian Moldova and was already performing intensively as a lăutar. For him and his friends, this was something new and fascinating. He specifically recalled the effect produced by Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], as performed by Odeon and Costel Geambaşu (see example 6.622; see also chapter 3): And when we heard that, we were fascinated. You can imagine. They had this song, “Cinderella:” “Oh, how much I loved you, Cinderella.” . . . This was completely new for us, something extraordinary. We knew “Cinderella” from the fairy tales [pointing to his right] but now, she was appearing in a song like that [pointing to his left]. (Felix, keyboard player, interview, Bucharest, 2009)

The gesture of Felix pointing to his right and left illustrates his perception of two heterogeneous universes clashing in the song. His surprise must have been strong as he still remembered it twenty years later. In the sonic and referential universe of the “clever guys,” Cinderella’s behavior indeed becomes clearly parodic: Cu ce foc te-am mai iubit, Cenuşareaso.

Oh, how much I loved you, Cinderella.

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Te-am iubit dar m-ai minţit, Cenuşareaso.           . . . Te cunoşti după sandale, Cenuşareaso, că eşti fată de locale, Cenuşăreaso.23

I loved you, but you lied to me, Cinderella. They know you by your sandals, Cinderella, that you’re a girl from the pubs, Cinderella.

If You Get on My Nerves The reverse effect would be to take the familiar into the fairy tale. The following excerpt sung by Cristi Nut [Cristi Nucă] at a wedding in Iaşi illustrates this (see example 6.7):24 Nu te lăuda că eşti bogat. Ştiu că n-ai o chiflă să bagi în stomac. Stai mai bine-n banca ta că eşti vai de steaua ta. [chorus:] Şi dacă mă enervezi, mă faci ca să-ţi dovedesc că port la mine bani cash cât un Mercedes. Tu ştii că sunt special. Tu ştii că sunt number one, dar nu sunt lăudăros că nu-i frumos.

Don’t come boasting that you’re rich. I know you don’t even have a crust of bread to eat. Better keep quiet ’cause you’re just pathetic. And if you get on my nerves, I’ll have to prove to you that I’ve got enough cash to buy a Mercedes. You know that I’m special. You know that I’m “number one,” but I’m not boastful ’cause that ain’t nice.

The words of this manea could have been exchanged during an argument at the corner of the street. Their trivial origins are emphasized by the fact that they repeatedly violate the octosyllabic meter. But they rhyme nicely, and Cristi Nut sings them to a richly ornamented tune that fits the harmonic and rhythmic accompaniment perfectly. In the enchanted world of manele, the argument becomes outrageously boastful and arrogant. A wink of self-derision comes in the last line that states, in a somewhat childish style, “but I’m not boastful/‘cause that ain’t nice.” The performance took place at a wedding. It was ordered by three participants who gave a €50  dedication “Pentru oamenii care cred că au bani dar de fapt nu au” [For those who think that they have money but, in fact, don’t]. This may have targeted someone in particular. But whatever their intentions, asking for a corner-of-the-street argument in a wedding, where people usually try to appear as “civilised” as possible (well-dressed, well-behaved, etc.), is a discrepant behavior that opens wide the possibility of an ironic understanding. Toward the middle of



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the song, an Austrian gives another €50  dedication “Pentru toţi bogaţii” [For all the rich guys]. On the recording, one may hear the singer repressing his laughter as he repeats the announcement.25 His Love, His Kidney Listeners do certainly use the dedications to create comic effects. Here is another example, heard during a party at the club Million Dollars. Vali from Giurgiu [Vali de la Giurgiu] was singing close to a group of dancers. One of them was giving dedications “for Alina, his love.” At one point he requested the following one, repeated on the microphone by the singer: “For Alina . . . his love . . . his heart . . . his eyes . . . his liver . . . his spleen . . . his kidney . . .” The ellipses represent pauses during which the giver told the singer what to repeat, sneaking a bank note into his hand at each step. The latter’s tone of voice was rising gradually. At one point, he nearly burst into laughter as did some other dancers. Of course, “heart” and “eyes” are common replacements for “love,” but the viscera set in line with them were turning the whole dedication into a parody. These examples illustrate ways in which manea songs reflect heterogeneous and seemingly incompatible references in a unified musical universe. The play may be in the lyrics alone, between the lyrics and the music, or between the whole song and the performance context. The contrasted elements act upon each other as fun house mirrors. Each of them is reflected in a distorted manner and re-appraised in the context of the others. It should be stressed that the interpretations outlined above do not imply that the song is diverted from an “original intent.” The musicians’ “intent” is to enchant the listener. Provided the song is listened to, remembered, paid for, and maybe danced to, its goal is fulfilled. Manele are party music, and the lăutari do little to enforce serious understandings. After all, laughing at a manea is also laughing with it, which is enough to make it successful. On the listeners’ side, the question of “seriousness,” as opposed to irony/parody, deserves a more detailed examination. Who Thinks It’s Funny? The “funny” aspects of manea songs appeared as an obvious feature in many discussions with manea fans and critics alike. But quite often, too, my interlocutors imagined the existence of other listeners who appreciated manele in a straightforward, non-comical manner. On the Romanian “educated” side, these would be either “Gypsies” [ţigani], “clever guys” [şmecheri], and/or uneducated dwellers of the “mahalale” [suburbs; sg. mahala]. “Educated” people found manele ridiculous, but always with the feeling that other people “out there” took them seriously. Interestingly, talking with Roma, suburb dwellers, and even “clever guys” from the underworld did not bring a “core” of humorless listeners any closer. Quite the contrary: some of my Romani interlocutors voiced the opinion that songs like “Come

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for a Ride, Girl,” which Ileana and Magdalena found “ironical” [la mişto], were made specifically for Romanians. They were less sure about “I’m the Big Boss” or “The Bomb of All Bombs.” These may have been taken “seriously” by some Roma but, again, not by themselves. Maybe the “smart” or “clever” guys [şmecheri] portrayed in the songs understood them literally. But they were always other people. This applied to the humoristic aspects only, which in turn seemed closely linked to the lyrics about power. Such songs always seemed somehow “funny.” In other kinds of lyrics, especially the love and exile songs, my interlocutors more often recognized a faithful depiction of their own feelings. It would, thus, be incorrect to say that manele “are” ironical/parodical. The above analysis only covers a specific potential of these songs, one that has been overlooked by most commentators. Listeners are usually somewhere in between plain identification and plain irony/parody, as many feelings can overlap in their musical experience. Songs and interactional situations merely suggest interpretations, and participants retain a considerable freedom in this respect. This openness is one of the reasons for the popular success of the songs (listeners can appreciate them from various angles). It is probably also why manea lovers tend to link the genre with ideas of freedom. Once recognized, the potential of irony and selfderision enables them to embody characters and to live emotions that they would not necessarily assume in their daily life. In addition to these psychological aspects, the irony/parody compound also has a social relevance. As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, many commentators in Romania interpret the manea as “saying” something about the current state of society. This is not a matter of sheer misunderstanding even though their most frequent assumption—that manele simply “express” the thoughts of those who like them—is arguably wrong. As a conclusion, I will suggest that the manea and its playful relation to power closely resemble another kind of party, which also had ambivalent political and symbolic implications: carnival. Echoes of the Carnival An old European topos associates merry-making, violence, and revolution. Bercé (1976) has shown how the cosmic and climatic cycle was linked to the annual upheaval of political institutions in early modern France. Peasant feasts (of which the carnival is emblematic) were only one step apart from peasant revolts until the French Revolution. This model has influenced the reception of the revolution itself by some of its contemporaries, especially in light of the imminent turn of the century (Stoichiţă and Coderch 1999). Emblematic of the Romanian “post-revolution” times, manele are reminiscent of this tradition in several ways. They feature “kings,” “princesses,” “emperors,” “boyars,” and “squires” [regi, prinţese, împăraţi, boieri, jupâni] but in contexts that are often parodic. Hearing a dedication to “the princess of the neighborhood” [prinţesa cartierului] is a casual



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example. References to “boyars” and “squires” [boieri, jupâni] are also ironic since they belong to a world of long ago, and calling someone such names is sending him way back into the past. A second trait of carnivalesque is the inversion that grounds the power of many lăutari. I have argued elsewhere that from the Romanian perspective, leaving the collective feast in the hands of Romani musicians was already a kind of upheaval of the usual hierarchy (Stoichiţă 2008:84). Manele carry this reversal one step further. One of the most famous manea singers (Adrian Minune, i.e., “Adrian Wonder”) is also mocked occasionally for being a dwarf. Two other famous performers—Babi Wonder [Babi Minune] and Ionuţ Earring [Ionuţ Cercel]—are child prodigies. Both are shown behaving like adult lăutari in their video clips. They sing about similar topics (especially money and love affairs) with exactly the same instrumentals and voice inflexions. These children do not perform like real lăutari, taking whole ceremonies into their hands, but they may appear as “guest stars” for two or three songs. Their CDs are sold along with those of the other manea stars and are just as easy to find on the popular markets. The father of Ionuţ Earring is Petrică Earring [Petrică Cercel]. He is also a wellknown manea singer. His name is reminiscent of Petru Earring [Petru Cercel], famous in his own respect for having ruled Wallachia in the sixteenth century. Many interpreters have nicknames alluding to either very “high” or very “low” references: Florin Fish [Florin Peşte], Florin Salami [Florin Salam], Vasilică Silt [Vasilică Nămol], Sandu Soup [Sandu Ciorbă], Little Sorin The Golden Kid [Sorinel Copilul de Aur], and Ruxandra the Princess of Ardeal [Ruxandra Prinţesa Ardealulu]. The case of Florin Salami is particularly interesting. His civil name is Florin Stoian. He was first known on the lăutar scene as Florin the Charming [Florin Fermecătorul]. Then, in 2002, he switched to the opposite connotations of Florin Salami.26 Another parallel with carnival time is abundance and ostentatious waste. Abundant food (especially roasted meat) characterizes ritual feasts such as at weddings and christenings, but also at manea clubs where one can order large trays of popular food (sausages, ribs, potatoes, garlic seasoning) at all times during the night. Alcohol is, of course, no less abundant. Money seems to flow freely in bacşiş offerings. Sexual lust is overtly expressed, and the dance may be unusually permissive. One of the most famous manea clubs (Million Dollars) also features a brothel on the second floor. Playing on power and parody, manea songs nicely fit these ambiances of lust, abundance, and suspension of daily constraints. Crude popular language, ludicrous imagination, and orgiastic power characterize their musical universes. They instantiate many traits of “grotesque realism” as found by Bakhtin (1990:46) in Rabelaisian writing. They make deliberate use of popular and/or obscene vocabulary, treat trivial topics with elaborate detail, emphasize them in hyperbolic distortions, and project aberrant fantasies on real people, things, and events. The fact that the occasions to celebrate are typically associated with liminal events (weddings, christenings, birthdays, obtaining of school degrees or drivers’ licenses,

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etc.) is relevant in this respect. As good music is supposed to provide a violent experience, “taming” and “breaking down” the listeners, it also projects them into a universe where many paradoxical experiences become possible. At parties, pride is typically mixed with self-derision. Such ambiguous feelings, which can hardly be experienced in daily life, are also markers of ritual events (Houseman 2006; Berthomé and Houseman 2010; Stoichiţă 2013b). At another level, the upheaval of “normality” also characterizes a popular perception of Romanian politics in the aftermath of the 1989 revolution. Daily conversations and mass media often leave the impression that important aspects of the world have been reversed since then: “clever guys” prosper while honest people work hard and remain poor; cultural minorities have specific rights which the majority does not; “Gypsies” have become powerful and live in palaces; the older generations struggle in this new world while the younger ones taunt them; the climate itself has become chaotic, with many floods, droughts, and extreme frosts. Since 1989, the writings of journalists both reflect and convey a powerful sense of irony (Ghiţă 2000). If it were just for the renewal of language and society through the “parodic destruction of ideological bonds and outdated links between things and phenomena” (Bakhtin 1990:458), there would be nothing to worry about. But many Romanian intellectuals fear that the manea world may become a model of behavior. Their anxiety is possibly triggered by the fact that there seems to be no “return to normality” in sight after the carnival. In other words, the “normality” itself turns out to be problematic since manele are rooted precisely in the long-awaited free market and cultural democracy that the 1989 turn provided at last. Other post-socialist countries have seen the rise of similar cultural movements that also function as “lightning rods” for many debates around continuing class and regional tensions (Sugarman 2007). Indeed, manele may be seen as emphasizing chaos, if only for the way they mix heterogeneous echoes of the world. In contrast with Western “dissenting” art forms, such as hip-hop, manele can hardly be described as a protest. They carry no critique of social or political entities (nothing like the “State,” “Police,” or “System”). Some songs do refer to “enemies” [duşmani], but these are always individuals. Taken as social statements, manele are unquestioningly victorious. It is not a matter of how many people like them but rather what their content is. I have argued that it is difficult to understand the manea as the “voice” of groups unheard before. Its link with political change goes beyond the new possibilities of expression afforded by the 1989 revolution. Manele dissolve and reimagine the world in ways that are reminiscent of the old European tradition of violent feasts. Especially in live performances where they are used as immersion techniques, they allow alternative agencies to be experienced, both between and “within” the listeners. Under this light, the song in our epigraph does not necessarily reflect a supposed revenge of the oppressed. In the end, nobody knows who the “emperors” [împăraţi] were and are, neither who they will be. “God” [Dumnezeu] and the “wheel of life” [roata vieţii], keep turning the world endlessly upside down.



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NOTES 1.  Atunci când eram sărac,/mă rugam s-ajung bogat,/să umilesc duşmanii mei/aşa cum făceau şi ei./Dar roata vieţii s-a întors;/nu mai văd lumea de jos;/văd lumea de la-nălţime/c-a ţinut Dumnezeu cu mine. Gicuţă from Apărători (CD Singur pe lume, Autentic Music). This and all subsequent translations are mine. 2.  From 2001 to 2006 I undertook fieldwork in rural areas and small urban settings in Romanian Moldova with the help of a grant from the University Paris Ouest Nanterre la Défense. I worked with professional musicians who played, amongst other things, manele. In 2009–2010 I conducted ten months of fieldwork in Bucharest on this genre specifically, with the support of a fellowship at the New Europe College, Institute for Advanced Study in Bucharest. I am grateful to the staff and colleagues there for their help and insightful remarks. An earlier version of this text was written during my stay at the NEC and is due to appear in its yearbook. I am also indebted to Speranţa Rădulescu (Romanian Peasant Museum, Bucharest) and to the “manea team” gathered by her (most notably Anca Giurchescu, Florin Iordan, Costin Moisil, and Mirela Radu), for many enlightening discussions. 3. For general descriptions of lăutari in Romanian society, see Beissinger (2001); S. Rădulescu (1988, 2002); Stoichiţă (2008:63–87). 4.  See http://www.recensamantromania.ro/rezultate-2/, arrays 7, 8, and 11, accessed 28 July 2013. 5.  Chef de manele [Manea party], Vol. 2, Lesperance Music, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=tb_nKwx2kTM, accessed 22 December 2013. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele -i/ch8/8-2-video.html 6.  Barosan is a slang word derived from Romani: baro [big] + san [you are]. It may refer to physical dimensions and/or socio-economic power. 7.  Şmecher is another slang word meaning “sly,” “cunning,” “crafty,” or “elegant.” According to Dicţionarul Explicativ al Limbii Române it derives from the German schmacker: “who has refined tastes.” See www.dexonline.ro, accessed 7 October 2010. 8.  All of the examples discussed in this chapter can be accessed online: www.svictor.net/ boyar. 9.  In our conversation, Felix was counting in “old” lei, as they were used before the 2005 currency reform. The numbers he gave had four more zeroes than the ones I transcribed. The old system is still widely used, and during the musical performances, tips are usually announced in “millions” and “hundreds of thousands.” 10.  As a way of returning to the lyrics after a dedication, the singer may announce: I-auzi ce spune! [Listen to what he/she/it says!], a remarkably ambiguous expression that could refer either to the giver, the addressee, or the song itself. The singer withdraws explicitly from the potential senders but leaves all other interpretations open. 11.  Smaller synthesizers are sometimes used for melody. They are played by different musicians and are called chibord [keyboard]. 12. A manea band often features a pair of bongos, a darbuka, or a rototom set, but the role of these drums is merely to enhance through ornaments the percussion pattern emanating from the synthesizer. 13. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch8/8-3-video.html. 14. This effect became a favorite. I witnessed several live performances where listeners ordered the song specifically asking the musicians to include that trick. Their wording could be, for example, to play it cu motor cu tot [complete, with the engine].

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15.  The whole idea of singing that someone is a “bomb” may actually be interpreted in relation to the physical shape of many “bosses” and wise guys who tend to assert their round bellies and massive necks proudly. In the manea universe, fatness can indeed be praised explicitly, like in the song Sunt gras şi frumos [I’m fat and beautiful] by Florin Salam [lit., Florin Salami]. 16. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch8/8-4-video.html. 17.  See www.svictor.net/boyar. 18.  Other images show Mr. Juve and Susanu in the back seat of a car with another woman. In a “rap” flow of lyrics, they explain straightforwardly to the listener how they will make love to her once she accepts their money (not included in video clip on www.svictor.net/boyar). 19. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch8/8-5-video.html. 20.  See www.svictor.net/boyar. 21.  An example is Portofele portofele [Wallet, o wallet] by Dan Ciotoi and Generic. In the lyrics, the narrator recalls how one day when he was starving, he reached out to grab a wallet and ended up in prison. The whole song is constructed as an address to the wallet. Lyrics such as these could not be sung or recorded legally under the communist regime. 22. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch8/8-6-video.html. 23.  Cenuşăreasa, by Odeon and Costel Geambaşu. Initial recording on a tape circulated illegally between 1984 and 1989. Reissued on a compilation CD accompanying the magazine Taifasuri nr. 194, 13, 19 November 2008. 24.  Cristi Nucă and his band playing live in a wedding in Iaşi, 2005. http://manele-in -romania.ro/manele-i/ch8/8-7-video.html. 25.  See www.svictor.net/boyar. 26. Some connoisseurs hold that the name Salam refers to the typical salutation used throughout the Turkish and Arabic world. Most Romanians are, however, unaware of this possible reference and use salam in daily parlance to refer to salami sausage.

7 Manele and the Underworld Adrian Schiop

This chapter takes a look at the ties between manele and the Romanian underworld. Although I finished work on the chapter in 2011, I have hesitated to publish it before now since it seems to me that once these things get out, they will not help the reputation of my favorite musical genre, and publication will certainly not be welcomed by those in the business, especially the singers and performers. However, I also believe that the genre’s identity cannot truly be understood without some reference to its complicated ties to the kingpins of Romania’s twilight economy. Nor can we understand the triumphalist language about wiseguys or the soul searching about who can and cannot be trusted, both of them deeply rooted in the genre without such context. As the Berlin DJ Shantel puts it, manele are “kind of gangsta”—Balkan gangsta, I might add—and if indeed they form a gangsta genre, then let it be with everything that comes with it—bad boys, prison records, and blood on the walls. I believe that only these stories can do justice to the genre and show that manele have been the true underground genre of the past twenty years, the real music of the “men at the margins,” rather than hip-hop, and far more than rock or the anaemic club music of recent years. As a music promoter told me, manele were banned because they gave people a taste of the forbidden: low cunning, suggestive music videos, the assertion of masculine power. If you ask me, that is what Romanians like to hear if they are really honest with themselves. I grant you that 70 percent of manele are romantic love songs or tender tales of family life, but the other side of the genre marks its identity much more strongly overall—a wild and masculine music of criminal guile that celebrates brotherhood-in-arms and lashes out at broken trust. Thus, we cannot understand what brotherhood or cunning mean without a detour through the history of the guilty love affair between these two sectors of the economy.

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MONEY FROM GIGS AND SONG DEDICATIONS The money earned by manea musicians comes much less from royalties and creative rights than it does from the gigs they play. The musicians are known as lăutari, and these events are called cântări (sg. cântare): performances at restaurants, clubs, or private events such as weddings, baptisms, coming-of-age ceremonies, and anniversaries. If in the 1990s a performer could somehow keep afloat through album sales on audio cassette tapes, after 2000 the spread of digital technology and online piracy curtailed the lăutar’s chances of making any steady income from royalties: They don’t play our songs on the radio, you get nothing from TV even if they get big audiences. . . . The musicians earn more from live performances than from CD sales. Sales have been at rock bottom these last three, four years. That doesn’t mean that we’re earning more from concerts and live events (it’s about the same as it was), but it would be better if money were coming from both sides. Here in Romania anyone can download tunes [from sites such as YouTube.com or trilulilu.ro]. Everybody does that here. (promoter, age forty-one; Bucharest, 15 September 2009)

The radio stations do not broadcast manele, and although the television channels can draw an audience with the music, they do not pay the performers to appear. As for the scale of piracy, there are no statistics on the sales of albums and compilations, but an article from Taraf Magazin in 2011 concludes that the manea is the most-pirated genre.1 A musician involved in efforts to set up an organization of lăutari to represent creators’ rights in the market (ARAIEX) has complained of how little money there is to be had from CD sales, adding that while it is important to have a hit that “keeps you up there” in the public eye, most money is still earned from live performances. The fact is also noted by Adrian Deoancă in one of his pieces for Playboy2 and also by one of the top lăutari (in the newspaper Jurnalul National): Nicolae Guţă has just won a platinum disc for sales but still gets most of his money from weddings and baptisms. Anybody who thinks you can get rich from manele is in for a bitter disappointment. Do you think that Guţă would go off to sing live at parties for thirteen hours at a time if he had money? That he would risk a bullet whizzing past his head? (Cobuz and Cobuz 2006)

Thus, we see that manea performers draw a significant part of their income from the cântări, the private events. At a cântare, the lăutar and band get money from two sources: from the fee agreed upon in advance (which in the case of a top lăutar may be as much as €10,000, as shown in a 2011 report by the television channel Antena 13 and from the so-called șpagă, the baksheesh (or “bribe”) from clients in the audience in return for dedicating songs to them. In the case of the best-known performers, the report cited reveals that advance fees are as follows: Florin Salam takes €10,000, Adrian Minune €7,000 (probably for a concert of two hours or more), and

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Vali Vijelie €2,500 (probably for a concert of one hour). The updated fees for 2012 for one hour of concert performance are as follows: Sorinel Copilul de Aur and his Formaţia de Aur: €3,500; Adrian Minune: €3,000; Babi Minune: €1,500; and Liviu Guţă: €1,500.4 Depending on the occasion, the money from şpaga may exceed the earnings from the negotiated fee. Thus, Adrian Minune declared in a feature in the newspaper Jurnalul Naţional that on one evening he took €60,000 (although on another occasion he took only one hundred fifty Romanian lei, less than €40) (Preotesoiu 2010). In a feature broadcast on Antena 1, Florin Salam is said to have taken €13,000 from song dedications in less than two hours at a baptism event.5

UNDERWORLD FIGURES AS FAVORED CLIENTS A good lăutar needs to know how to manipulate the members of his audience emotionally so that they request as many song dedications as possible. Victor A. Stoichiţă observes that such a performer never sings simply for his own pleasure: “It is deeply rooted in the tradition that you are not expressing your own feelings. Rather they are perceived as purveyors of emotion rather than as authentic producers of emotion” (see chapter 6). Or in the words of one lăutar cited by Stoichiţă, “‘Lăutari are wise guys, the fakest guys around. All they want to do is to please the audience’” (see chapter 6). Building on this, Stoichiţă demonstrates that the first-person voice in the lyrics of many manele does not speak for the lăutar himself but for the audience or, more particularly, for the recipient of the dedication, hence the first person voice in such songs as Sorinel Puștiu’s Bomba bombelor [The bomb of all bombs]:6 Sunt bomba bombelor, bosul boşilor, capul mafiei. Cu mine să nu te iei!

I’m the bomb of all bombs, the boss of all bosses, the capo of the mafia. Don’t mess with me!

It does not refer to the singer but is a kind of fictional frame that the members of the audience are invited to inhabit in order to make themselves feel important so that they will then give şpagă to the singer. In other words, the “big shot” is not the singer but the paying customer, and the lăutar is simply a channel between the music and the audience. To put it more simply, such a performer sings what you want to hear rather than from his own feelings; as one lăutar put it, “The man who gives me money, baksheesh, gives it gladly because he feels that I have touched his soul by singing of a boy and a girl or Mum and Dad and I’ve been singing about him” (lăutar, age twenty-three; Bucharest, 23 March 2011). Manele also contain lyrics that make this explicit, urging the audience to put their hands in their pockets and give cash to “big themselves up”:7

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Hai aruncă, hai aruncă banii! Dă-te mare, dă-te mare, să moară dușmanii!

Adrian Schiop

Hey, chuck it here, chuck us the money! Show how great you are, show how great you are, may your enemies perish!

Using terms developed by the anthropologist Alfred Gell (1992), Stoichiţă discusses how manele employ various “technologies of enchantment” (such as the loud volume of the music, reverb, instrumental effects, the lyrics, etc.) to create an alternative world centered around feelings of power and omnipotence. Manele are an art form and especially in live performance create such a phantasmagorical world, he notes, designed to make you feel rich and powerful, “maybe a world where [the listener] would be stronger even than God,” in short, “an enchanted world of might” (see chapter 6). If you really want to show that you are the bomb, that you are part of this enchanted world of omnipotence, all you have to do is throw your money at the singer and there you have it: you are among the Chosen. Stoichiţă shows that the recipients of these dedications are the “wiseguys” [şmecheri] who have made their money in the underground economy (and who never appear in the lists of Romania’s richest since they pay no taxes) or young men who imitate them, “wannabe wiseguys” who may not have much money themselves: “N-au o chiftea în stomac” [They haven’t got a bit of food in their bellies], as one lăutar vividly puts it, but who give money to the lăutari so that they look as big and powerful as the real wiseguys. Cornel (age thirty-five, synthesizer player), one of the musicians I interviewed, notes that ordinary people do not give money to lăutari, explaining to me that “With these guys’ money, it’s easy come, easy go. People who have worked for their money don’t just give it away, don’t throw it at the musicians because they’ve toiled for it. . . . When you give money to the lăutari, you’ll never see it again” (Bucharest, 19 January 2011). He thereby draws a distinction between such money and the wages of paid work; in the words of a well-known lăutar, “If you only earn four million [in old Romanian lei, i.e., four hundred new lei, about €100], can you afford to give me baksheesh?” (Preotesoiu 2010). The result is that this genre of music which, as we have seen, largely lives off live events and dedications, greatly depends on the underworld or on businessmen in the shadow economy who can afford to organize parties with top performers; as one lăutar declares in a feature in the newspaper Jurnal Naţional: “We musicians earn our living from these people, from the wheelers and dealers, the crooks, the underworld figures who have money” (Preotesoiu 2010). He also says that he is invited to perform by “generals and policemen” and as a rule does not take money from them but sings for them in order to have powerful friends who can help him in case of need. This concurs with remarks made by a traditional lăutar (interviewed by Speranţa Rădulescu) who says that the audiences for manele are generally underworld figures: “‘Then they got this whole thing with manele going, which they picked up in prison’” (2004:90). Empirical observation has shown, however, that these are not their only category of audience.

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In my own research I have found that other social groups also hire famous manea singers for their events such as migrant workers in Italy and Spain or, in Romania, entrepreneurs in the scrap-metal business or other branches of the informal economy that are barely taxed. A Romanian man from Călăraşi, now living in a shanty town in Naples, told me that a recent tradition has sprung up back in his hometown to hire the most famous lăutar of the moment for weddings. Even though the cost is prohibitive (€10,000 for a six-hour concert), families exhaust themselves financially in order to hire the performer and thus avoid becoming the target of mockery among other members of the community. It is fairly clear that this group of emigrants from Călăraşi living in caravans and primitive huts in Naples are not underworld figures but rather work in the gray economy. They live in miserable conditions in Italy, sacrificing the most basic comforts to earn enough money to build themselves big houses and organize lavish parties. My informant told me that his last trip back home cost him €30,000 (Naples, 2 May 2012). Therefore, businessmen from the gray economy present themselves as gangsters whose names are known nationwide, as we see from YouTube clips of the parties of such figures as Fane Spoitoru, Caiac, The Sports Club Clan, the Cordoneanu brothers, Bercea Mondialul and the Cămătaru brothers, to name but a few who have become legends on the map of Romania’s gangster life. Big-name criminals organize not just weddings, baptisms, and coming-of-age ceremonies with manea musicians but also lower-profile parties to which they summon top performers, such as happened in 2010 when the capo of one outfit staged a lavish party for the name day of his patron saint that came to be called “party of the year 2010” in an obsequious film clip posted to YouTube.8 In addition to fireworks, a huge wedding-style cake, and formation dancing, the party featured (at least) two top lăutar performers. Significantly, the host commanded one of these musicians to write a song for the occasion, Eu sunt bun dar şi nebun9 [I’m a good guy, but don’t make me mad]. The song became a hit and was broadcast on highprofile television channels; and the accompanying music video shows images from the party where the boss (the only one dressed in a white suit) is surrounded by his admiring lieutenants.10 As well as extolling the host as “a fine man” with “heart and character” who treats even “a little child” right, the song also contains veiled threats directed at his enemies, insubordinate lieutenants who might be plotting to take the leader’s place; they hint that from being “a good guy” the leader may turn and “get mad,” meaning violent: Dar eu pot să fiu şi rău dacă treceţi la tupeu. In short, Să nu întreceţi limita, că am să schimb pagina.

But I can be a bad guy too if you overstep the mark. Don’t cross the line, or I may turn the page.

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SYMBOL AND RITUAL IN UNDERWORLD MANEA PARTIES Organizing an event with a top manea performer is a way of simultaneously demonstrating your wealth (since only the rich can afford to spend €3–10,000 on a top lăutar) as well as making a name when the event is posted on the Internet or a video clip played on one of the television manea channels. There is competition among the wealthy as to who can hire the most famous names in manele for their events. A top name will score fifty thousand views on YouTube, while Florin Salam can easily rack up one hundred thousand views for live footage. Here we see a unique feature of the Romanian mafia, especially when compared to the most-studied model, that of the Sicilian Mafia. In Sicily, as Diego Gambetta has shown, a boss must behave as modestly as possible and thus dresses discreetly and leads a quiet life (1993). Gambetta shows that the motive here is not to avoid drawing the attention of the authorities, rather, it is tied to the Mafia’s social function which is to provide private forms of protection in a weak state where public institutions cannot provide it and to guarantee trust in economic exchange within a system where there is no widespread trust in the integrity of transactions. Thus, in order to build the social capital of trust, the Mafia bosses must appear as honorable as their counterparts in the middle and upper classes. Although Romania is also marked by a weak state and lack of trust in the authorities or the intentions of trading partners (see Stoica 2011), underworld figures there have not adopted the discretion of their Italian counterparts even though, as will be shown later, the Sicilian Mafia seems to be a model for them. Like the Russian mafia (see Humphrey 2002), organized crime in Romania is notable for conspicuous consumption (large houses, expensive cars, costly events and parties, large sums of money gambled away at casinos, etc.), with the important difference being that the Russian Mafia does not flirt with the status of media celebrities as do some Romanian gangsters. Manele are the favored means for crime figures to try to gain public notoriety; they commission songs that celebrate themselves, their children, or other family members; they want video clips showing their homes to play on high-profile television channels; and they post footage of private events among the capi of criminal groups on the Internet. Even more than this, a great many songs in the genre feed exactly these fantasies and make a point of celebrating “making a name”:11 De talie mondială m-a făcut mama. Ştie bine toată ţara de valoarea mea. ... Am nume mare; cu greutate şi multă valoare.

My mother made me with worldwide fame. The whole country knows my worth. ... I have a great name; it counts for and is worth a lot.

Such parties are forums within which rival groups can meet and have preciselydefined social functions: to strengthen existing alliances, seal new ones, or put an

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end to old rivalries, such as happened at a baptism organised in Brăila in 2007 by the mobster Stănel Corbu, attended by the biggest names in the local Mafia. During the party the leader of the town’s Mafia, Titel Crăcănatu, “promised that he would stand sponsor at the wedding of his lieutenant, Vincler, who in turn would do the same for his brother-in-arms, Costică Buricea” (Voicu 2006). Such a bond, equivalent to serving as godfather at a baptism, is of great importance in Christian Orthodox cultures. At the same party, Titel Crăcănatu “was left speechless when his mortal enemy Nicu Țăranu reached out the hand of friendship” (Voicu 2006). A clip from the party was likewise posted to YouTube.12 Another short film on YouTube taken at such a party shows the oath sworn by two mobsters from different towns (Slatina and Bucharest) who solemnly declare that they will not sell one another out or otherwise cause trouble to one another: “May my family die if I ever sell out Bercea,” as one of them says.13 They further conclude a symbolic “contract” swearing specifically that each will always let the other know of all business in which he is involved. The oath is sealed at a party given by Bercea Mondialul and attended by two top musicians who intervene in the oath-taking ceremony to specify additional terms in the agreement. One song that provides the musical backing to such a meeting between groups at a private event is S-au unit brigăzile [The bands have joined forces]: “S-au unit brigăzile,/şi ne-au crescut forţele.” [The bands have joined forces,/and we’re stronger now.] It is performed when two rival groups are at odds with one another, such as happened at an underworld gathering in Alexandria to celebrate a young child’s first haircut, a highly ceremonious event in traditional Romanian culture. As the journalist Vlad Ursulean recounts in an article for Vice magazine, the confrontation was sparked by rivalries between the two groups as to who could give away more money for the dedications to songs, which degenerated into a slanging match: I saw a battle of the clans which all started with dedications and money payments. The atmosphere was tense since they were throwing down about thirty million [old lei, about €750] for a song. When a fist-fight broke out on the dance-floor, the singer himself put a stop to it. He went in between them with the microphone. After the gig was over, Sorin told me, “Look, you see, it’s not an easy job. You could get killed out there.” (Ursulean 2011)

“THERE ARE TIMES WHEN THEY PUT A KNIFE TO YOUR THROAT AND SAY, ‘GIVE US THE MONEY!’” Associating with local gangsters is by no means an ideal way to live, however, and the job of a lăutar exposes him to physical aggression. One reason why the musicians get into such difficulties is their refusal to sing for longer than has originally been contracted. Thus, the local press in Brăila reported that a lăutar was threatened with death at a local gangster party: “Buricea showed his true colors toward the end of the event, when he told him, ‘Keep singing! I have two of my boys here who will kill you

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on the spot!’” (Voicu 2006). A well-known lăutar told the Acasă TV channel how an angry party guest hit him on the head, while at another event he and another musician were held captive for several days although after that was over, he was paid off with a large sum of money.14 The news portal 9am.ro reports that the same musician was the victim of a humiliating incident at a party organized by a Romanian gang boss in Spain: “One of the ‘men of honour’ told us, ‘At some point he asked us for money to stay on longer since the godfather had agreed upon a certain amount of time with him! We hung him up on a nail and chucked empty Red Bull tins at him. We’d given him a ton of money, and he puts on airs!’” (Artene 2006). How can we explain such disrespectful treatment of a star performer? According to one musician, gangsters look down upon lăutari because their words are false. As the gangsters see it, the musicians “are selling themselves for money and don’t really appreciate you” since by the very nature of their profession they praise you in order to take your money. The underworld is strongly founded upon values of trust: staying faithful to your organization at all costs and not letting yourself be bought either by the police or rival groups. Thus, the musicians’ problem is that they let themselves be bought: they praise you and say nice things just as long as you are giving them money, and they will say the same nice things not just to you but to your rivals as well. They epitomize one of the most scorned categories mentioned in the manele, that of the false friends who stay by your side while you have money:15 Prietenii şi banii sunt la fel de cînd e lumea. Sunt la fel ca vremea schimbătoare: nu ai pe nimeni când plouă şi este ninsoare; trag la tine numai când e soare.

Friends and money have been the same for as long as the world’s endured. They’re like changeable weather: you don’t have anyone when it’s raining and snowing; [but] they rush to you only when the sun shines.

Thus, musicians must walk a fine line between several groups and perform a complicated diplomatic ballet if they are not to unleash jealousy. Such was the case of a performer who ended up in the hospital after he sparked off a row between two rival clans (as reported on the ProTV channel): “Tempers began to flare when the singer, who had been paid by the victims’ gang, did not want to sing for the others, well-known in the areas as fearsome criminals. Angry that their rivals had hired him, they readied their cudgels. The musician and one of the party-goers ended up in the hospital.”16 The newspaper Libertatea reported on the case of another lăutar who was “shoved to the ground and kicked about like a football” by the gangsters who frequented a manea club where he had gone to give a concert “even though he showed no signs of putting up a fight.”17 The gangsters had accused the musician of disloyalty and of having agreed to play for rival groups, which the newspaper reported as “a grave offence to their authority.” The attack lasted several minutes,

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during which nobody intervened; afterward the musician climbed to his feet and went home, “promising that he would never again break his word to his patrons.” It should be noted that in none of these cases did the victims make a complaint to the police, but rather in the last-mentioned incident the musician appeared a few days later on television to insist that nothing had happened, taking off his sunglasses to show that he had no bruises. Certainly this may have been from fear of reprisals more violent than the original attack, but it might equally well have been an invocation of the law of silence which governs the Mafia moral code, the law governing all “men of honor” who belong to the organization and also the “clients” who enjoy their protection (Gambetta 1993). Even if the relationship is reversed (with the gangsters being the clients and the musicians providing the service), the law of silence still prevails. The money that performers receive can also be a cause of aggression. Since these performances take place at parties where much alcohol is consumed, people lose control and throw large amounts of money at the performers: “They bring out more and more money, but there are times when you, as a musician, have to show a bit of sense and give some money back. Then there are times when they put a knife to your throat and say, give us the money.”18 Such incidents usually happen the morning after, when people sober up and realize that they have thrown away too much money on the musicians and turn to violence to fix their mistake. Since a lăutar’s second greatest skill is to make people throw money their way by singing praises, some people lose all sense of proportion and throw too much. On the other hand, a recent tradition (as an informant from the Naples shantytown tells me) has it that some of the money will find its way back to family and relatives who pretend to be throwing money at the musicians to puff themselves up. The sum which the lăutar will then give back is bargained out in advance and is called the retur. A top performer remarks on this tradition: “Some of them will pretend to be giving money for the music, and afterwards the money has to go back to them. Some of them even want more than they actually gave! They’ve made it into a trade.”19 This fact reveals the contradictions between the actual economic situation and the logic of conspicuous consumption that manele express. As Stoichiţă argues, the songs stage a fiction within which you, the listener, feel yourself to be the greatest, more powerful than your rivals (and in the first instance this means richer than them), that is, either the other Mafia clans (in the case of the underworld) or in the case of entrepreneurs from the informal economy, the other members of the community in which the host has organized the event. This power is demonstrated by conspicuous consumption: hiring the most expensive musicians of the moment and throwing down the most money for dedications (or at least more than your enemies give). As another interviewee remarks, what is important is to keep your name “up there.” Or in Guţă’s words (Nicolae Guță, Când am bani eu dau la toți [When I have money, I hand it all around], 1998, Volumul 5):

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De ești șmecher când n-ai bani, să nu te-arăți laşi dușmani, şi de-atunci de ești sărac, să te-arăți și mai bogat.

You’re still a wiseguy when you don’t have cash, don’t let your enemies get at you, even when you’re poor, show yourself to be richer than they.

This is a rhetoric of aspiration founded upon spending more money than you can afford while the world is watching and is characteristic for the manea audiences. Thus, a cameraman specializing in weddings where these musicians perform distinguished between “civilized” events and those given by the “ill-bred,” loudmouth sort. In “civilized” weddings, the family insists that he film the bride and groom and their entourage, but at “ill-bred” events, the family insists that the film show the moments when their financial resources are on display (the song dedications, the cars in which family and guests arrive, and the wedding presents) (Bucharest, 13 January 2012). Likewise, the informant from Călăraşi who lives in the Naples trailer camp says that he is expecting a difficult year since he has to take money home for his daughter’s wedding: “The musician alone will cost me €10,000.” When I told him that perhaps he could hire another, cheaper singer, he smiled ironically as he told me, “That just wouldn’t work; people would laugh at me” (Naples, 2 May 2012). Thus, these events are full of such contrasts between the reality and the aspirational world of glamor and reputation. Consequently, a wedding in the Bucharest ghetto district of Ferentari20 (where a well-known figure in local organized crime served as sponsor to the happy couple) was held among the poverty-stricken tower blocks for which the district is famous and where the small flats have little privacy and no balconies. The rusty staircase of the couple’s highrise block was spread with a red carpet that ran five meters out into the street to the tent where the wedding was held. Inside the tent were plain plastic garden chairs such as are found in cheap drinking establishments, but the ranks of tables were heaped high with rotisserie chicken, exotic fruits from the supermarket (pineapple, kiwi, bananas, grapes), and American brands of drink (whiskey). At the end of the wedding, the bride and groom left in a six-meter-long white Cadillac (see examples 3.5a–e).

SONGS ON COMMISSION A wealthy man cannot only pay for dedications and song requests but also even commission a song (or an album) paying tribute to himself or his family. In the 1990s, a famous pair of performers dedicated “countless” albums to their “sponsor” Leo de la Strehaia.21 In the songs, Leo appears as a man of wealth with an enviable fortune:22 Mor toţi ţiganii când apare Leo şi aruncă cu banii.

The Gypsies all die [of envy] when Leo comes and throws his money around.

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Aruncă la muzică dolarii, se oftică toţi duşmanii.

He throws dollars at the music, all his enemies eat their hearts out.

Other songs speak of Leo’s parents and children and, not least, the performer’s own relationship with the boss: “Am amant şi-s măritată./Mă vorbeşte lumea toată” [I’ve got a lover and I’m married./The whole world’s talking about me].23 In this kind of commissioned song, the name of the “sponsor” appears encoded in the lyrics; ordinarily the sponsor’s name does not appear in studio versions but instead appears, if at all, in the dedication or intro (where a dedication may be placed either at the beginning or within the song for a more authentic effect). In fact, studio recordings of songs telling a personal story about such a businessman are rare, and commissioned pieces are mostly reserved for live performances. One such song, which made its way to a recording in the studio, is Unul e Versace [Versace’s the one],24 by a lesser-known performer, Oniță de la Caracal. The song tells a fictionalized version of the release from prison of a young man known as Geani Versace and the party he threw for his friends. The song was commissioned by his uncle Sorin Magnatu to let the world know that his nephew was a free man again;25 the voice is the nephew’s: De doi ani, Doamne, tot aştept să-mi strâng băiatul meu la piept. Dar a venit ziua cea mare şi am ieşit din închisoare.

My God, I’ve been waiting for two years to hug my son in my arms. And now the great day has come and I’ve gotten out of jail.

The tune is accompanied by a clip specially filmed at the occasion of the family reunion party; we see Geani Versace coming from the prison gates, embracing his son and his “Uncle Sorin Magnatu” and climbing into a luxury Cadillac with other members of his family. Then we see him at a small spontaneous celebration in the town center of Slatina and finally at a big party that evening at a restaurant. Since Oniță de la Caracal has a low profile in the industry, an association with him would not normally generate a great deal of prestige. On the contrary, a “wiseguy” who wants to live it large needs some symbolic association with a top performer. At another event, Sorin Magnatu and Geani Versace’s outfit were seen together with a well-known performer who adapted the lyrics of Bomba bombelor [The bomb of all bombs], Sorinel Puştiu, to create a magniloquent portrait of their “team,” not without a dose of hidden irony as well:26 Se vorbeşte lumea în sat despre Sorin că e magnat. Trage cu mine-n dreptate. Uite, că vine Versace.

Everyone in the village is talking about Sorin and what a big guy he is. He takes good care of me. Look, here comes Versace.

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In a live context of performance, the neutral lyrics of the studio versions are frequently adapted to make mention of whoever hosted the party or made the dedication:27 Amar nu e singurel, că e Dacu lângă el. Moare lumea, moare-moare că Amar are valoare. Sutele de milioane vin la mine-n buzunare; pachete și pachețele şi mii de lovele.

Amar’s not the only guy, ’cause Dacu’s by his side. Die [of envy], world, die, die, ’cause Amar’s worth a lot. Hundreds of millions end up in my pocket; packets and packets and bags of cash.

This piece is known as Sutele de milioane [Hundreds of millions] in the studio version (Nicolae Guţă),28 and the live version is dedicated to Amar Generalul, brother of the boss Bercea Mondialul. In this sort of tribute song, the musician must adapt lyrics to bring them closer to the context of his performance, putting flesh onto the bones of the studio version and making the song into a personal story. The higher the baksheesh paid, the more colorful and more original the story can become (in fact, one musician, struck by some sudden inspiration, even composed a piece about his sponsor right there on the spot: “Don’t forget that I made this up on the spot. . . . Ask me tomorrow and I won’t know it; you’ll have to listen again. I’ve made songs this way all my life”).29 Even in such commissioned pieces, the lăutar still only rarely speaks in his own voice and becomes, rather, a kind of ventriloquist, able to adopt in turn the voices (or viewpoints) of all those who pay for dedications. Thus in one of the songs celebrating the release from prison of “Tata Nuţu” [Papa Nuţu] (let me add in passing here that the accompanying film clip is very ingeniously done30), the lăutari adopt in turn the identities of the mobster himself: Stai, Salame, lîngă mine. O să am grijă de tine.

Hey, Salam, come stand next to me. I will take care of you.

his wife: Cât a fost Nuţu plecat, nici un beep nu mi-a dat.

The whole time Nuţu was gone, He didn’t call me even once.

“Ion din Constanţa,” one of Nuțu’s godsons: Înainte cu două ore am stat lângă naşul meu şi am plecat, şi mi-a părut rău.

Two hours ago I was standing beside my godfather, and then I left him and was sorry to go.

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And last, but not least, themselves as musicians and private individuals: Acum e și rândul meu să fac pentru tatăl meu.

Now it’s my turn too to say some words for my “father.”

Although Adrian Minune’s composition is undermined by heavy-handed pathos, in Florin Salam’s performance it becomes one of the most dazzling tribute songs ever, an example of what the performer can achieve when he successfully improvises and performs a very expressive manea in return for money. The piece seems to breathe unfeigned gratitude and emotion and—at the end of the song, the tour de force climax to which the whole composition has been leading up—absolute devotion to the boss: (Las-o așa!) că-ăla e sufletul meu. Nu ştiu teama, nu ştiu frica, am să recunosc de Nuţu, recunosc de Mica; nu ştiu teama, nu ştiu frica. Eu mă mândresc cu Nuţulică. Să audă toată țara: aștia-s familia mea, familie de valoare; are o inimă mare.

(Gimme some room here!) to say what’s in my soul. I’m not afraid, not dismayed, I’m grateful to Nuţu and to [his wife] Mica; I’m not afraid, not dismayed. I’m proud to be with Nuţulică [Nuţuboy]. Let the whole country hear: this is my family, my posse; and they have a big heart.

As with the song of the Sirens, it is impossible not to believe what we hear.

THE POETICS OF MANELE IN COMMISSIONED PIECES AND LIVE PERFORMANCE: ENCODED METAPHORS AND TABOOS There is no way that the thematic range of the manea genre can escape the influence of this linkage: the musician will sing what the paying customer wants to hear, and since the latter (either as partygoer or the one who pays for a dedication) is more often than not an underworld figure or businessman in the gray economy, the singer performs what he wants to hear: topics from the world of the “wiseguy,” the “big shot.” In this part of the chapter I will show that the poetics of manele, constituted by cooperation between the musicians and men from the black or gray economies, is based on textual strategies that essentially rely on coded metaphors, making certain events or subjects taboo (for instance, the state authorities), and the use of polyvalent terms (that might refer to legally questionable topics just as easily as to harmless ones).

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While rap lavishly celebrates and glamorizes the criminal life and presents it in the least ambiguous terms possible, manele construct a diametrically opposed poetics that plays on ambiguities and unresolved meanings, so much so that a surface reading of the text may seem entirely unsubversive, a poetics of closed referential loops in which, as an interviewee from Ferentari remarks, “The ones who need to get it will get it, don’t you worry about that” (23 August 2011). Let us take as an example a song called Cap şi pajură [Heads and tails]31 by a lesserknown performer, Florin Purice, maybe the greatest innovator in the latest generation of manea composers. The song was released in 2010, garnered 3.5 million views on YouTube, and was frequently broadcast on the Taraf TV channel that summer.32 An innocent reading of the song tells the simple story of two brothers recollecting their heroic path to success, which they owe to their mutual trust. One has travelled far and seen more of the world and is worried that the brother he has left behind may not be able to manage so he gives him some words of warning about the wickedness of their fellow man. My informant showed me, however, that the actual meaning is entirely different once we include in our reading the dedication from one of the studio versions of the song: “For Nuţu and Sile.” The Cămătaru brothers, Nuțu and Sile, are nationally famous gangsters, probably the best-known such figures in all of Romania. The singer speaks from the point of view of Sile, who is, just as the song says, “faraway” in prison although due for release soon (in fact Sile Cămătaru would be released the next year): “Not long, now, and it will all be all right.” The first verse celebrates the successes of a group that was “at the top of the pyramid,” meaning that they were the most powerful underworld group and became “a living legend” (not far from the truth given their national notoriety) and, at the same time, defines the heroic deeds and achievements of the gangster’s life as secret: “We’ve gone through a lot, but nobody knows it.” These two are “good brothers,” bound to one another by their feelings: “Together we are one heart,” sharing the mafia values of “strength and honor, water and earth.” Through the lăutar as intermediary, Sile urges his brother to be strong now that the group’s unity has been weakened:33 Că lumea profită; crede că nu ţine că nu e şi fratele tău lângă tine.

’Cause the world will take advantage of you; they think you can’t hold on since your brother is no longer at your side.

But he will soon be out of prison, so “Să ne facem treaba cu atenţie” [We should take care how we do our business], meaning that they should make no further mistakes that might put them back behind bars. The song ends with a threat to their rivals: Sunt doar două variante pentru voi: ori faceţi ca noi, ori faceţi ca noi. The only actual choice is submission.

There are only two choices for you: either do as we do, or do as we do.

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However murky the context, at a surface reading manele remain legally unexceptionable, as we can see in another commissioned piece, a manea in which a gangster boss is celebrated by his lieutenants—Trăiască şeful! [Long live the chief!]—at a wedding in Timișoara where he stands sponsor to the bridal couple:34 Hai să ne trăiască şeful! Ăsta e descureţul! Are bani şi are de toate. Ne ţine pe toţi în spate. (Ale ale Nuţule!) Nu se vinde până la moarte. (Ale ale Nuţule!) Ne-a făcut case palate. Ai ţinut mereu aproape, Nuţu, şi nu te vinzi pân’ la moarte, Nuţule. Că mereu la toți le-ai dat de băut și de mâncat; pe toți, pe toți ne-ai ajutat.

Long live our chief! He’s a smart guy! He’s got money and he’s got everything. He keeps us all walking tall. (Hey, hey Nuţu!) He’ll never sell us out until he dies. (Hey, hey Nuţu!) He’s turned our houses into palaces. You’ve always stayed close to us, Nuțu, and you’ll never sell us out until you die, Nuţu. You’ve always given everyone their food and drink; you’ve helped all of us, all of us.

The only suspect reference in a text that appears to have nothing to do with lawbreaking is the line “Nu se vinde până la moarte” [He’ll never sell us out until he dies], that is, he will never betray them. As for the rest, the lyrics could just as well be taken as innocent praise of a philanthropic fellow. To discern the real meaning, the words must be contextualized in the game of dedications, where the song serves to assure a gangster of the devotion and loyalty of his underlings: “De la Alex Bombardieru’ [The Bomber, nickname for a ‘professional’ bully], pentru tata Nuțu, pentru doamna Mica [Nuţu’s wife], pentru toată lumea” [from Alex “The Bomber,” for Papa Nuţu, for Mrs. Mica, for the whole world]. Moreover in the middle of the song, Alex Bombardieru performs a dedication for “Nuțulică,” Nuțu-boy. One of the most successful and complex examples of such songs—a true performance—is Florin Salam’s Soldaţii [Soldiers].35 Although not a commissioned piece, there is no studio version of the song and it is only performed live. The song apparently speaks of Salam himself and his band. But the made men and “wiseguys” understand the song rather differently as a playful parable on power, trust, and obedience in Mafia organizations. Here I discuss a performance from 2010 in a club in Timişoara. At first the soloist pretends to be talking about himself and his band and, more specifically, of how they conquered the music scene: Soldaţi! Ce-am făcut, ce n-am făcut? Şi de unde am apărut? C-am rupt România în două, duşmanii se fac că plouă.

Soldiers! What have we done, what haven’t we done? And where have we come from? ’Cause we’ve broken Romania in two, our enemies weep rainclouds.

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References here to the world of the mafia are the address “Soldiers!” and the phrase “Am rupt România-n două” [We’ve broken Romania in two], which in criminal slang denotes large illegal earnings. The song is built on fast, loud passages from the singer and band together and slower passages with drum solos, where the singer dialogues with the instrumentalists. Salam, at the microphone, talks to his band members while they cheer and halloo without sound amplification, echoing his words. This creates a powerful hypnotic effect, as if Salam were up on stage as a great leader while his “soldiers” were somewhere offstage, anonymous within the audience. The song transitions toward a more direct message; the singer calls out “Soldiers!” to his band, who reply “True, boss,” and to his aggressive calls for mobilization, they respond, “To war, to arms, hey, dad, hey,” calls echoed from all around as though by a great crowd. “Are you faithful?” the singer continues: “You’ll never sell out, will you?” and the soldiers respond with lengthy acclamations confirming their commitment to their boss. In the following sequence, Salam asks them to sit down: “Down, soldiers!” a metaphorical test of their obedience so that in the next sequence he sings standing on his feet while the band members squat on their haunches around him. This sequence is subversively entitled “Urmărire generală” [Most wanted], in which the sound of a machine gun is imitated. In live songs performed at underworld events, the references to the Mafia world are very often more precise than they are in studio versions but still remain vague. Thus, the organization is described with ambiguous terms such as brigadă [brigade], frăţie [brotherhood], trupă de şoc [shock troop], comando [commando], garda de fier36 [the Iron Guard: originally a criminal gang and thus by extension any Mafia brotherhood], mercenari [mercenaries], soldaţi [soldiers], armată [army], and other expressions that refer to military hierarchy or to the idea of order: general [general], cap [capo], şef [chief ], grade [ranks: upper or ranks of precedence in the underworld], a face legea [laying down the law], and various terms derived from a vinde [selling out] in the sense of betrayal. Where does this fondness for military metaphors come from? Gambetta (1993) shows that Sicilian Mafia organizations are structured in a quasi-military fashion, with a boss, lieutenant, and soldiers functioning in strict discipline. Things are no different in Romanian Mafia organizations, which, press coverage reports, are made up of bosses or chiefs, lieutenant, and soldiers. Likewise, Romanian gangsters have developed a weakness for the attire of the Italian career criminal—the tailored suit—and a fondness for black clothes for the boss as well as sunglasses, leather jackets, Adidas shoes, and skinhead cuts for the lieutenants, imitating the outfit of the Italian working class. As it happens, current fashion seems similarly influenced by Italy, which has a much stronger appeal than American-style hip-hop with its baggy clothes.

LĂUTARI, THE TROUBADOURS OF POP For all their links to the underworld, manea musicians do not become criminals themselves except in a few rare cases. In gangsta rap, the stage star may himself

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be a gangster (e.g., 2Pac, 50 Cent, etc.), and a performer’s past life in organized crime or as a petty crook serves well to reinforce his public image as a bad boy; the connection with the underworld is taken for granted or even played up and integrated into the heart of the genre. It is by no means a bad thing if the star continues to take drugs. In manele, the roles are kept strictly apart: the performers do not become gangsters, nor do the gangsters become performers. Furthermore, the performers are shy about their links to the underworld, which are not advertised in their interviews or television appearances. More suited to describe the relations between these musicians and organized crime is the model of the medieval troubadours, courtly singers who sang the chivalric deeds of the nobleman who protected and paid them or the beauty of his wife. These medieval songs were highly stylized tributes in ornamental language, poetically exaggerating (or inventing) the nobleman’s gallantry or his wife’s charm. For the nobleman, it was a way to immortalise himself through art and at the same time to display his power. In the “chaotic epoch” of post-socialism, to paraphrase Harold Bloom, the noblemen have been replaced by the underworld warriors of the day who declare their power by showing that they can afford a top musical performer to pay tribute to them, lifting themselves and their family into the empyrean realms of art. The style aims to be similarly elevated (“For him, all beautiful words for all the days he may live,” as one famous performer says of a notorious gangster client), and the hyperbole is equally present. The medieval troubadours praised their protector’s deeds of arms, and the lăutari of manele praise their patron’s wiseguy attitude and financial clout. In the chaotic 1990s, the connection was clearer, with some musicians letting it be known that they had underworld protection. The most famous instance is that of a well-known pair of performers who caused a furor in the late 1990s with five albums dedicated to an underworld figure. Moreover, a collage photograph of this criminal appeared on the inside cover of the albums showing him looming over the musicians like a giant over children in a fairy tale. His role as financial backer for their musical performances was also highlighted on the album’s front cover, blazoned with the legend “Sponsor: the Prince of the Gypsies, Leo de la Strehaia” in its acknowledgments (which mention the sponsor’s whole extended family) and also in the lyrics, which interminably praised the “prince’s” amorous and money-making adventures.37 A lăutar from Târgovişte who specializes in the sub-genre known as bagabonţeşti [vagabond music] was similarly protected by a mafia figure from there in return for which he dedicated an album, Chef la şmecheri [The wiseguys’ party]:38 Tot judeţul tot oraşul lui Ghenosu-i zice naşul. E şmecher cu minte multă, mafiot sută la sută.

The whole county, the whole city knows Ghenosu and calls him godfather. He’s a wiseguy, he’s got lots of smarts, one hundred percent Mafioso.

Similarly, two others from the most recent generation have let it be known that they are protected by a Mafia clan and repeatedly name one of the kingpins as “our

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boss.”39 Even before these two, another famous performer celebrated the same clan and declared his gratitude in a song dedicated to the release of one of their bosses from prison:40 Mi-este inimioara arsă, ăla mi-a dat prima casă. Eram, Doamne, la început, şi Nuţu mă iubea prea mult.

My heart is burning, he gave me my first house. My God, I was a bare beginner, and Nuţu showed me every favor.

Elsewhere the musician affectionately calls him “Tata Nuţu” [Papa Nuţu] in a dedication.41 Some years later we find the same musician hired by another clan whose foot soldiers beat and kicked him,“accusing the ‘prince of performers’ that he was not loyal to them and had agreed to sing for rival clans, a grave offence to their authority” (in the words of the newspaper Libertatea).42 At this level, art glorifies you even as it takes away your money, and few people have sufficient funds to be able to afford to hire a troubadour or have their dedication immortalized in a song or album. The others, the would-be “wiseguys” who dream of being “big shots,” must content themselves with performances in the clubs where they can throw away half their wages and feel, for five minutes, like members of an exclusive club, the select few. There is another, even cheaper option, too—after all, we live in the age of mechanical reproduction. At this level—the level of pop and the ordinary listener— there is no longer any room for the singular, the unique, but instead works are presented in cheap copies, in “cleaned-up” studio versions, shorn of all direct references and offering no more than the empty fictional frames with which any poor punter can identify if he sends a dedication by SMS, costing €4, to Taraf TV to see his name and his sweetheart’s in the crawl text at the bottom of the screen. Unique performances and the sensations of the live event cost big money.

NOTES 1.  Cipri-san (2010). 2.  See Deoancă (2011). 3.  Saci de lovele. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfP0PUUdOcw, accessed 9 February 2011. 4. MediaPro ConScert. http://www.theoconcert.ro/oferta-artisti-manele-i16.html, accessed 10 December 2012. 5.  Saci de lovele. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfP0PUUdOcw, accessed 9 February 2011. 6.  See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frMFj9UkpGE, accessed 19 June 2011. 7. Copilul de Aur and Silvian Bursuc, Cash cash, full full, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=YrrUOZjN2wE, accessed 26 January 2015. 8.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_tdgeu_f8Uc, accessed 23 September 2011.

Manele and the Underworld 203 9.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlqOE9awH44, accessed 26 January 2015. 10.  In a Mafia organization, lieutenants are on an intermediate hierarchical level, immediately under their boss—the supreme leader—and above the soldiers, who are simple executors. 11. Florin Cercel, De talie mondială [Worldwide fame] by Petrică Cercel, http://www .youtube.com/watch?v=HNn68Ayv82I, accessed 19 September 2012. 12. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_hAbTKbhaM&feature=related, accessed 7 February 2011. 13.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hygumIotYwk, accessed 14 February 2011. 14.  Bătăi . . . fără număr. Acasă TV, http://www.acasatv.ro/povestiri-adevarate/manelistii -vorbesc-despre-umilintele-prin-care-au-trecut-video.html, accessed 27 May 2011. 15.  Nicolae Guță and Copilul de Aur, Prietenii și banii [Friends and money], http://www .trilulilu.ro/video-muzica/nicolae-guta-copilul-de-aur-prietenii-si-banii, accessed 12 November 2012. 16.  Bătaie pe lăutar, Pro TV. http://stirileproTV.ro/stiri/actualitate/scandal-pe-viata-si-pe -moarte-pentru-un-lăutar-la-comana.html, accessed 3 August 2011. 17.  Florin Salam, snopit în bătaie de interlopi. Libertatea [9 January 2012]. http://www .libertatea.ro/detalii/articol/florin-salam-bataie-interlop-373326.html, accessed 27 September 2012. 18.  Bătăi . . . fără număr. Acasă TV, http://www.acasatv.ro/povestiri-adevarate/manelistii -vorbesc-despre-umilintele-prin-care-au-trecut-video.html, accessed 27 May 2011. 19.  Adi Minune a făcut o manea despre criză, bucuros că se impozitează bacşişurile. http:// www.ziare.com/emil-boc/premier/adi-minune-a-facut-o-manea-despre-criza-bucuros-ca-se -impoziteaza-bacsisurile-1034285, accessed 12 March 12 2011. 20. Ferentari is a neighborhood in Bucharest that is viewed by the public as the most notorious zone in the city. The neighborhood, strongly stigmatized geographically by the other residents of the city, is the poorest neighborhood in Bucharest and, at the same time, the most important center for heroin trafficking; it has a high rate of crime and an ethnically very mixed population. 21.  Judecatorul lui Leo de la Strehaia l-a scos basma curată pe fiul unui poliţist. România Liberă [3 February 2010]. http://www.romanialibera.ro/actualitate/eveniment/judecatorullui-leo-de-la-strehaia-l-a-scos-basma-curata-pe-fiul-unui-politist-176414.html, accessed 8 March 2011. 22.  Adrian Minune and Carmen Şerban, Am Mercedes tipurile toate [I’ve got all the different marques of Mercedes] in album Prințul meu [My Prince], 1999. 23.  Carmen Şerban, Am amant și-s măritată [I’ve got a lover and I’m married] in album Prințul meu [My Prince] 1999. 24.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTyqqF8VB-8, accessed 18 August 2011. 25. I found out the song was comissioned by his uncle Sorin Magnatu from Ivana Mladenović, a young movie director who made a documentary about three men who were released from prison. One of them was Geani Versace, who is filmed in his first days of freedom including when he was released; see trailer: http://ivanamladenovic.com/. 26.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWiZmE4XAXo. 27.  Nicolae Guță and Vanilla Man, Amar Generalul [General Amar], http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=YI6Lz8mNS3U. 28.  Nicolae Guță, Sutele de milioane milioane [Hundreds of millions], http://www.trilulilu .ro/muzica-diverse/nicolae-guta-sutele-de-milioane-originala-cd. 29.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22LeIhxXCC4.

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30. See http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/live-florin-salam-si-adrian-minune-vorbe -criminale. 31.  Florin Purice and Florin Salam, Cap și pajură [Heads and tails], http://www.trilulilu .ro/muzica-manele/florin-salam-si-florin-purice-cap-si-pajura-origin-3, accessed 1 December 2012. 32. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzhW6P892Yc; http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=eq59TzTXl1w; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhOXZUc-8N4 accessed 26 January 2015. 33.  Florin Purice and Florin Salam, Cap și pajură [Heads and tails], http://www.trilulilu .ro/muzica-manele/florin-salam-si-florin-purice-cap-si-pajura-origin-3, accessed 1 December 1 2012. 34.  Florin Salam, Trăiască șeful! [Long live the chief!] Live nuntă Grațian Timișoara, http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eUB8jmrABg, accessed 7 December 2012. 35.  Florin Salam, Nebunia lu Salam 2011 Live, Club One Million Timișoara, http://www .trilulilu.ro/video-muzica/florin-salam-nebunia-lu-salam-2011-live-club-one-m-1, accessed December 2012. 36.  Examples include a song by Nicolae Guţă and Sorina, Noi suntem Garda de Fier [We are the Iron Guard], http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/nicolae-guta-noi-suntem-garda -de-fier-vol-8, accessed 14 December 2012; a live song by Adrian Minune, Cine e Garda de Fier? [Who is the Iron Guard?], http://www.trilulilu.ro/video-muzica/adrian-minune-cine-e -garda-de-fier, accessed 14 December 2012; and the most explicit Mafia song, Garda de Fier [The Iron Guard] by DJ Sebi, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8gniEkLjS0, dedicated to the “wiseguys” who operate in the West, accessed 14 December 2012. 37. For instance, Adrian Minune and Carmen Șerban, Te Iubesc [I love you] (their third album), http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-manele/carmen-serban-si-adrian-vol-3-album -te-iubesc-40mi?ref=similare_jos, accessed 5 December 2012. 38.  Doru Calotă, Mafiotu [Mafioso], http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/doru-calotamafiotu?ref=cauta, accessed 7 February 2012. The whole album Chef la șmecheri [The wiseguys’ party] is available at http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-manele/doru-calota-album-full-chef -la-smecheri?ref=cauta, accessed 7 February 2012. 39.  “Dedicăm cea mai frumoasă melodie din partea mea Florin Purice, împreună cu Mitzu din Sălaj, pentru bossul nostru, pentru Sile” [We—Florin Purice, together with Mitzu from Sălaj—dedicate the most beautiful melody to our boss, to Sile]; Florin Purice and Mitzu din Sălaj, Mai vorbim în libertate [We’ll talk more when we’re free], http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=2rV2byKhYmQ, accessed 7 December 2012; “Și vine cea mai șmecheră melodie, din partea mea Florin Purice și din partea mea Mitzu din Sălaj pentru bossul nostru, pentru Sile” [And now the slyest melody from me, Florin Purice, and from me, Mitzu form Sălaj, for our boss, for Sile], Florin Purice and Mitzu din Sălaj, Își face de cap lumea http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=KJtcjyrTsAw, accessed 2 December 2013. 40. See http://www.trilulilu.ro/muzica-diverse/live-florin-salam-si-adrian-minune-vorbe -criminale, accessed 13 June 2011. 41. “Raul, pentru tine, pentru tine, și eu, pentru tata Nuțu” [Raul—for you, for you, and I—for Papa Nuţu], Florin Salam, Cap și pajură [Heads and tails], Club One Million Timișoara, http://www.trilulilu.ro/muziica-diverse/live-florin-salam-si-adrian-minune-vorbe -criminale, accessed 13 June 2011. 42.  Florin Salam, snopit în bătaie de interlopi. Libertatea (9 January 2012). http://www.liber tatea.ro/detalii/articol/florin-salam-bataie-interlop-373326.html, accessed 27 September 2012.

8 Village Manele An Urban Genre in Rural Romania Margaret Beissinger

Manele, the “Oriental” Balkan pop song-dance genre that is the subject of this book, took Romania by storm in the 1990s, soon after the political and cultural borders of the country collapsed following the revolution of December 1989. Almost overnight, the manea (pl. manele), which had already survived for some time underground, was recognized and embraced in public, and its performance was assumed by and large by Romani musicians. As the post-revolution decade progressed, manele were soon widely performed at weddings and other social gatherings and by the late 1990s had become ubiquitous. The manea is an urban genre. It developed primarily in Bucharest and was disseminated to locales throughout the country, both urban and rural, where, in some cases, regional styles of the genre emerged.1 The music and words of post-1989 manele are quintessentially “modern,” as are the music technologies that produce them. The “Oriental” sound of the “Middle Eastern” rhythms, harmonies, and melodies as well as the banal, often brazen, content of the lyrics brand the genre as Balkan and “Eastern,” interpreted by many ethnic Romanians as foreign. The performers of manele are predominantly young male Roma, a great many of whom come from families of urban lăutari (professional male Romani musicians, sg. lăutar),2 while their audiences, in addition to youth, are for the most part Roma as well as working-class and nouveau-riche Romanians. The instruments they play are largely nontraditional and frequently generate “Middle Eastern” sonorities. But while the manea is an urban genre, it came to be extremely popular in rural communities as well. Village musicians in southern Romania who perform manele are lăutari hired for traditional weddings; they excel in ritual and social Romanian song and dance genres. As of the 1990s, rural audiences also request—and the musicians who perform for them deliver—manele as a significant part of the social repertoire at weddings. Indeed, the manea eventually became as beloved a genre in southern Romanian villages during the cultural meltdown that took place 205

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after 1989 as it did in the cities. While they continue to be widely appreciated in both rural and urban contexts, manele no longer monopolize the social dance repertory at weddings as fully as they did during the 1990s and early 2000s. Their dominance at traditional events—especially in the city—has leveled off to some extent such that twenty-five years after the Romanian Revolution, they are sharing the stage more frequently with other (mainly traditional and Western) genres. But manele remain, at least for now, a prominent component of the social music performed at rural weddings in southern Romania. My findings in this chapter focus on manele as performed in Muntenian villages in the vicinity of Bucharest (Ilfov County), the urban center in which the genre is produced and the heart of the rich Balkan Romani music tradition in Romania.3 I examine how the performance of manele has evolved in rural Romania from the last decades of the twentieth century to the present day, concentrating in particular on how the genre has been adopted and adapted.4 I explore who performs manele in the village, when, where, and for whom, as well as how manele migrated from Bucharest to smaller communities in Muntenia where local lăutari assimilated them; this includes an examination of the instruments and equipment employed and how they have signaled the development of the genre in its rural forms. This chapter addresses how village manele compare to their city prototypes. It accordingly offers several preliminary conclusions about the dramatic changes in manea culture that might be too easily glossed as “urbanization.” We will see first of all, that the gap between rural and urban culture may well be closing; secondly, that an understanding of more complex factors of ethnicity, class, age, and gender is needed in order to interpret post-1989 rural music-making; and thirdly, that these are not fixed, immobile categories but dynamic, organic components, among them Romanian/Romani, elite/ working-class, young/old, and male/female. The chapter also sheds light on the extraordinary role of manele over the past twenty-five years and how the genre’s intense popularity and simultaneous notoriety in village and city alike have been informed by Romania’s post-revolution transition. Martin Stokes’s work (1994) on how music informs the construction of ethnic and social boundaries provides a useful theoretical frame for my findings on manele.5 I argue that boundaries of place, ethnicity, class, age, and gender are generated and experienced in and through the performance of manele. A set of discrete yet fluid social categories including village/city, Romani/Romanian, working-class/elite, young/old, and male/female are embedded in the music and production of manele. Moreover, distinctive instruments and devices, repertoire, and style are at the heart of the “technologies” that are harnessed to spawn manele and the emblems of social identity that they produce. I explore how these technologies function in the performance of manele and how social categories are, in turn, constructed through performance. Place, ethnicity, class, age, and gender, I maintain, are engendered and “heard” in manele. Post-1989 Romania is still characterized by a significant village sector: 45 percent of the population.6 A major theme that underlies this chapter is the intersection



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between rural and urban musical culture over the twenty-five years since the revolution. I suggest that manele in rural Muntenia informed identity at the juncture between the traditional and modern in the chaotic period after this momentous event. Village musicians preserved and perpetuated traditional culture as they simultaneously forged and promoted modernity, nowhere expressed more explicitly than in the production of manele. It is well-known that music during times of social change is rarely static (Stokes 1994:17). The rise in popularity of manele that took place in the 1990s signaled an extraordinary shift from traditional song and dance repertoire as Romanian society was undergoing social, political, and economic transformations, affecting rural (and urban) Romani musicians profoundly. In the 1990s, manele became firmly established in the urban culture of Bucharest and well by the end of that decade they had effectively become “required” at traditional weddings. This necessitated the adjustment by musicians to contemporary instrument technologies, the adoption of novel styles of performing, and the constant learning of new songs. At the outset, it posed a formidable challenge for many lăutari. Not only was the cultural (and musical) landscape seriously evolving in post-1989 Romania, but economic conditions for virtually everyone were extremely dire. Rural musicians struggled with the profound changes happening in their profession as manele, a genre only very rarely a part of the village social music repertoire up until 1990, took center stage at weddings. A competitive tension between rural and urban ensembles over the performance of manele emerged. In order for musicians in the village to land the jobs that they desperately needed for survival, they had to—if they could—update and/or replace their instruments as well as develop their skills, style of singing and playing, and repertoire. The manea became a “make it or break it” phenomenon for musicians. Indeed, musicians were striving both economically (to salvage and perpetuate their occupation and thus their ability to provide for their families) as well as musically (to adapt both performance-wise and aesthetically to the new genre). How village musicians “managed” manele is indicative of how they coped with the post-1989 years. As we will see, questions of identity as well as tradition and modernity played out openly (and not so openly) on the rural wedding stage and were most telling in terms of who the musicians were, what instruments they employed, and the repertoires they performed. Urban and rural manele have much in common. After all, the manele sung in the village are effectively the same songs performed by urban musicians; they are disseminated from Bucharest to provincial communities where they are picked up by local lăutari. Performers of manele are vocalists (by the early 2000s called “manelişti,” sg. manelist) and instrumentalists and are predominantly male Roma who earn their living, or much of it, from music-making. The occasions for the performance of manele are first and foremost banquets held at weddings; baptisms and other family celebrations also provide routine occasions.7 Manele are characterized by syncopated “Middle Eastern” çiftetelli rhythms (e.g., dotted quarter, eighth, quarter, quarter and variations thereof ) and distinctive modal patterns (especially the iconic

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“augmented second” and chromatic passages), hence the alternate term for manea, “muzică orientală” [Oriental music] and its association by many ethnic Romanians with “alien” culture (see also chapter 3). The songs are stanzaic (with refrains), isometric (with verses of between five and twelve syllables), and generally trochaic. The lyrics—despised by many—contain hackneyed, metrically irregular verse primarily about love, sex, and power, virtually always from a male perspective. The manea—in both city and village—also generates intense public discourse about class. Audiences comprise Roma and Romanians, especially youth and the working class. As Jim Samson points out, the culture of manea enthusiasts “has been marked by its association with a predominantly uneducated, even an anti-intellectual . . . public” (2013:606). By contrast, wholesale contempt for manele comprises the response of the cultured and educated elite. Pierre Bourdieu’s (1984) well-known work on aesthetics is helpful for understanding how powerful a symbol of taste and social class (or lack thereof ) that manele became after 1989. Whether one disapproved or not of the genre put judgements of aesthetics starkly on the line: one’s working-class and less-educated status was “revealed” in appreciation of the genre, while, inversely, one’s “cultural pedigree” was demonstrated by the rejection of it. There are also significant differences, however, between rural and urban manele. Rural lăutari who perform manele are rarely celebrities; they struggle to make a living performing at village venues, mainly weddings, where traditional Romanian music and dance has formed the fundamental repertoire for generations. Such celebrations take place in courtyards of private homes, restaurants, schools, or cultural centers. Some rural lăutari also perform in local village discotheques. By contrast, the most celebrated (and wealthy) urban lăutari are pop idols who earn a great deal of income performing manele live and on commercial recordings; they also dictate what is listened to in the rest of the country. A fast-paced urban music scene for lăutari includes manele performed at wedding banquets, often in lavish restaurants. Urban lăutari also perform at nightclubs frequented almost exclusively by young people who have surplus cash.8 The urban, post-1989 class of nouveaux riches is crucial to the popularity of manele in the city and champions what Denise Roman calls a postcommunist “new kitsch aesthetic” (2003:51).9 Other distinctions between rural and urban performances of manele pertain to instruments, dedications, and clientele. First, village musicians typically employ more traditional instruments than those utilized by city lăutari, one reason being that their repertoire is more traditional. But urban “scule” [tools] are also costly and often inaccessible to rural lăutari. This is true especially of the orgă [synthesizer or synth] and other electronic equipment. As we will see, the synthesizer, more than any other instrument, defined and influenced popular music in Romania after 1989. Secondly, the “performance” of manea dedications varies between rural and urban events, as do the terms of the exchanges that take place. Requests and dedications for manele—key moments in live performance—are transactions, in public, of songs, recognition, admiration, and money.10 Guests request manele for others present at the wedding and tip the musicians; the songs are then dedicated to them. In the village, this



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traditionally takes place with only moderate fanfare, while the city exchanges can be extremely ostentatious and multilayered in meaning (see chapters 6 and 7). The more glamorous the event, the bigger the amounts of money tipped and the more flamboyant the displays. Thirdly, some urban lăutari perform manele at venues where criminals and members of the underworld convene. There requests and dedications can symbolize expressions of loyalty and/or enmity (see chapter 7). Village lăutari, however, are rarely involved in performances for such patrons. In my consideration of weddings with a rural component at which manele are performed, three categories emerge: village weddings where village musicians perform (my primary focus in this chapter), village weddings where urban musicians perform, and urban weddings where village musicians perform.11 Overlapping with these combinations are additional factors that pertain to rural identity: villagers get married in the village; villagers get married in the city, or city-dwellers get married in the village. Blurring these boundaries, many inhabitants of the city are actually “peasant urbanites” (Simić 1973), people who were born and grew up in the village but have relocated to urban centers (especially Bucharest). They are a product of the mass urbanization, industrialization, and migration from the village to the city that began in the communist period, spawning what Roman calls a “hybrid urban-peasant culture” (2003:41). In the pages ahead, I share my observations on manele based on fieldwork in southern Romania from 1998 to 2014, examining in particular how manele have affected culture there over the past quarter-century. Although I have followed a number of lăutar families and will draw in part from that fieldwork in this chapter, I chart most closely the path taken by one extended family of rural Romani musicians who have been lăutari for generations. I examine how they “perform” social categories through manele and thereby construct or embrace a variety of identities, perpetually veering between the traditional and the modern as they seek to promote and maintain their careers as musicians. My focus is on how they have been able to sustain their occupation of music-making in post-1989 Romania by successfully adjusting to the changes that took place in traditional and popular music culture engendered by manele. The “chronicle” that I present here treats five consecutive stages: pre-revolution Romania, the 1990s, 1999–2002, 2003–2009, and 2010–2014. I turn my attention in each to rural performances that were emblematic of the manea “revolution.” I maintain that manele brought—and bring—into focus key factors that are telling in understanding the first twenty-five years of Romania’s post-communist experience.

PRE-REVOLUTION MANELE TURCEŞTI [TURKISH MANELE] Manele, insofar as they were performed at all in rural Romania during the communist period, were an “underground” genre, little known and infrequently heard at Romanian venues. When they were performed in public, it was generally by urban musicians at Romani weddings in the city, events that few ethnic Romanians attended.

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There is virtually no information on manele in rural Romania until the mid-twentieth century when a few details observed in villages south of Bucharest provide a bit of evidence of in-group Romani performances (see chapter 1). In 1949, in the village of Clejani (Giurgiu County),12 ethnographers encountered an instrumental “manea turcească” [Turkish manea], the term that was then in use by Romani musicians. Eleven years later, a manea-like female solo dance was observed in the same locale. In the village of Brâncoveanca (Teleorman County)13 in 1962, a lively performance of a manea was documented. By the 1970s, as Robert Garfias notes, a manea form—both song and female dance—had gradually extended into southern Romanian villages and cities (1984:88). Indeed, Anca Giurchescu came across a female solo dance, likewise called manea turcească in Roseţi (Călăraşi County)14 in 1972. As the 1980s progressed, the manea turcească became more popular at Romani and Romanian venues although it was still performed infrequently.15 The village lăutari whom I follow most closely in this chapter are members of the extended Zaharia family from Mârşa (Giurgiu County).16 My fieldwork with them began in 1998; they have also shared information about their experiences as lăutari in the 1980s. In 1998, the instrumentalists—all men—played the accordion, violin, bass viol, and cimbalom [ţambal], comprising a classic Muntenian “taraf” [small ensemble of lăutari who sing and play traditional instruments; pl. tarafuri]. The male vocalists were also instrumentalists, while the female singer (the wife of one of the instrumentalists) was not. The family band has performed for generations at traditional weddings in villages especially in Giurgiu, Teleorman, and Dâmboviţa Counties, as well as on occasion in Bucharest. The Zaharias’ narrative offers a representative yet nuanced portrait of how a family of lăutari in a village in Muntenia courageously faced the many economic ups and downs of late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century Romania as they struggled to deal with the “manea revolution.” The experiences that they have had adapting to and managing manele provide a striking portrait of how transformative the genre has been for village music-making in post-communist Romania and, ultimately, how resilient they—and other lăutari— have been (see figures 8.1–8.5/examples 8.16a–h). The Zaharias have told me that they occasionally performed manele in the late communist period. But they have also stressed that few were performed at Romanian rural weddings then since traditional Romanian genres dominated. At Romani weddings at that time, manele were somewhat more popular but were still performed only sporadically. The ensemble’s female vocalist, Silvia Zaharia, occasionally sang “manele turceşti” [Turkish manele] with the ensemble starting around the mid-1980s. Songs by and large about love and family, they included Şaraiman and Frate, frate [Brother, brother],17 both made popular by Romica Puceanu,18 as well as Mama mea e florăreasă [My mother sells flowers], sung by Gabi Lunca.19 Silvia also recalled Prinţişorul [The little prince] and Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], popularized by Nelu Vlad and Costel Geambaşu and their respective bands (see chapter 3), as well as the manele Băiatul şi fata mea [My son and daughter], Portofele, portofele [Wallet, o wallet], and Regina noptii [Queen of the night]. At communist-period weddings, when the occasional



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manele turceşti were performed, young people (women and men as well as Roma and Romanians) danced solo, as the Zaharias have told me, in “quasi-Oriental” style. Manele as song and dance are both coded as Romani or “Gypsy.”20 Manele turceşti were, in fact, prohibited in public by the state before 1990 since they were allegedly “alien” and did not “belong” to the narrative of a culturally homogeneous Romania that the government wished to promote. Manele were a product of what Svanibor Pettan ironically terms the “Others from within” (2001:119). Lăutari could be fined for performing manele turceşti. Silvia has told me, “We were afraid to perform manele then,” but she also remarked that “Already in the 1980s, Romanians loved manele!”21 In the village of Celei (Olt County),22 I was told by Gică Candoi,23 a rural lăutar who sang manele and played the accordion, how quickly the genre became established in the village repertoire after the popular uprising in December 1989. Following years of prohibition (he himself had been reprimanded by local police when he had performed manele in public), within a few weeks after the revolution, manele were legitimate music, openly heard at Romanian village weddings and pubs. Gică claimed that it was like a “musical revolution.”24 The occasional pre-1990s manele were sung by young lăutari; older generations (born before the mid-twentieth century) seldom performed them. When I asked the Zaharias whether the eldest members of their ensemble had performed manele in communist Romania, I was told, “No, because manele began in the 1980s.”25 The implication was that lăutari born in the late 1930s and early 1940s were “too old” by then to pick up a new genre. Likewise, Gică told me that neither of his two lăutar uncles (both born in the 1920s) had ever performed them. A video recording made in August 1989 that the Zaharias have shared with me provides a telling example of manele at a life-cycle celebration in pre-revolution Romania. The event, held in Mârşa, was “tăierea moţului” [lit., cutting the forelock] or simply moţul [the forelock], a rite of passage that marks a little boy’s first haircut and is ritually performed by his godfather.26 For the Zaharias, it was a milestone for their young son Costică (b. 1987), then two-and-a-half, as well as a fitting occasion to celebrate with food, drink, and music performed by lăutari who played traditional taraf instruments and/or sang.27 The repertoire was varied but consisted of much “muzică lăutărească” (lăutar music, an urban Romani song and dance style).28 Of the twenty-four pieces captured on the video, which represented a fraction of the evening’s music, there was one lone manea, and it was an instrumental “turcească” [Turkish] (manea). In fact, during the entire celebration, there were apparently only a few others performed.29 When I asked the Zaharias why there were so few manele at that banquet, I was told, “Because there weren’t a lot of manele back then, and anyway, we liked muzică lăutărească the best!”30 The guests at the “moţ” were mainly Roma but also Romanians, and the celebration was a typical all-night affair, lasting about ten hours. The dancing to the manele that evening was executed solo by mixed gendered Roma and Romanians (see chapter 1). During the 1980s, then, the occasional rural manea turcească in southern Romania was performed instrumentally by men or sung traditionally by women.

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After 1989, as we will see, manele evolved significantly, embracing influences from both East and West. While its signature çiftetelli rhythm and “Middle Eastern” inflections persisted, it gained a new sound generated by a shift to highly amplified, nontraditional instruments, especially the synthesizer (the deafening volume inspired by Western rock music, and the synthesizer emblematic of Western pop). Furthermore, a male vocal sonority became standard. The lyrics also became more pedestrian. While themes of family and love were still sung, sex, money, and power also became frequent topics. With the shift in the political and cultural climate in Romania after 1989, muzică orientală, the primary 1990s designation for the earlier manele turceşti, came to represent the breakdown of communist controls and the opening up of cultural influences both from within and abroad and emerged as the most influential popular music genre of the late twentieth century.

POST-REVOLUTION MUZICĂ ORIENTALĂ [ORIENTAL MUSIC]: THE 1990s Already by the mid-1990s, muzică orientală was a sensation in southern Romania, and by the time I began fieldwork on the genre in 1998, it was exploding. An unprecedented—and largely unauthorized—audiocassette industry was responsible for promoting much of the muzică orientală that was disseminated from Bucharest to the rest of the country.31 Gică (from Celei) hyperbolically remarked already in 1998 that “Ninety-five percent of the songs requested at weddings are manele; I’m sick of them!”32 Manele had both rural and urban fans throughout Romania. But the distinctions between live performances in city and village were considerable. City ensembles were equipped with synthesizers by then, but in the countryside, they were still rare; the village ensembles that I encountered in Muntenia in the late 1990s employed solely traditional instruments. In my fieldwork among lăutari in the village of Blejeşti (Teleorman County)33 in June 1998, a taraf composed of two accordions, two violins, a cimbalom, and a bass viol performed in the courtyard of the accordionist Alexie Staicu (b. 1944).34 A teenage boy and a lăutar in his late thirties sang several “Oriental” songs [cântece orientale, sg. cântec oriental] including Băiatul şi fata mea.35 The distinct manea rhythm that characterized these songs was barely managed by a portable hammered dulcimer, called ţambal mic [small cimbalom], played by one of the lăutari. As we will see, in the absence of a synthesizer or drum set in village ensembles at that time, the cimbalom—either large or small—was called upon to produce the rhythm that manele necessitated, creating a distinctive “village-style” çiftetelli beat. When I first met the Zaharias in July 1998, the senior lăutari in the ensemble were the accordionist/vocalist Vasile (1939–2013) and his brother the violinist/vocalist Jenică (1943–2014). Two of the younger lăutari included Vasile’s sons—Băieţică (b. 1960), an accordionist, and Bebe (b. 1962), who plays the cimbalom. Two of Jenică’s sons also performed in the band: Marian (violinist/vocalist, b. 1969) and Tiu, a bass violist (b. 1974). Băieţică‘s wife Silvia (b. 1961) was (and is) the female vocalist.



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Various male relatives occasionally joined the ensemble when extra players were needed (e.g., on the accordion). They also owned a “small and not very good” Yamaha synthesizer, acquired in 1992, too inadequate, they told me, to play at weddings. On several occasions, the Zaharias performed informally for me (on the accordion, cimbalom, violin, and bass viol) at their home, both inside and in the courtyard. Inside, the music was sung and played without speakers. In addition to Romanian and lăutar repertoire, Silvia and Marian each sang several cântece orientale, and the ensemble played two instrumental manele turceşti. The popular Băiatul şi fata mea, a quintessential example of a Romani family theme (a key topic at weddings when expressions of parental love for their children are articulated),36 was sung by Silvia. The refrain is: Băiatul şi fata mea sunt o valoare. În lume de-ai căuta, nimeni nu are copii mai norocoşi în aceasta lume. Şi mă mândresc cu ei că sunt copiii mei.

My son [boy] and daughter [girl] are so precious. If you’d search the world over, [you’d find that] no one has kids more fortunate than mine in this world. And I’m so proud of them ’cause they’re my kids.

Silvia also sang the classic Florăresele [The flower girls], a lyric manea popularized by Puceanu that depicts Romani girls and women selling flowers at the marketplace, distinguished by a refrain of “Şai lai lai lai lai la” after every verse and as a chorus. In example 8.1,37 Silvia sings Băiatul şi fata mea, followed by a short bridge passage and Florăresele.38 The cimbalom and bass viol audibly provide the signature çiftetelli rhythm while the accordion carries most of the melody. Silvia’s most typical genres were not manele, however, but traditional lyric and popular songs from the Romanian and lăutar repertoire. While manele turceşti had been sung by women such as Puceanu and Lunca in the decades preceding the revolution, by the 1990s, a gender shift was taking place: as manele became more frequently performed in public, it became more common for men, not women, to sing them. I have frequently heard from lăutari that manele “sound better” with male voices. By the time I was encountering live manele in the late 1990s, it was, in effect, a male genre.39 Indeed, the young male vocalist from a family of lăutari, known in public as Adrian Copilul Minune (Adrian the Child Wonder),40 had become a hugely popular star by then. Other well-known urban Romani muzica-orientală vocalists at that time—also men with stage names—included Vali Vijelie [Vali Whirlwind],41 Sorinel Puştiu [Little Sorin the Kid],42 and Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti [Ştefan from Bărbuleşti].43 The urban celebrity culture—influenced by Western pop music—emerged after 1989 and was perpetuated by sales of these and other singers’ cassettes. Thus, while Silvia on occasion sang older manele turceşti at weddings in the 1990s, Marian, the youngest violinist in the ensemble at that time, was kept extraordinarily

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busy belting out cântece orientale. The Zaharias told me in 1998 that 80 percent of the wedding repertoire that they performed at that time was muzică orientală, an exaggeration that nonetheless reflected how they perceived the monopoly that manele had on the repertoire. Performing then, Marian sang popular hits by the stars from Bucharest such as Făi nevastă, făi muiere! [Hey wife, hey woman!]. In example 8.244 he sings Nevastă ca a mea [A wife like mine], which expresses a man’s pride in his wife and the envy that is aroused when others see her, a fitting wedding topic.45 The song begins with: Nevastă ca a mea nu are nimenea. Când ies cu ea la joc, rămâne lume-n loc.

A wife like mine no one has. When I go out with her to the dance, people just stop and stare.

Marian’s singing is not particularly articulate, but Băieţică engages in some interesting improvisation on the accordion. The cimbalom and bass viol again clearly supply the çiftetelli rhythm. This is true in an instrumental manea turcească also played for me at that time, in which the accordion, cimbalom, and bass viol took part, illustrated in example 8.3.46 Manea culture, like popular culture everywhere, is ephemeral. New songs constantly emerge as older ones fade out. The ability to learn new repertoire is critical, yet for some lăutari it has not always been easy. As manele became increasingly popular and indispensable at weddings in the 1990s, many middle-aged and older musicians simply could not adjust to them. Whether lăutari adapted or not to manele frequently became a generational issue and caused tension between older and younger musicians. The former felt that the emphasis on muzică orientală belittled their classic lăutar skills mastered in the communist period, while the latter disregarded many of the older musicians, especially when it came to manele, and considered them expendable. The senior village lăutari whom I encountered in 1998 were all in the same boat: born prior to the mid-twentieth century, they were “too old” to join the manea generation. And so for many, the music of “modernity” and the gigs that they needed to survive passed them by. An ensemble of elderly lăutari from the village Naipu (Giurgiu County)47 exemplified this generational rift. They played the violin, bass viol, guitar, accordion, and cimbalom. All of them also sang, excelling in classic southern traditional Romanian music. But as musical tastes evolved in the 1990s, their repertoire remained effectively what it had been in 1989: valued by some but, without any alternative newer repertoire, considered old-fashioned by many others. Because they could not adapt to the contemporary music scene following the revolution, at which time they were in their fifties, they were simply left behind and, by the time I met them (in 2004), were hardly performing at all. When I asked them whether they ever played manele, they laughed and shook their heads vigorously; manele simply were not part of their experience. At the same time, there was a relatively



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small community of Romanian intellectuals in Bucharest who, in fact, valued the older repertoire that the taraf from Naipu offered and rejoiced in their not knowing manele. There were not enough of these cultural and educational elite in Bucharest, however, or of the events they hosted, to ensure a steady income for the Naipu lăutari and others like them. The urban intellectuals and professionals who favored the repertoire of bands such as the Naipu taraf looked down upon the “low-class” taste of the champions of manele; the demarcation between high-class (in this case traditional Romanian) and low-class (manea) music coincided in their minds with distinctions of social class (Bourdieu 1984). By contrast, although they never cultivated the manea style or repertoire, older lăutari such as Vasile and Jenică Zaharia were still valued as musicians within their multigenerational family ensemble since they provided the necessary traditional repertoire at village weddings. Although the post-1989 years were not easy for the Zaharias, they were able to bridge a variety of musical genres and styles and thus managed the challenges of the 1990s and 2000s. Not insignificant was also the fact that the ensemble as a family furnished a strong, supportive extended network, thus ensuring that their oldest members—even if they did not know manele—continued to be needed and appreciated. Lăutari in the 1990s were processing the profound changes that were taking place around them. Political, economic, social, and cultural shifts defined those years. Rural lăutari sensed these transformations acutely: having occupied a somewhat static niche during the communist period perpetuating a repertoire that did not evolve significantly, their world was suddenly racing ahead. The tide was turning, and in order for any lăutari to survive, the performance of manele was essential and it entailed new instruments, repertoire, and styles.

MANELE (MUZICĂ ORIENTALĂ) AT VILLAGE WEDDINGS: 1999–2002 Modernity and Tradition In contemporary southern Romanian villages, lăutari perform manele above all at family celebrations—chiefly weddings, but also baptisms, engagements, birthdays, name days, and other life cycle events as well as seasonal holidays such as New Year’s. Some are also hired at local restaurants and discotheques. Village weddings are major showcases of personal status, especially that of the groom and his family since traditionally they plan and host the wedding. This includes where the banquet takes place, what is served at the meal, and the musicians who are hired. In her monograph from the 1980s of life cycle rites in Ieud, a village in Maramureş County in northern Romania, Gail Kligman points out the importance—at village weddings—of displaying status that is coded as urban. She remarks that “‘Modernization’ is . . . reflected in the urban innovations [in village weddings] that have been introduced at

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the levels of production and presentation,” referring explicitly to store-bought food and the “influence of urban style on the bride’s attire” (Kligman 1988:270). In my fieldwork, I have also observed how villagers seek to demonstrate that they are in step with city culture. Among the urban trends that are well-known to rural inhabitants are musical genres and styles including, of course, manele. An examination of the manea as a village genre is profoundly informed by a consideration of place. Many, if not most, of the inhabitants in villages in southern Romania have ties to urban communities through family and/or friends as well as technology: cell phones, television, and, increasingly, computers and the Internet. This is true especially in villages in the relative vicinity of Bucharest where I have undertaken most of my fieldwork. At the same time, weddings provide key moments where rural identity is expressed. The village embodies the (imagined) source of Romanian customs and traditional values that the “timeless” folklore of life cycle ritual represents. Rural weddings, more than any other event, convey and reinforce traditional village culture, and lăutari are prime mediators in this transaction. The wedding rituals and genres are evocative symbols that ignite a sense of tradition, reassurance, and security. As Kligman noted over a quarter of a century ago, “Many people who live in the city return to their villages to have a peasant wedding; it is their heritage and locates them within the social fabric of identity” (1988:338n. 32). This still remains true today, and village musicians hired for weddings epitomize the “spirit” of traditional nuptials. Yet “modern” factors at weddings, such as urban music and musicians, also inform meaning (and status). It is for this reason that at some—more extravagant—village weddings, both “traditional” and “modern” bands are hired; normally, however, a single band produces the music requested at rural weddings. Music-Making at Rural Weddings Wedding celebrations in Romania include two musical arenas: ritual and social. Ritual music-making involves traditional songs and dances acoustically performed by lăutari during the nuptial events and customs, most of them preceding the marriage ceremony in the church. The rituals symbolize the wedding as a rite of passage and fertility as an underlying theme of marriage. By contrast, the social dance repertoire—the manea as well as the traditional horă, sârbă, and brâu48—is performed intermittently during the day-long wedding customs when ritual music is not called for. The greatest event for social dancing at weddings is the evening banquet (following the church ceremony); it is the culmination of the festivities. Traditionally termed “masa mare” (the great meal), it includes four or five courses and lasts late into the evening or all night. The music that the lăutari play at the banquet is virtually all amplified as the guests enjoy a long, festive meal eating, drinking, and celebrating; social dancing predominates.49 Manele at village banquets are not sung until well into the evening since a series of lyric wedding songs and traditional dances are customarily heard at the outset. The



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first manele are usually not performed until after the sarmale [stuffed cabbage leaves] have been served; they are usually the second course. By then, lăutari maintain, wedding guests are in the mood for manele. From then on (around midnight), manele are ordinarily performed with considerable frequency, and young people are their greatest patrons. The manea dance in my first years of fieldwork after the revolution was executed in “Gypsy” style: solo, with sensual arm and upper body movements (see chapter 1). I have been at weddings where the younger generation danced the manea for hours on end, stopping briefly only to eat and then springing right back onto the dance floor again. Manele have a way of separating the young from the old—not only with regard to the musicians but the guests as well: as the early morning approaches in the village and the youthful, energetic manea dancing persists, the older guests have long gone home. Village Weddings without a Synthesizer Synthesizers are an urban instrument par excellence and were introduced in Romania in the 1980s. They became widespread in Romanian cities in the 1990s but in many cases did not reach the rural bands until a decade later, if ever. Many lăutari, like the Zaharias, did not own a performance synthesizer for years and simply had to make do with what they had. By contrast, urban ensembles performing manele at weddings at that time virtually always included a synthesizer, accordion, sometimes the drums and/or clarinet, saxophone, or electric guitar. Manele, once they fully entered the wedding repertoire in the 1990s, made considerable demands on instrumentation. For rural musicians, synthesizers were extremely expensive. Consequently, although the pressure to create sounds that manele necessitated was intense, many rural ensembles performed without them throughout most of the last decade of the twentieth century. From the 1990s through 2002, the Zaharia ensemble put up with makeshift arrangements for manele every time they were hired to play at weddings: sometimes they simply performed them without a synthesizer, while at other times guest synth-players joined the ensemble for the banquet. In any case, it was always less than ideal. In June 2000, I went with the Zaharias to a wedding in the village of Cartojani (Giurgiu County).50 The groom’s parents, who had moved to Bucharest from Cartojani, still had a house there at which they stayed on weekends. The couple, peasant urbanites, lived in Bucharest; the groom was an electrician, and the bride worked in a sock factory. As we arrived on that Saturday morning at the home of the groom, where a large, festive tent was set up, we were met by a recorded “oriental” [Oriental (song)] blasting from the speakers in the courtyard. It was the reigning muzică orientală star, Adrian Copilul Minune, along with Costi Ioniţă,51 the best-known ethnic Romanian associated with the performance of manele, with whom Adrian sometimes sang then. At this wedding, the Zaharia ensemble consisted of three accordionists (Vasile, Băieţică, and cousin Florică, b. 1950), two violinists (Jenică and his son Marian, also a vocalist), a bass violist (Tiu), the cimbalom-player (Bebe, who was

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Figure 8.1.  Zaharia family of lăutari from Mârșa, Giurgiu County, 2000: village wedding Photo: Margaret Beissinger

also the sound man), and Silvia (the female vocalist); the two eldest musicians, brothers Vasile and Jenică, also sang traditional repertoire. A stage with speakers had been set up for the musicians under the tent, so when ritual music moments were momentarily suspended at various points throughout the day, the musicians invariably plugged in their instruments and performed “orientale” [Orientals], to which wedding guests enthusiastically danced “Gypsy” style. Amplification was introduced in village music-making among lăutari in the 1970s.52 While the Zaharias did not necessarily sport the most up-to-date instruments, they did assume, in keeping with the urban manea style, the practice of performing at ear-splitting volumes. In Balkan village music-making at that time, as Carol Silverman remarks, the “loudness of electric amplification and its affinity to rock music became a symbol of modernity and the West” (2012:131). At the banquet in Cartojani, after the second course (sarmale) had been served, manele were integrated fully into the program and by one thirty in the morning were performed almost nonstop. Approximately one-third of the repertoire was muzică orientală. Marian sang the same hits that were resounding in Bucharest, repeating the handful of songs that he had sung earlier in the day, including the biggest hit of the summer, Am nevastă sexy [I’ve got a sexy wife], along with other favorites of 2000,53 until five in the morning, when the festivities finally ended. In example 8.4,54 Marian is accompanied by the cimbalom (which furnishes the rhythmic support), bass viol,



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and accordions.55 The recording also captures, once the song has begun, a dedication: “Pentru băieţii de la Bucureşti, în special pentru Vali!” [For the guys from Bucharest, especially Vali!]. The theme is sex, which the refrain conveys: Sexi, sexi, ştiu că mă vrei; toată noaptea ţi-e gândul la femei. Sexi, sexi, eu am să fiu,  Măi, bărbatul meu să nu mai vii târziu!

Sexy, sexy, I know that you want me; you think all night long about women. I’m gonna be sexy, sexy, so, husband, don’t come home late anymore!

The topics of manele at weddings are typically love, sex, and family (as well as cunning and money). Most of them echo—however crudely—the spirit of weddings, events bursting with romantic and sexual symbolism. Indeed, this song, and others like it, offered a discourse that differed from that heard in the conventional wedding songs that ensembles such as the Zaharias were most accustomed to then. After 1989, wedding repertoire expanded to include “modern” songs with overt sexual imagery, due, in part, to the influence of Western popular culture. The Zaharias played manele at that time entirely on traditional instruments. Băieţică had mentioned that while orientale really necessitated the synthesizer and sometimes drums, their family ensemble simply had to manage with the instruments they had; as he put it, “The cimbalom in village manele is our synthesizer.”56 The lack of vital manea instruments clearly produced a considerably less “modern” sound than that generated by urban bands. At the same time, the absence of a synthesizer (or drums) did not keep anyone from dancing at the weddings at which the Zaharias performed. And while Marian was not the most expressive singer, he did his job, producing manea after manea as the youthful dancers keenly enjoyed them. The pure delight in dancing to them seemed to transcend any less-than-exemplary instrumental and/or vocal combinations. The manea dance, coded as exotic, sensual, and individualistic, differed so significantly from the more familiar Romanian group dances (especially the horă and sârbă) that it provided a fresh and exciting way to celebrate at weddings. Even a decade after the collapse of communism, Romanians apparently felt that the manea offered them a chance to “break the rules,” even just a little, and indulge in the exotic behavior of the “other.” It was a license that had, in a sense, a political subtext. Comparing the wedding in Cartojani with a Romanian baptism in Bucharest that I attended the next day provides some telling contrasts. The most obvious was that for orientale in Bucharest, the urban musicians played synthesizers and drums, generating overall a much flashier sound and a sharper rhythmic component. Furthermore, orientale in the city were more popular than in the village. The baptism, hosted by a working-class Romanian couple with a new little boy, was held in a restaurant in Bucharest, Riviera. The ensemble was composed of seven young freelance lăutari, including the accordionist Sile Păun (b. 1972).57 Almost two-thirds of the music that night was muzică orientală. It was 2000; the genre was enormously

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popular and monopolized social dancing at urban events. The most popular manele were Am nevastă sexy and others that I had heard in the village during the two preceding days, as well as Am un băiat cel mai frumos [I’ve got the most beautiful son], appropriate for the baptism. The guests danced the manea with great enthusiasm until about five o’clock in the morning. In example 8.558 we pick up in the middle of Am nevastă sexy with a lengthy instrumental interlude after the refrain in which the drum set solos, accompanied by the synthesizer and accordion, a fitting illustration for comparing how the rhythm is rendered in rural and urban performances of the same song.59 While the village musicians in the previous example strive to adjust their traditional instruments to sound as modern—and urban—as possible, the young city musicians, aided by an array of nontraditional instruments and electronic devices, facilely produce a contemporary sonority. At a Romanian wedding that I attended in Bucharest also during summer 2000, two urban ensembles—virtually all male Romani musicians—had been hired for the banquet, held in a restaurant in the Drumul Taberei neighborhood in Bucharest. Hiring two bands for wedding banquets is extravagant yet happens relatively often in the city where wealth is far more evident than in the countryside. One of the ensembles, composed of five very young Romani instrumentalists (two synth-players, an electric guitarist, clarinetist, and percussionist) and a vocalist, called themselves Copiii orientului [The children of the Orient] and performed exclusively manele. The other band performed both manele and other repertoire and was a freelance band comprised of a Romani accordionist, percussionist, and vocalist,60 along with a synth-player who was Romanian. As we will see ahead, a Romanian synth-player within an otherwise Romani band is not uncommon. Close to half of what was performed that night in Bucharest was muzică orientală and included many of the same songs performed at the other rural and urban celebrations that I attended that summer. Also evident was electronic sound processing composed of amplification, mixing, reverberation, and echo, employed as a “modern” performance device for manele. Utilized for voice (singing and talking) and melody instruments in live music, artificial echo and reverberation or “artificial soundscapes” (Stoichiţă 2013a) create a distinctly electronic effect. A pronounced “reverb sound” is evident in example 8.6,61 a recording of Am nevastă sexy sung by Nelu Petrache, accompanied by a synthesizer, accordion, and a strong percussive beat.62 And as a last example, the manea that provided the prototype for all of these performances was a studio recording of Am nevastă sexy, sung by Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti in example 8.763; the çiftetelli rhythm is conspicuously maintained on the drum set.64 Village Lăutari and Guest Synth-Players It was in the summer of 2001 when I began to hear explicitly from the Zaharias that they could no longer get by without a synthesizer if they were to perform manele and continue to land jobs. The fundamental problem was that they wanted and needed a top-notch synthesizer but could not afford one. This discussion continued when I next saw them the following summer. By then, the only remaining senior



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musician in the Zaharia ensemble was Vasile (accordion/voice) since his brother (Jenică) had retired from performing. On the other hand, the musicians from the family’s most junior ranks were starting to be involved in professional music-making. Costică, the fifteen-year-old son of Băieţică and Silvia, was one of its permanent accordionists by that time and was also being groomed to become the band’s synthplayer, that is, once a suitable instrument could be found. The ensemble was still playing exclusively traditional instruments, and the lack of a synthesizer was urgently felt. As a result, the Zaharias sometimes hired synth-players to join them at weddings on a freelance basis. Such was the case with a young Romanian from Bucharest, Răzvan, whom the Zaharias engaged to perform with them at a large Romanian wedding in the village of Milcovăţu (Giurgiu County)65 in August 2002. The groom and bride were both from Milcovăţu; he was a construction worker, and she would be a homemaker, joining her new husband’s family in traditional Balkan patrilocal fashion. The festivities in Milcovăţu began with pre-wedding events on a Saturday evening. Răzvan had brought his fine Roland synthesizer. The rest of the ensemble consisted of Zaharia family members with traditional instruments: the three-generation trio of accordionists, cimbalom-player/sound man, violinist/manelist, bass violist, Silvia (vocalist), and a guest guitarist (Vică, a nephew of Vasile’s). The musicians were divided into two groups. One performed traditional repertoire at the godfather’s house for a relatively senior crowd, while the other was at the bride’s home where the young people had been invited and danced all evening to manele.

Figure 8.2.  Zaharia family of lăutari from Mârșa, Giurgiu County, 2002: village wedding Photo: Margaret Beissinger

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The lăutari were on the job the next morning (Sunday) as the wedding rituals took place, interspersed with manele and other repertoire. Many hours later, after the church ceremony, the evening events commenced at the groom’s home where the ensemble (on a platform set up under a tent in the courtyard) performed amplified music for dancing, including manele. Once the meal began, however, manele were suspended, not to be heard again until after the proverbial sarmale were served, at which point they were resumed while young people in particular flocked to the open area under the tent to dance. Greatly enhanced by Răzvan’s synth-playing, many manele were requested and performed that evening: roughly two-fifths of the repertoire, which only reinforced even more how desperately the Zaharias needed their own synthesizer. The favorite manele included “Salomeea” [Salomée], “Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc” [I love you, I love you, I love you], “Haide, hai cu mine!” [Come, come with me!], “Pe la spate” [Doggy style, lit., From the back], “Am o casă-aşa de mare” [I’ve got such a big house], “Sunt sigur pe mâna mea” [I’m sure of myself ], and “Of, viaţa mea” [Oh, my love], blaring flagrant love and sex themes as well as declarations of male power and control. Radio stations and television programs in Bucharest were increasingly broadcasting manele by this time, furnishing more sources for the repertoires that village ensembles adopted. Twenty-nine miles to the east, in Bucharest, where many urban weddings were also taking place that weekend, more or less the same manele were being sung. At each of three urban weddings that I attended in 2001 and 2002,66 the bands included synthesizers (and other modern instruments) played primarily by Romani musicians. Moreover, about two-fifths of the repertoire at these urban weddings consisted of manele—roughly the same proportion as at the contemporaneous rural wedding. In other words, manele were increasing in popularity in the village by 2002. The wedding at Milcovăţu, where Răzvan played with the Zaharias, underscored, through the medium of manele, tensions informed by class, ethnicity, and place. After all, Răzvan, who had been hired by the Zaharias to play his synthesizer expressly for manele, was a musically literate, formally-trained ethnic Romanian from Bucharest who played a first-rate synthesizer in an urban freelance ensemble. The others in his six-person band were Romanian musicians.67 His band wielded a large rock music and international repertoire (what Răzvan called “evergreen” music representing urban tastes) and performed primarily in Bucharest. By contrast, the Zaharias were not musically literate but had learned their musical skills in the family; they were Roma from the village who excelled in traditional music of the Romanian countryside and performed especially in rural communities on classic taraf instruments. In the end, however, the most significant discrepancy at that time between Răzvan’s and the Zaharias’ ensembles was reduced to how they dealt with the demands of manele. Răzvan owned an excellent synthesizer and easily managed manele and other repertoire. The Zaharias’ situation was quite different since their dilemma was precisely their lack of a synthesizer, and none of the options, from simply playing without one to playing with a guest synth-player, furnished a viable long-term solution. Less than a week after the wedding at Milcovăţu, members of the Zaharia ensemble and I journeyed



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to a music store in Bucharest where at last a synthesizer was purchased. They had had their hearts set on a superlative instrument that would have cost around $1,500, but that was out of the question. Finally they had to settle on a low-end “Roland 25” for one-third of that price. Although there was some amount of jubilation within the family, it was actually only a partial victory since they felt they had had to compromise significantly. Yes, it was a Roland synthesizer and would allow them finally to perform manele organically, but it was not a particularly sophisticated model. And so, even though we returned to Mârşa with a new instrument in the back seat of the car that day, the desire and quest to obtain a really high-class synthesizer persisted.

FINDING THE RIGHT SOUND: VILLAGE MANELE (2003–2009) Managing Manele: 2003 By summer 2003, “manea” had been adopted wholesale in Romania in place of other terms for the genre. Its meaning was expanding, too; the word “manea” covers a larger terrain and is more inclusive than simply “muzică orientală.” “Manea” includes “Oriental” musical features, but not all manele are necessarily “Oriental.” Around the same time, the term “manelist,” (a male vocalist who sings manele), also became widespread. Although the Zaharia family had obtained a synthesizer in 2002, when I saw them a year later, it was clear that it did not fully perform the tasks that it was meant to: to upgrade the overall performance of the ensemble and thus secure more wedding jobs. Urban ensembles were still being chosen over them to perform at weddings even in and near their own village, at least in part because their “technology” was simply not competitive.68 Audiences at banquets wanted to hear more contemporary-sounding manele as well as a greater variety of genres, which a good synthesizer could produce.69 A new and better synthesizer would enhance their ensemble immeasurably in both quality and quantity of music and would permit them to sound more “urban.” This included handling percussion for the genre since a strong, driving rhythm was so much a part of the manea sound. Nonetheless, despite the grumbling, the synthesizer purchased in 2002 was already doing some of these things. Most importantly, the ensemble could at last manage manele on its own. Furthermore, because the synthesizer could imitate and thus replace various instruments, some of the musicians were becoming extraneous, and so, for example, Tiu, the ensemble’s bass violist, was no longer playing with them. In July 2003, the Zaharias were hired for another huge wedding held in two neighboring villages, Icoana and Palanca (in Giurgiu County),70 that involved altogether ten musicians. The rituals with traditional music started in the morning at the groom’s home where the couple would reside (the groom, like his father, was in construction). They took place intermittently with social dancing throughout the day. At the banquet, then-popular manele (well over one-third of the repertoire), repeated over and over, kept the younger guests busy dancing until about half past

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five in the morning when the festivities ended. Marian was the manelist, and Costică proudly played the ensemble’s synthesizer: surely not the best one money could buy, something that the Zaharias repeatedly did not fail to remind me, but at least their very own. In example 8.8,71 from the wedding banquet, Marian sings Salomeea, still a favorite manea in rural Romania in 2003.72 And in example 8.9,73 from a studio in Bucharest in 2002, Saloo Salomeea is performed by Adrian Copilul Minune.74 The two recordings represent rural and urban renditions of the same song, yet they differ considerably. The village performance still does not possess an urban sonority although it features a new, more contemporary sound, thanks to the recently acquired Roland synthesizer. The other instruments are traditional: accordions, violins, cimbalom, and a bass guitar played by a guest musician for this wedding.75 The urban studio recording, by contrast, boasts the seasoned voice of “Adrian,” the best-known manelist at the time, sophisticated electronic sounds, virtuosic instrumental passages generated by the synthesizers, and strong percussion. In other words, the contrasts between the “village” and “city” sounds are still significant. In the meantime, the youngest generation of the Zaharia ensemble, Costică (synthesizer and accordion) and his cousin Alin76 (acoustic and electric violin), both born in 1987, were growing up. Costică had assumed by then the critical role of synthplayer, while Alin had replaced his uncle (Jenică) and cousin (Marian) who had earlier both played violin in the ensemble. The grandparents and parents of the young cousins Costică and Alin, had, over the years, placed great hopes in them for the viability and longevity of the family tradition of music-making. With anticipations that they would benefit from formal musical training, both boys began attending the competitive Dinu Lipatti Music High School in Bucharest in 2003. Rural-Urban Dynamics: Manele 2004 A village wedding that I attended a year later evoked pronounced urban-rural anxieties as well as tensions related to ethnicity and gender. The manea and its signature instrument, the synthesizer, were part of this discourse. In June 2004, at a big village wedding in Cartojani where the families of both bride and groom resided, the Zaharia ensemble—with seven taraf instruments77 and a synthesizer—was hired primarily for the traditional repertoire. In addition, an ensemble from Bucharest had been engaged for the banquet. It was composed of a manelist, synth-player/ manelist, two accordionists; a keytar-player, and a female accordionist/vocalist who joined them somewhat later. Urban musicians, regarded as more skilled than lăutari from the countryside at performing manele, are sometimes hired for weddings in the village and are, for their rural hosts, a mark of status. Hiring two bands at a village wedding is even more impressive. The ensembles took turns throughout the banquet performing under a vast tent in the courtyard at the groom’s home. Both included muzică lăutărească, while the Zaharias also produced mainly traditional Romanian music and the urban band, manele. The Zaharias performed only a few manele at that banquet; and without



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Marian, who had sung with the ensemble for years but was no longer with them, it was Silvia who managed them in addition, of course, to her usual repertoire. In example 8.10,78 Silvia sings a manea made popular in 2004 by manelişti such as Adrian Copilul Minune and Nicolae Guţă, De cine mi-e mie dor? [Who do I long for?].79 While it is a song about romantic love, whenever Silvia sang it, she modified the lyrics to convey her love as a mother for her children. Her “family” version expressed, then, gender and social identity. While the stanzas are different in the two versions depending on whom the voice of the manea addresses, the refrain for the two is virtually the same:80 De cine mie mi-e dor, mi-e dor, mi-e dor? Pentru tine simt că mor, Simt că mor, simt că mor.

Who do I long for, long for, long for? It’s you [I feel] I’m dying [of love] for, dying for, dying for.

As is evident in this excerpt, the sound of the Zaharias’ synthesizer is conspicuous but not particularly rhythmic or powerful. At least it was projecting a somewhat more “urban” sound than before. The Bucharest musicians at the same banquet—a synth-player, two accordionists, and two manelişti—generated a more synthetic sound, evident in a manea that they perform in example 8.11,81 Asta seara vreau să beau [Tonight I want to drink], preceded by a briskly announced dedication: “Pentru fratele . . .” [For the brother of . . .].82 The two male manelişti in the urban band sing in unison,83 beginning with: Asta seară, asta seară vreau să beau toţi banii, toţi banii pe care i-am, toţi banii, toţi banii pe care i-am, pân’ la ultimul ban din buzunar.

Tonight, tonight I want to drink up all the money, all the money that I’ve got, all the money, all the money that I’ve got, up to the last cent in my pocket.

The sonority is noticeably electronic, augmented by the reverberation and echo effect. The tempo is rapid, and the playing almost mechanical, producing a distinctly different sound from that created in the few manele that Silvia provided that evening. There was clearly tension between the two ensembles, especially apparent on the part of the Zaharias. They complained that the urban performers were inferior since they had “no sense” of traditional conventions at village weddings. By contrast, the Zaharias asserted ownership of the village repertoire and indeed of Romanian traditional culture. As the senior member of the Zaharia ensemble told me defiantly, “We know exactly what and how to perform at Romanian village weddings, while they have no idea!”84 Băieţică informed me then that it is much harder to perform at rural Romanian as opposed to Romani weddings since Romanian weddings, implicitly the Zaharias’ forté, entail a “much more varied repertoire: Romanian genres, muzică

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lăutărească, and manele.”85 This reference to ethnicity brought with it an oblique reference to place since rural/Romanian versus urban/Romani are embedded binary pairs in southern Romanian culture. Furthermore, to play music at inappropriate moments during the evening as the urban band did, according to the Zaharias, showed incompetence. When the city ensemble, for example, performed manele “too early in the banquet,” the Zaharias were appalled. They also ridiculed the Bucharest musicians for leaving the wedding before the event was over. The urban band departed around four-thirty in the morning, while the village musicians stayed on the job for several additional hours since they had been hired until nine o’clock.86 The Zaharias’ self-ascribed “authenticity” clearly informed their sense of identity.87 Their assertions of “rights” to traditional Romanian repertoire and the wedding format permitted them to construct boundaries between themselves and the urban band, distinctions that they upheld by their assumptions of knowledge and legitimacy and their own “code for authenticity”:88 living and making music in the village. The Zaharias interpreted the city band’s disregard for village wedding conventions as a lack of respect for rural place and culture and, by extension, for them as musicians. The Zaharias provided a running commentary on the Bucharest musicians largely for my benefit and even mimicked them in jest.89 Concerning the female accordionist/vocalist (who was apparently Romani), the male members of the Zaharia ensemble were ruthless (and, in Western parlance, quite sexist) in their appraisal of her. They mocked her gender and ridiculed her playing. Gender and musical instruments are closely linked in the Balkans, which is not surprising since virtually all traditional instruments are conventionally played by men.90 One of the Zaharia instrumentalists told me that he had seen a female accordionist only once before. Granted, the accordion in Romania is wielded predominantly by men, but a few female vocalists—such as the well-known Romani musician Cornelia Catanga91—do also play it while they sing. The transgression of traditional gendered behavior, then, was also a factor in the Zaharias’ disdain for the urban ensemble. Judith Butler’s (1990) work on the performativity of gender is instructive in this situation. Claiming that embedded heteronormative roles often determine the gender roles that people play out or perform in public, and that parodied roles can reinforce normality, the inverted gender—a female accordionist—was disturbing to the rural musicians, whose own identity was unsettled by it but also reconfirmed. A woman playing a “man’s instrument” was viewed by the Zaharias as a type of raid into male musical culture, a threat to the city band’s masculinity while bolstering that of their own rural ensemble. They saw the city musicians’ performative behavior as disruptive conduct against which they were competing. Ironically, since Marian was no longer singing with the Zaharia ensemble at this wedding, Silvia actually sang a number of manele—by then a predominantly male genre in live performance.92 One could argue that she, too, reversed to some extent what were customary gender roles in manele. Yet since she was the wife of Băieţică, the chief accordionist in the Zaharias’ ensemble, she was sheltered from associations of impropriety.93



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The matter of the synthesizer and its implicit role in manele also took center stage for the Zaharias and again touched upon questions of identity: place as well as ethnicity. They pointed out that the urban band’s synthesizer was top-notch, thus virtually “playing by itself,” and that the person wielding it was a mediocre musician and “evidently Romanian.” Thus, they articulated a frequent grievance expressed by Romani musicians that invariably contains an ethnic subtext: that it is the economically better-off and socially privileged yet “cold” and “incompetent” ethnic Romanian musicians who can afford to buy and play top-quality instruments, especially synthesizers. In promoting the image of the inferior urban Romanian musician, the Zaharias disrespected him but also evoked—through implicit counterexample—the romanticized trope of the “Gypsy” who has “innate, God-given musical abilities.”94 As a form of self-identification, the Zaharias saw the Romanian incursion into their world as threatening and as “Romanian appropriations of Romani authenticities.”95 Moreover, by essentializing the “well-off but musically inept urban Romanian synthplayer,” a veritable “type” in the contemporary lăutar experience, they denied him authenticity.96 In other words, by creating, from their own perspective, an “other” in the form of an urban, advantaged, ethnic Romanian who was an “ignorant, insensitive, and unskilled” musician, the Zaharias were articulating “self ” in reverse, especially in a context in which they felt vulnerable. While I was not privy to the conversations of the city musicians at this wedding, they appeared aloof and totally uninterested in the village band. The only moments of real tension occurred when Costică, who was seventeen and had already played the synthesizer with his family’s ensemble for some time, asked the synth-player whether he could try out his elaborate instrument. He refused, saying that he would not allow a “kid” (puştiu) like Costică even to touch his “€2000 synthesizer.” The “kid’s” father (Băieţică) then stepped in and angrily proclaimed that his young son was a far better musician than the Romanian who played the costly instrument, injecting this exchange with ethnic and class dimensions. The subtext of this encounter was an indignant recognition by the Zaharias of the Romanian synth-player’s virtual “theft” of lăutar music-making, the single arena in contemporary Romania (and the Balkans) in which Roma are publicly acclaimed as masters of a profession. The intersection between the rural and urban ensembles underscored, then, ethnic, class, place, and gender anxieties, at least on the part of the village musicians. Indeed, these anxieties confronted the Zaharias rather painfully, judging from their multilayered responses to the instruments, behavior, and identity of the city band. About a week before this wedding stirred up these feelings, the Zaharias and I conversed about being lăutari, and Băieţică told me how fed up with manele he was by then. It was not so much with the genre per se but, as he put it, the “mediocre manelişti who really can’t sing or play yet who keep coming out with cassettes.” As he pointed out, “the really well-trained lăutari can’t make it when they are competing with the manelişti,” implicitly urban musicians, remarking hopefully, “Manele can’t go on forever!”97 Compact disks with manele were beginning to be sold alongside cassettes in Bucharest at this time, serving, in part, to help thwart piracy. But they

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were much more expensive than cassettes, and so while I began to notice CDs in the hands of some urban lăutari, I continued to see cassettes and occasional radio or television broadcasts as the main source of new manele in the village. Another rural wedding at which I was present in summer 2004 also mirrored urban-rural cultural dynamics and again reinforced the Zaharias’ realization that they did not own a synthesizer that could make them competitive. In this case, an ensemble from Bucharest performed at a Romani wedding in Roata de Jos (Giurgiu County),98 a village only four miles northwest of Mârşa. The ensemble included lăutari on the synthesizer, drum set, accordion, saxophone, and electric violin, as well as several manelişti.99 I was there with two members of the Zaharia ensemble, during which the urban band performed mainly manele. The situation was somewhat uncomfortable as the urban band had been engaged in a village close to the performance turf of the Zaharias. In the economic environment of that time, the competition for jobs was intense. The hired musicians excelled at urban Romani genres (muzică lăutărească and manele); after all, it was a Romani wedding. The implicit contrasts of rural and urban identity were striking. At the same time, the situation reflected the fluidity between some of the rural-urban boundaries, confirming Risto Pekka Pennanen’s observation that “in the Balkans it seems impossible to define most musical forms solely as rural and urban” (1995:98). Various markers of identity criss-crossed: the urban musicians, excelling in manele and lăutar repertoire, performed with flashy instruments (a synthesizer, saxophone, and drum set) yet in a muddy village courtyard. Articulating place and class, the city musicians appeared, in this rural setting, almost condescending: nonchalant and even bored; as one of the manelişti sang at one point, he casually pulled out and checked his cell phone. In general, they performed with an impatient hurriedness. Thus, at this “village” wedding, distinctions of identity—especially place, ethnicity, and class—intersected. Heard that evening were hits from Bucharest, among them Asta seara vreau sa beau and the urban, male, romantic version of De cine mie mi-e dor? At that time, the Zaharia ensemble was also regularly hired (when they were not playing at other engagements) at Hanul lui Manolea [Manolea’s Inn], a restaurant in Roata de Jos with traditional Romanian cuisine and décor. There they performed primarily Romanian repertoire and muzică lăutărească in a taraf formation. On one evening in June 2004 when I joined them there, their repertoire was about 10 percent manele, albeit on traditional instruments (violin, cimbalom, bass viol, and accordion), with Silvia as vocalist, once again including the favorite De cine mie mi-e dor? Comparing Bucharest performance events with those in the village at that time revealed, not surprisingly, altogether more ostentatious musicians, venues, instrumentation, repertoire, and dedications. At a Romanian baptism banquet at the Crowne Plaza in May 2004, two ensembles had been hired: a traditional taraf and a band for manele that included the synthesizer (played by an ethnic Romanian), keyboard, drum set, electric violin, clarinet, and accordion as well as two young male manelişti. It was a posh event, revealing considerable wealth on the part of the proud young parents who had hired Vali Vijelie (then a superstar) and the rising star Florin



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Fermecătorul [Florin the Charming], whose later stage name became Salam,100 each to make a twenty-minute appearance to sing manele. Later the same year I was a guest at the wedding of a daughter of Nicolae Feraru, a famous cimbalom-player. Ten well-known urban lăutari101 performed manele and muzică lăutărească on the sidewalk in front of the nuptial couple’s apartment block and later all night at a fancy restaurant, The Passion Club. The requests and dedications for manele there were particularly grandiose. Guests would throw wads of money to the musicians for the dedications that they requested; the musicians would announce the dedications and begin to perform, only to be interrupted by other guests with more bills thrown at the musicians requesting further dedications. This type of display of opulence was not customary at village weddings at that time. Resolving the Synthesizer Crisis (2005–2009) In the years that followed, the Zaharias continued to express, with urgency, the need to obtain a synthesizer that was better than the one that they owned. I repeatedly heard from them that this was absolutely imperative if they wanted to compete in the performance of manele. It depended entirely on their having the money to buy it, however, and during those years of austerity, it was difficult enough just to put food on the table. The Zaharias insisted that a new synthesizer would advance their image and bring them untold new engagements. It would reap obvious aestheticeconomic benefits but also allow for the downsizing of the ensemble, thus increasing their earnings per capita. In actuality, even the Zaharias’ inferior synthesizer (Roland 25) employed at that time had brought about some changes in their performances—although, as they saw it, not enough of them. While not ideal, the synthesizer that Costică played could handle manele adequately, including the rhythm, thus eliminating the cimbalom and bass viol from manea performances. Accordingly, at a banquet for a baptism that I attended with the Zaharias in Cartojani in November 2005, only four instrumentalists,102 Silvia (vocals), and Florin, the ensemble’s manelist at that time (a cousin of Baietică’s) performed. The repertoire that evening included about one-fifth manele, including the popular De cine mie mi-e dor? Here Silvia’s performance of the “family” version, extolling the love of a mother for her children, was perfect for the context.103 In so many words, the Zaharias sought to “urbanize” their ensemble in order to gain more customers and ensure their livelihood. City music as a symbol of social mobility resonates for would-be urbanites who adjust the music that they listen to in order to advance their own status (Stokes 1994:4). But it is also a powerful means for musicians who seek mobility among desired patrons. Visiting Romania in spring 2006, the village lăutari were still lamenting the “unfair” edge that urban ensembles had over them with regard to instruments and manele. Urban musicians made more money than rural bands due to the overall greater frequency of jobs in the city but also since they regularly demanded higher fees from urbanites who generally had more cash than rural inhabitants. Sometimes rural lăutari begrudgingly accepted

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their “fate” as village practitioners, left behind by the slick city musicians who had a monopoly on jobs due to their sophisticated instruments and expertise in urban genres. But the Zaharias were not content just to complain or to accept this situation complacently. They also sought creative ways to resist this “destiny.” As a remedy to the rural-urban disparity, the two junior members of the Zaharia ensemble (the cousins Costică and Alin) had been receiving formal training in music theory and performance (at the Dinu Lipatti Music High School in Bucharest). Their families were counting on their becoming musically literate musicians whose careers would be enhanced as they became better prepared, more versatile, and more competitive in the larger urban and rural markets. The overall goal was to increase earnings for the family ensemble. In fact, both boys not only were becoming musically literate but were bringing contemporary urban musical culture to the family’s village band as well. It was during their years at the music high school that Costică and Alin also befriended Marius Drăghici (b. 1991), a young Romani student (from the village Roata de Jos, near Mârşa) who became the Zaharias’ regular manelist, a definite plus for the ensemble. As another strategy to promote their image, the Zaharias subscribed, starting in 2006, to cable television where they learned new manele on programs such as Taraf TV, which broadcasts the genre virtually nonstop. As if to coincide with Romania’s membership in the European Union, 2007 marked the beginning of a series of more auspicious years for the Zaharias, resulting in new instruments and equipment. Most importantly, they bought a “Roland G800,” a significantly better and more expensive synthesizer than the instrument that they had been playing since 2002.104 Upgrading their Roland 25 to a G800 enhanced their performance of manele and expanded their repertoire; it also furthered their ability to simulate various instruments and downsize when necessary. Costică, by then twenty, became the gatekeeper of the new Roland G800 and an extremely important member of the ensemble. He and Alin finished their secondary schooling in Bucharest in 2007 and continued on at the National University of Music (Bucharest), graduating in 2010 with degrees in music. Costică’s formal keyboard training at school clearly informed his skills on the synthesizer. He also acquired a new accordion, and a year later, Băieţică purchased himself a new Weltmeister accordion as well. The other critical purchase for the Zaharias at that time was a computer, opening the door to new electronic music possibilities and increasing their repertoire of manele through music videos on YouTube. Although city lăutari had been utilizing the internet since the early 2000s,105 rural musicians did not begin actively to exploit it until years later. The Zaharias began to use the internet in earnest in 2009.

VILLAGE MANELE: 2010–2014 Becoming More Urban (2010–2012) According to the Zaharias, 2010 was a fantastic year for weddings and the ensemble in general, due in part to further purchases of equipment that they invested



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in (a new sound system and an electric violin for Alin) that continued to transform their image. An important new dimension, Alin initiated the use of the electric violin (an instrument that was fast becoming very popular in urban manea bands) in the ensemble. There was also no denying that Marius was enhancing their manea performances with his natural, expressive style of singing. The Zaharias were really beginning to resemble urban bands, and one sign of this also was that they were performing occasionally in Bucharest. Moreover, since Costică and Alin had spent several years in the city, they had established connections there. Not only were the conditions and pay better in Bucharest, but performing there also augmented the Zaharias’ reputation; they were becoming increasingly identified with urban places, patrons, and genres. In other words, place and music intersected, generating notions of difference and social boundary.106 As the Zaharias continued to raise their own status and gain further recognition in Bucharest, they increasingly “owned” the manele that they played and were empowered by them. By this time, manele were only rarely sold on CDs (or cassettes) but rather performed almost exclusively on the Internet and private television channels, from which the Zaharias—and Marius—were constantly learning new repertoire.107 Speranta Rădulescu and I attended a Romanian wedding banquet at which the Zaharias performed in August 2010. It took place at the restaurant Turbotequila in Bucharest. The couple was living in the city, but the bride’s grandparents lived in Mârşa and knew the Zaharias. The ensemble consisted of the usual five male family members plus Silvia and Marius. As it turned out, however, Marius sang very few manele that evening (certainly no more than 10 percent of the program) since the groom had stipulated that only a few manele be performed; he considered them lowclass. As Roman remarks, the manea is “called by its foes a type of music ‘from the periphery’ or plain kitsch” (2003:67). To illustrate the extent of the groom’s aversion to the genre, at one point in the evening when a manea was requested and the musicians began to perform it, the groom rushed over to them and expressed his displeasure; the manea was discontinued. Instead, Romanian traditional songs and dances comprised the favored repertoire at this wedding. Even so, a few manele were slipped into the program a little later in the evening, such as Nu mai vreau pantofi de lac [I don’t want patent-leather shoes anymore], a manea with romantic lyrics sung by Florin Salam, by then extremely popular for his innovative, expressive style of singing.108 While for years the manea had represented, among working-class and nouveauriche Romanians, a degree of “modern” urban culture, the tables were turning and urbanites were becoming more circumspect about including them at public events. In subsequent years I was to encounter similar occasions at urban weddings where manele were barely tolerated, thus affording the groom implicit public pronouncements on his own level of aesthetics and class: as Bourdieu reminds us, “[t]aste classifies, and it classifies the classifier” (1984:6). On the other hand, while one form of “uncultured” popular entertainment is overturned, another takes its place. The groom at Turbotequila clearly objected to “unsophisticated” manele at his wedding yet had, perhaps paradoxically, evidently approved of—and hired—a couple who

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arrived sometime after midnight to perform a virtuosic “dans american” [American dance]. The male dancer, dressed all in black, and his female partner, in extremely high heels and a skimpy black glittery dress, executed an elaborate rock ’n’ roll dance as part of the banquet entertainment. Here again the boundaries between rural and urban culture, class, and taste were blurred. Celebrating the wedding of city dwellers at a restaurant in the city, manele—the urban genre par excellence—were discouraged. Instead, traditional Romanian rural music was championed, complete with rural musicians. And, as specified by the groom, who assumed for himself, in his rejection of manele, a public display of his own “high-class” taste, “urban rules” prevailed.109 Yet the dans american sneaked somehow into the program. It was arguably either urban kitsch or rural chic. In any case, for the consumption of the wedding party, it epitomized the West, an implicit contrast to the more Eastern-inflected manele, and this most likely ensured the groom’s stamp of approval. By 2010, evident at the wedding at Turbotequila, Costică’s role in the Zaharia ensemble had solidified. He was twenty-three by then and skillfully played the accordion, the original instrument he had learned from his father, but—more importantly—the synthesizer, the flagship instrument of manele. In an inversion of the earlier hierarchy in the ensemble (when his father, Băieţică, had been “in command”), Costică was becoming the leader, at least of performances of manele, and was forging ahead with harmonies in ways that his family was unfamiliar with. His mother, Silvia, even told us that evening that Costică was playing “new chords, different from before.”110 At a rural wedding that I attended in 2010, an alternative reversal of the cityvillage connection took place: a large urban ensemble had been hired to perform at a Romanian wedding banquet in the village of Dârza (Dâmboviţa County).111 For manele, which accounted for well over one-third of the repertoire there, three accordionists, including Sile Păun and his teenage son Orlando (b. 1997), as well as a synth-player, drummer, clarinetist, and two male vocalists (including Nelu Petrache) performed. Straight from the city, the manele This is the Life, Bomba bombelor [The bomb of all bombs], D-aia mai beau câteodată [That’s why I sometimes still drink], and Boier m-am născut [I was born a boyar]—all love and male-ego songs—blasted into the village restaurant where the wedding was held. Indeed, as if brazenly broadcasting the modern, urban identity of the musicians and their manele in this village, the volume was turned up precisely when manele were sung and then turned somewhat back down again for other genres. Despite this aggressive performance style, the guests’ dancing to the deafening manea music was considerably less animated than their dancing to the horă and sârbă that were also performed. The year 2011 was fabulous wedding-wise for the Zaharias. When I visited them in September of that year, they had recently upgraded their synthesizer once again. Surpassing their Roland G800, they had acquired “the best synthesizer” on the market in Romania, a “Korg PA 2” (costing €3000). They never let me forget that their livelihood depended expressly on the quality of the synthesizer that they



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owned. They also realized that their new, superb Korg PA 2 would eventually be outperformed by even more complicated and elaborate synthesizers in due time, but it was absolutely necessary to keep up with the latest instruments at any cost. In the meantime, Băieţică was expressing the need to purchase a new electric accordion. He told me that if only he could obtain an electric accordion, the family ensemble would continue to compete with other musicians; if, however, their ensemble remained without one, they would surely be “left behind.” The fact is that they were already clearly competing with other fine bands and getting lucrative jobs. But they could never take this for granted. This ongoing race to remain in the market was spawned expressly by manele, the genre that revolutionized music-making by lăutari after 1989. In September 2011, the Zaharias played at a “peasant-urbanite” village wedding in Roata de Jos, where the groom’s family resided. The bride was from the nearby village of Gratia (Teleorman County).112 The couple had moved to Bucharest where the groom was a waiter. They wanted to celebrate a traditional Romanian wedding in the village. The Zaharia ensemble—five male family members along with Silvia and Marius—performed. The banquet took place at a popular restaurant for weddings in the village, Roxana. By this time, the Zaharias were in top form manea-wise; they performed many manele that evening—almost two-fifths of the repertoire. Yet few guests danced to them, and when they did, their style was fairly unimaginative, contrasting significantly with the spirited, expressive manea dancing that I had witnessed at rural weddings even several years earlier. As illustrated in the examples ahead, the Zaharias’ Korg PA 2 supplies a strong percussive beat, and Costică manages its various sonic and melodic possibilities at times with virtuosity; furthermore, the enhanced electronic sound processing is also audible. Moreover, in terms of adopted “urban” style, the influence of Florin Salam on Marius is palpable. Salam had become the virtually uncontested “king” of manele in Romania by the end of the first decade of the new millennium, pioneering a unique and individual expressive style that engendered many imitations as manelişti sang his songs live at weddings throughout the country. Many a manea that the Zaharias performed at the wedding in September 2011 in Roata de Jos bore ties to Salam. In example 8.12,113 Am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă [I’ve got a wife who’s good and lucky], a fitting wedding theme, Marius produces an introductory section that includes syllables and sounds as he ascends and descends a melodic sequence in a drawn-out prelude to the words of the song that is “pure Salam.”114 The rhythmic impulse is noticeably forceful. The refrain is: Am o nevastă, am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă. Ţine cu mine, trage cu mine, şi d-aia îmi merge bine.

I’ve got a wife, I’ve got a wife [who’s] good and lucky. She sides with me, she endures with me, and ’cause of that things go well for me.

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In example 8.13,115 at the same wedding, Marius sings a manea about romantic love that Salam popularized, Ia-ma, viaţa mea, în braţe [Take me, my love, in your arms].116 The refrain is: Ia-ma, viaţa mea, in braţe. Bine la inimă-mi face. Dacă-mi dai şi un sărut, mă faci cel mai fericit.

Take me, my love [life], in your arms. It raises my spirits. When you give me just one kiss you make me the very happiest.

The replication of Salam’s style and “urban” effects embraced in the Zaharias’ production of manele are conspicuous. Marius also rapidly interjects a number of dedications in this excerpt. During the extended summer of 2011, the Zaharias performed altogether at twelve weddings, generating a very lucrative season. Four of the banquets were in Bucharest, while the rest were in various villages in the region, reflecting the ensemble’s success and ability to juggle the traditional repertoire with manele. Most importantly, as village musicians, they were competing with urban ensembles for jobs. The “youngest” family members of the ensemble were already twenty-four-years-old and experienced musicians. The better part of their success had to do with manele: they possessed first-class contemporary instruments, especially the synthesizer, allowing

Figure 8.3.  Zaharia family of lăutari from Mârșa, Giurgiu County, 2011: village wedding Photo: Margaret Beissinger



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them to manage any manea requested and simulate any instrument required of them. The ensemble also benefitted from the urban connections established especially by Costică, who pointed out to me that manele had evolved since the late 1990s and had become much more complex, and although the basic rhythm was still çiftetelli, there were elaborate new adaptations such as “blues” manele (called “manele lente” by lăutari). It was clear that many of the ground-breaking and more elaborate manea performance styles had been developed by Salam, the manelist who over the years had risen to the top in Bucharest as “the” master of manele. Costică and Alin, who had experienced city music-making, were essential to the adoption of newer manea styles in the family ensemble. Music-making clearly symbolized and reinforced boundaries of place for them. They were, by 2011, semi-urban, educated musicians while simultaneously rural, traditional lăutari and thus bridged both cultures. Village-City Intersections: Manele 2013 In June 2013, I attended two Romanian village weddings. In the first, a freelance multiethnic male ensemble from Bucharest117 was hired at a large, festive wedding in the groom’s village of Călugăreni (Giurgiu County).118 Roughly one-fifth of the evening’s repertoire consisted of manele, including Salam’s Te iubesc din “corazon” [I love you with all my heart (corazon)] and Fata mea [My daughter].119 Several “urban” features, in addition to the instruments, distinguished the manele performed in Călugăreni. For one, at times, the two male vocalists sang together in harmony, a popular, “urban” performance feature that Salam has promoted: the principal manelist sings the melody while another harmonizes. Second, the “production” of requests for dedications at this wedding was flashier than at other village weddings, in part because the musicians were all from Bucharest. But village style is also changing in this regard, as we will see ahead. Moreover, dancing to manele—reminiscent of several other village weddings I had attended at that time—was not particularly lively. The solo manea had effectively “become” a circle horă. Indeed, Giurchescu notes that “because of the tradition of group dancing in southern Romania, where women and men customarily dance the horă and sârbă, sometimes rural dancers adapt simple horă steps in circle formations to manea rhythms and melodies.”120 At another village wedding of peasant urbanites, in June 2013, the Zaharias performed in their own village, Mârşa, where the bride’s family lived although the couple had moved to Bucharest. The bride’s father was a local handyman, while her mother worked in a bread factory in the village. The banquet took place at a restaurant where the Zaharias had performed many times: Roxana in Roata de Jos. The seven-member band was still a three-generation ensemble. Manele about romantic love, such as Te iubesc din “corazon” and Brazilianca [Brazilian girl], sung by Salam; Vali Vijelie’s Milion [A Million]; and Cand sunt cu tine [When I’m with you], in addition to odes to male power and ego such as Ca boierii ăia mari [Like those great boyars] and Salam’s Îmi place să mă prefac [I like to pretend] were requested and performed over and over at that banquet. The manea as dance at rural

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Figure 8.4.  Zaharia family of lăutari from Mârșa, Giurgiu County, 2013: village discotheque Photo: Margaret Beissinger

weddings, as I had been noticing for some time, was no longer always performed solo but sometimes in a closed circle as a horă, occasionally even with hands held. It was also interpreted by some at this banquet as a couple dance in various combinations, including rock ‘n’ roll. In other words, at village weddings, manele were independently evolving, from “Oriental” solo performances to Romanian traditional group or Western popular couple dances. Manea requests and dedications at rural weddings were also expanding. As urban lifestyle has increasingly permeated rural Romania, they have become more exaggerated shows of wealth and power. At the banquet in Roata de Jos in 2013, flamboyant displays of money for dedications became part of the evening’s program (long after the sarmale had been served, of course). Multiple dedications were conveyed as cash rained on the lăutari. The Zaharias told me at that time that an average tip in the village was fifty lei (about $15) per dedication. In example 8.14,121 Saint Tropez (from Salam’s 2013 repertoire,122 in praise of hedonism, is performed by Marius at two-thirty in the morning as the merrymaking is in full swing. Marius repeatedly announces dedications that have been requested; he is a showman and clearly enjoys his role.123 The first dedication is at the very beginning of the song as the manea mood and rhythm are established on the synthesizer. As his voice echoes through the restaurant, thanks to the electronic sound processing, Marius announces the request of “Ion,” the groom’s brother: “Saint Tropez” se face.



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Sol minor, băieţii! Pentru Simona, pentru viaţa lui Ion” [The request is Saint Tropez. G minor, boys! For Simona (Ion’s wife), for Ion’s love]. This is followed by Marius’s Salam-style prelude articulated by sounds and syllables (Lalalalala, ragadagada, etc.) and another catalogue of dedications, each of which has been accompanied by a flutter of bills: Hai, Mihai! Frumos! Şi de la Ion, pentru viaţa lui; pentru viaţa lui, pentru Simona, Simona, Simona! Şi încă una bună pentru miresică: să nască miresică! Şi pentru nepoatele lui Ion, să trăiască! Şi pentru Mihai, şi pentru Irina, să trăiască! Auzi! Şi pentru socrul mic, pentru dumnealui, socrul mic! Lalalalala, hai, Mihai! [Let’s go, Mihai (groom)! Great! And from Ion, for his love, for his love, for Simona, Simona, Simona! And one more good one for the “little bride” [the couple’s baby daughter]: may “the little bride” have children! And for Ion’s nieces, cheers! And for Mihai, and for Irina (bride), cheers! Listen! And for the “junior” (bride’s) father-in-law, for him, the “junior’” father-in-law! Lalalalala, let’s go, Mihai!]

This is followed by the first stanza: Voi oameni bogaţi ştiţi să vă distrati, ştiţi să vă distrati! Lelele, ah lelelele! Ah lelelele!

You rich people know how to have a good time, [you] know how to have a good time! Lelele, ah lelelele! Ah lelelele!

The refrain is: Hai in vacanţă! Hai pe la Saint Tropez; hai în America sau în Africa; ne face viaţă! Ragadaga da . . .

Let’s go on vacation! Let’s go over to Saint Tropez; let’s go to America or to Africa; that’s how we live our life! Ragadaga da . . .

After the second stanza, another dedication is announced: “Aşa, Ioane. Asta este programul: la cererea ta” [So, Ion. This is the program: it’s your call]. The first verse of a subsequent stanza, Femeie, regină [Woman, queen], is immediately interrupted by another request for a dedication: “Frumos. Pentru Cătel; pentru Ion al lui Cătelu; ginerele lui socrul mic; Cătel, să trăiască! Auzi!” [Great. For Cătel (groom’s father); for Cătel’s Ion (son); (for) the “junior” father-in-law’s groom; cheers, Cătel! Listen!]. And after several more verses, a final request is expressed, with a dedication again to Cătel. By the end of Saint Tropez, Marius is already announcing a dedication for the next manea, Regina reginelor [The queen of queens]: “Frumos. Şi încă o melodie frumoasă pentru cea mai frumoasă mireasă! Do minor, băieţii!” [Great. And one more beautiful melody for the most beautiful bride! C minor, boys!].

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Manele are the genre of choice in southern Romanian village discotheques that provide entertainment for young people on weekend summer evenings. During a visit to Mârşa in June 2013, I accompanied Băieţică, Costică, Alin, Bebe, and Marius to the local discotheque where they regularly performed. Manele dominated the requests. The manea program began early in the evening with the song in example 8.15,124 Ca boierii ăia mari, a favorite heard repeatedly that evening.125 It boasts of the grand life of the first person subject, a swaggering, confident male speaker, whose refrain is: Am zile bune, zile cu soare, şi o zână care mă iubeşte. Şi oriunde în lume eu am valoare şi trăiesc împărăteşte.

I have good days, sunny days, and a goddess who loves me. And everywhere I go I am respected and live like a king.

The performance of this manea is indicative of the distance the Zaharias have traveled since I first heard Silvia sing a manea at their home fifteen years earlier accompanied by taraf instruments that represented rural traditional style. By contrast, in the village discotheque, state-of-the-art equipment and instruments accompany an urbane young manelist (albeit from a nearby village) singing the latest Bucharest manea made famous by Salam. The ensemble has thoroughly adopted the urban style of manea performances. It is Costică (synthesizer), Marius (voice), and Alin (electric violin), the youngest generation in the ensemble, who in fact define how the Zaharias perform manele. The effects created in the contemporary manele that the ensemble is performing are due virtually entirely to the three young men and their skills and artistry. The rhythm—dynamic and forceful—is initially produced by Costică on the synthesizer while the electronic sound processing simultaneously provides the echo effect as Marius speaks briefly and then sings. Costică, busy at his high-quality synthesizer, expertly wields additional effects playing chords that slowly modulate back and forth—a style developed in recording studies in Bucharest—creating a sustained background while executing virtuosic melodic runs that Alin complements on his electric violin. Marius initiates the song by intoning syllables and sounds in classic Salam style before arriving at the verses; he returns to this style intermittently during the manea. Distant voices of the young, mainly male, visitors to the discotheque can also be heard as they dance. Sometime later, another manea is performed, a similarly bold and arrogant pronouncement of male identity rendered in verses such as: Sunt barosan, barosan, baroson,126 capitan, capitan, capitan . . . [I’m the boss, boss, boss,/the captain, captain, captain . . .]. It, as well as Ca boierii ăia mari and many other manele heard throughout Romania, is performed by and about young men and conveys gendered lyrics with themes of sex, money, and power. Indeed, most of the twenty-five to thirty villagers who eventually came to the discotheque that evening were young and male. Some of them formed circles and danced to manele with shoulder-holds and heads slightly bent down, in a combination of brâu and horă style, offering a further example of how contemporary rural Romanians adapt the manea by appropriating traditional dance forms. Perhaps even



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Figure 8.5.  Zaharia family of lăutari from Mârșa, Giurgiu County, 2013: village wedding Photo: Margaret Beissinger

more interesting, it was also as if the dancers in this closed circle formed an exclusive company of unmarried boys/young men huddling together as strongly rhythmic songs (reinforced by the loud, pounding volume) with intensely male meanings empowered them: an ostensible rite of initiation.127 In the meantime, since that evening in June 2013, Costică himself has undergone a rite of passage, and his identity has shifted: he has become a married man and quasi-urbanite, living in Bucharest but commuting to Mârşa to teach music in the local school and perform regularly with his family ensemble, to which he remains very loyal.

CONCLUSION I have argued in this chapter that social boundaries—especially of place, but also ethnicity, class, age, and gender—are “performed” in manele, a genre that revolutionized traditional music-making in post-1989 Romania. Manele elicit a dynamic array of social meanings that express rural and urban culture, Romani and Romanian ethnicity, working-class and elite tastes, younger and older generational associations, and male and female norms. These are not static binary oppositions, however, but evolving relationships. This is vividly illustrated in the journey of the Zaharia family as they adapted to manele after 1989. It became clear, as we followed

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their narrative, that the key to their success with the performance of manele was— perhaps ironically—to “become” selectively more urban, to narrow the gap between themselves as rural musicians and their imagined selves as “urban” musicians. The Zaharias have been remarkably determined—and creative—in their efforts to “keep up” with manele, persistently updating and refashioning their ensemble over the years without erasing, however, its core character and their commitment to traditional Romanian music. This they achieved via the instruments and contemporary effects that they employed as well as the computer technology that they adopted. Moreover, they eventually projected a more youthful and urbane profile and style of performing, thanks to the input of the youngest generation in the family, largely city-trained in their teen years, and their skilled manelist, Marius. It is no coincidence that over the past five or so years, as their own “quasi-urbanization” has taken place, the Zaharias have been performing more frequently in Bucharest. In a sense, they have managed to transcend the village-city divide. Indeed, the distance between rural and urban culture itself may be narrowing as the post-communist years continue, and the rural musicians whom I tracked and music-making that they represent may well be emblems of this. I have also charted how manele, as a phenomenon of village music-making, have mirrored the profound political, social, economic, and cultural changes that took place in southern Romania as the communist government imploded in 1989 and global culture swept in from both East and West. The challenges that faced Romanians (as well as other fellow East Europeans) as they pulled out of the stifling communist vacuum that they had endured between 1944 and 1989 were informed by tensions between tradition and modernity, epitomized by boundaries between village and city culture. Romanian society has evolved greatly over the past twentyfive years and continues to develop and find its place after the critical events of the last century. The village manea provides a fascinating microcosm of contemporary southern Romanian society and furnishes telling perspectives on Balkan culture at the advent of the third millennium.

NOTES 1.  This occurred in Transylvania, Banat, and Moldova (see chapter 1). 2.  Lăutari pass their occupational skills from father to son and have figured in the southern Romanian cultural landscape for centuries; see Beissinger (1991; 2001; 2012). 3.  Most of my fieldwork has been completed in this region, including Giurgiu, Teleorman, Ilfov, Dâmboviţa, Argeş, and Olt Counties. 4.  I have attended numerous traditional weddings and other celebratory events and have had countless conversations with Romani and Romanian musicians (and non-musicians). My visits to post-1989 Romania began in 1995 and have continued repeatedly up to the present day. 5.  Positing that a “sense of identity can be put into play through music by performing it, dancing to it, listening to it or even thinking about it,” Stokes maintains that “music symbolizes social boundaries” and that “boundaries are ‘performed’ in music” (1994:24, 4, 21).



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6.  This is a proportion of rural inhabitants in post-communist southeastern Europe exceeded only by Bosnia and Albania. See Kaiser Family Foundation. 2014 Urban Population (Percent of Total Population Living in Urban Areas), (http://kff.org/global-indicator/urban -population/, accessed 3 March 2014). 7.  In the pages that follow, I sometimes use “wedding” as a collective term, as do many musicians, for performance occasions in general. 8.  Among the most popular in Bucharest are Hanul Drumeţului [The Traveler’s Inn] and Balkan Club. 9.  See Roman (2003) for a discussion of post-communist popular culture in Bucharest. 10. As Deborah Kapchan points out, “Performance is always an exchange—of words, energy, emotion, and material” (2003:133). 11.  Urban weddings at which urban musicians perform is a large category that I implicitly also cover for comparative purposes. 12.  Clejani, thirty-nine miles southwest of Bucharest, is the village in which the famous Taraf de Haïdouks was based. 13.  Brâncoveanca is 104 miles southwest of Bucharest. 14.  Roseţi is eighty-six miles southeast of Bucharest. 15. Giurchescu notes that in 1992 she observed a dance that resembled “the Oriental manea” called “mahala” in Ip (Sălaj County), a village in Transylvania (e-mail, 27 May 2014). 16.  Mârşa is thirty-eight miles west of Bucharest. 17.  This and all subsequent translations are mine; I intentionally translate songs quite literally (for content only) and maintain the integrity of each verse; poetic effects are not included. 18.  Romica Puceanu (1926–1996) was a celebrated Romani vocalist from Bucharest. For a recording of Şaraiman, see http://www.socsci.uci.edu/~rgarfias/sound-recordings/romania/ romica.html, and Frate, frate, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSqvkTpPsPg, both accessed 14 June 2014. For manea titles, I initially offer an English translation, but all subsequent references to them are only in Romanian; Romanian titles of manele with English translations are provided in the index. 19.  Gabi Lunca (b. 1938) is a well-known Romani singer; a Pentecostal convert as of the 1990s, she no longer performs secular music but only religious songs. See http://www.bing .com/videos/search?q=Gabi+Lunca+%22Mama+mea+e+florareasa%22&FORM=VIRE1#view =detail&mid=32AA6BFB55347564C1E032AA6BFB55347564C1E0, accessed 14 June 2014. 20.  Lăutari in southern Romania consider the manea a “joc ţigănesc” [Gypsy dance], along with the “horă lăutărească” [lăutar hora]. I use “Gypsy” when it is a direct translation of the Romanian noun ţigan or adjective ţigănesc or when it is an out-group term used with a constructed, parodied, or imagined sense. 21.  Mârşa, 6 February 2014. 22.  Celei, in Oltenia, is sixty-five miles southeast of Craiova and about one hundred miles southwest of Bucharest. 23.  I collected traditional repertoire in Celei in 1987 when Gică played in the taraf of his guitarist/singer uncle Marin Candoi (b. 1924) featured in my monograph on lăutari and epic (Beissinger 1991). 24.  Celei, 5 July 1998. 25.  Mârşa, 6 February 2014. 26.  It is a southeast European Eastern Orthodox tradition. 27. They included the accordion superstar Ionică Minune [Johnny Wonder, b. 1959], George Udilă (b. 1950) on the clarinet, Cristinel Turturică (b. 1969) on the cimbalom, Florică

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Roşioru (accordion/voice), Paul Giuglea (violin/voice, b. 1934), and a female vocalist, Sanda Gore de la Curcani (b. 1959). 28.  Muzică lăutărească is a synthesis of Romanian traditional music, nineteenth-century European popular music, and Ottoman Turkish art music; see Garfias (1981). 29.  One of the manele was the song Am acasă pe perete (o carpetă ca-n poveste) [I’ve got on the wall at home (a magic carpet like in a fairy tale)]. 30.  E-mail, 4 March 2014. 31.  Vesa Kurkela notes that more than 90 percent of the cassettes in Romania in 1995 were illegally produced (1997:81). 32.  Celei, 5 July 1998. 33.  Blejeşti is forty-eight miles southwest of Bucharest. 34.  In 1980, I collected traditional repertoire in Blejeşti from the violinist/vocalist Costică Staicu (1913–1983), one of the singers in my monograph on lăutari and epic (Beissinger 1991). His nephew Alexie had been in his taraf at that time. 35.  They also sang I-aş face nevestei mele (o coroniţă din stele) [I would make my wife (a crown of stars)], Numele meu e iubire [My name is love], Ce frumoasă-i seara asta [What a beautiful evening this is], and others. 36.  Such themes run through muzică lăutărească, as well. 37. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-1-audio.wav. 38.  Mârşa, 8 July 1998. 39.  Of the Balkan “Oriental music” genres that became part of post-1989 popular music culture (e.g., Bulgarian chalga and Serbian turbo-folk), only in Romania have the vocalists been so consistently male, a matter that I discuss in chapter 4. 40.  Adrian Simionescu (b. 1974). 41.  Valentin Rusu (b. 1970). 42.  Florian Ene (b. 1967). 43.  Bărbuleşti is a largely Romani town in Ialomiţa County, thirty-seven miles northeast of Bucharest. 44. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-2-audio.wav. 45.  Mârşa, 8 July 1998. 46.  Mârşa, 9 July 1998. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-3-audio.wav. 47.  Naipu is twenty-nine miles southwest of Bucharest. 48.  These are traditional Romanian circle or line dances with hand or shoulder holds; the hora can be either Romanian (in a circle) or “Gypsy”/lăutar (executed solo). The latter has become very popular among Romanians since the revolution. For more on traditional dance in Romania, see http://www.eliznik.org.uk/RomaniaDance/index.htm, accessed 29 January 2015. 49.  For a discussion of rural ritual and social wedding repertoire, see Beissinger (2005). 50.  Cartojani is thirty-nine miles west of Bucharest. 51.  Born in 1978, Costi was originally from Constanţa. 52.  Vasile Zaharia, Bucharest, 28 August 2010. 53.  Others included Am un bărbat vagabond [I’ve got a vagabond husband]; Haide, hai cu mine! [Come, come with me!]; Mie-mi plac femeile [I love women]; Banane, banane [Bananas, bananas]; Sunt şmecher [I’m sly]; and Frate, frate [Brother, brother]. 54. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-4-audio.wav. 55.  Cartojani, 4 June 2000. 56.  Cartojani, 3 June 2000. The bass viol was also sometimes employed instead of drums.



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57.  I have worked in the field with Sile Păun, a well-known lăutar in Bucharest, since 1998. 58. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-5-audio.wav. 59.  Bucharest, 5 June 2000. 60.  They were Sile Păun, Iulian Turturică, and Nelu Petrache, respectively. 61. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-6-audio.wav. 62.  Bucharest, 27 May 2000. 63. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-7-audio.wav. 64.  Track 1, Miss Piranda 2000, Vol. 1, PRO MUSIC SRL, Romania, 2000. 65.  Milcovăţu is twenty-nine miles southwest of Bucharest. 66. They included a Romani wedding in Bucharest (May 2001) as well as a Romanian wedding in Voluntari (a northern suburb of Bucharest) and a Romani wedding in Piteşti (a city in Argeş County), both in August 2002. 67.  This included a female vocalist. 68.  For example, in June 2003, Răzvan, the Romanian synth-player who had played with the Zaharias in 2002, was hired for a wedding with his urban ensemble right in Mârşa. 69.  Moreover, Răzvan’s band charged a higher fee than a rural taraf would, which further elevated the standing of the urban band in the eyes of the village customers: they equated a higher price with more prestige. 70.  Both are about twenty-two miles west of Bucharest. 71. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-8-audio.wav. 72.  Icoana/Palanca, 21 July 2003. 73. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-9-audio.wav. 74.  Track 1, Saloo, Salomeea, Nova Music Entertainment, NM 197-4, Romania, 2002. 75.  Sile “from Gratia,” a nephew of Baietica’s, joined the ensemble that day to enlarge the ensemble. 76.  Alin is the son of Bebe and his wife Gina. 77.  There were three accordions, two violins, a cimbalom, and a “small cimbalom.” 78. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-10-audio.wav. 79.  Guţă’s studio recording of this song was: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4bj0GhAt44; accessed 17 June 2014, and Adrian’s was http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZ3-v02vDYg ; accessed 3 July 2014. 80.  Cartojani, 7 June 2004. 81. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-11-audio.wav. 82.  Cartojani, 6 June 2004. 83.  I have rarely encountered unison singing in live manele. 84.  Cartojani, 6 June 2004. 85.  Cartojani, 6 June 2004. 86. Village lăutari are hired to perform at weddings for a certain number of hours that are explicitly agreed upon in advance. 87. Stokes argues that “notions of authenticity and identity are closely interlinked” (1994:6). 88.  See Wong (2000:79). 89.  Their disapproval might not have been as vocal if I had not been there. 90. Timothy Rice mentions overtly sexual interpretations of (male) instruments when played by women in Bulgaria (2004:4); and Hélène La Rue remarks that musical instruments can be markers of social identity and “imply the status of gender” (1994:189).

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91.  Catanga (b. 1958) is best known for singing muzică lăutărească. 92.  Maneliste (fem.; pl. maneliştă), whose manele often resemble pop music, are more regularly featured on commercial recordings, for example, Carmen Şerban (b. 1971), Roxana Prinţesa Ardealului [Roxana Princess of Transylvania], Claudia, and Denisa Răducu. 93.  A female singer who is not related to any of the male members of the ensemble with whom she sings is frequently viewed as a loose woman. See Silverman (2012, Text Supplement 10.1). 94.  Many Romani musicians whom I know in Romania claim this to be true, and Romanians frequently endorse this viewpoint as well. 95. Here I paraphrase Deborah Wong’s discussion of “White appropriations of Black authenticities” in connection with the “invasion” by Whites into African-American hip-hop music in the United States (2000:79). 96.  As Stokes points out, “music is used by social actors in specific local situations to erect boundaries, to maintain distinctions between us and them, and . . . ‘authenticity’ [is] used to justify these boundaries” (1994:6). 97.  Mârşa, 1 June 2004. 98.  Roata de Jos is thirty-six miles west of Bucharest. 99.  Among the musicians were Sile Păun (accordionist), Paul Fantezie (vocalist/accordionist/synth-player), and Toni Ştefan (vocalist). 100.  Florin Stoian (b. 1979). 101. The lăutari included, for manele, Sile Păun (accordion), Vali Vişan (synthesizer), Tică Şandro (drum-set), Cristi Dinu (saxophone), Romeo Nămol (electric violin), and three manelişti (Gicuţă de la Păcala, Titel Frumosu, and Viorel de la Constanţa). 102.  They included a synth-player, violinist, and two accordionists. 103. Other manele that evening were Cine e jupânul? [Who’s the boss?] and Cine e şeful banilor? [Who’s in charge of the money?], both about power and wealth. 104.  It cost €1,200. 105.  Sile Păun, for example, from Bucharest, began to use his own computer in 2002. 106. As Stokes remarks, “places” constructed through music also “organize hierarchies” (1994:3). 107.  These were Taraf TV, Mynele, Balcanica, Antena1, Pro TV, and Favorit. 108.  At another wedding banquet at Turbotequila in 2013, the Zaharias performed even fewer manele per orders of the groom: only four. 109. His bride’s claims to taste, however, were not made clear to us; she was perhaps peasant-urbanite. 110.  Bucharest, 28 August 2010. 111.  Dârza is fifteen miles northwest of Bucharest. 112.  Gratia is forty-one miles west of Bucharest. 113. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-12-audio.wav. 114.  Roata de Jos, 4 September 2011. 115. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-13-audio.wav. 116. Roata de Jos, 3 September 2011. See also http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRW gCE5Be80 (accessed 21 June 2014) for an example of Salam’s performance (2012) of the same manea. 117.  Except for the Romani accordionist (Sile Păun) and electric violinist, the musicians were all Romanians (synth-player, clarinetist, drummer, two vocalists, and a sound man). 118.  Călugăreni is twenty miles south of Bucharest.



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119. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agnLg1wExSw (accessed 21 June 2014) for Salam’s Fata mea [My daughter] (2012); it illustrates the introductory style that he has perfected. 120.  E-mail, 27 May 2014. 121. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-14-audio.wav. 122. A studio recording of this by Salam is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v= tXO2QtjixaM, accessed 3 July 2014. 123.  Roata de Jos, 29 June 2013. 124. http://manele-in-romania.ro/manele-i/ch5/5-15-audio.wav. 125.  Mârşa, 28 June 2013. 126. “Barosan” is derived from Romani and is slang for big, great, and/or powerful. 127.  In Romanian traditional culture, unmarried young men often symbolize fertility.

9 Turbo-Authenticity An Essay on Manelism Vintilă Mihăilescu

Manele should be forbidden! So the Romanian elites have repeatedly demanded, and so the Bulgarian elites also asserted in 1999 about their chalga.1 There is a general consensus on both banks of the Danube: manele/chalga are “the dregs of music” and the “cesspit” of society, matched only by the opposite consensus that manele are the best you can get. These two contradictory perceptions divide the population into two camps, allowing no one to remain indifferent. At first glance, it seems that there is no way out: love it or hate it! But why are manele not just music and dance, like so many other forms of entertainment? Why have they become an issue of national debate and discontent? This is precisely the question I would like to address. It is this kind of total social phenomenon—embracing and tormenting a whole society—that makes sense of the manea’s deeper meaning and displays it. Hence, I will be concerned not just with manele as a musical genre or as performance and entertainment but with the broader social phenomenon in which manele are embedded and that I will call manelism.

MANELE AND PUBLIC DISCOURSE In this respect, we have to start at the very beginning and answer the most basic of methodological questions: What are we talking about, in fact, when we talk about manele? What do manele currently represent in the public imagination, and how does this match with reality? We cannot be satisfied with the answer that “we all know what we’re talking about,” as most people who discuss manele in the public sphere seem to believe. In the first instance, it is obvious that we are talking about the “songs,” particular melodies that everyone (everyone?) calls manele and about the singers and audience 247

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who together make up the world of manele. Yet the immediate objection is just as obvious: manelişti (the singers) do not sing just manele (the best of them are excellent singers of muzică lăutărească or traditional songs and much appreciated as such by the public), a majority of the audience also listens to other types of music, and manele themselves frequently cross over with other kinds of music, from hip-hop to jazz. Thus, right from the word go, the boundaries of this “world of manele” seem to be more porous than usually believed. It may seem equally “obvious” that the lyrics of manele offer the key to understanding them. This temptation to perceive manele almost exclusively through their texts (possibly accompanied by ornamental belly movements) likewise immensely reduces their broader universe—more exactly, it distorts it. For manele are events in which words, sounds, and movements all combine in a context of direct and specific interaction. Thus, manele are not just a discourse but rather a message, and, in the words of Marshall McLuhan, the “medium is the message” and not the discourse alone. In this message, manele are not texts to be recited and not even simply lyrics to be sung; they are performed. Just like any party music, but in its own particular way, the song incorporates the message which allows it to communicate in a much more complex and often subliminal manner. Here, then, is another essential expansion of the object of study: Manele as a term refer not just to the texts and melodies but also, by definition, to the entire range of their public performance. When we talk about manele, it is also “obvious” that we are referring to the present, to current manele. Some specialists still like to remind us that these songs also have a past thus placing manele in a timeframe, a longer history of the genre. Usually, however, this historic exercise aims to do no more than provide “documented” reasons to condemn today’s manele and accuse today’s performers of imposture: after the bygone glories of the “real” manele of the Ottomans and Phanariots through to Anton Pann and Maria Tănase, behold now the dramatic decline of the genre! This approach is most eloquently expressed by Andrei Oişteanu who, in an article in the journal 22, speaks about music played for the revels of aristocratic courts as “the manele that maketh the man”2 but talks of “Turkicized Romania” when referring to today’s manele. He concludes that “if it has come to this, that young Romanians dance to manele in discos (I have seen this not only in Bucharest but also in Timişoara, one of the bastions of Central Europe), it seems that the war against the Ottomans is lost!” (Oişteanu 2001:3; emphasis mine). Furthermore, even if the Romanian public is clearly obsessed by “our” manele, most of them have already known for some time that their neighbors also have their “manele.” The Serbs began a long time ago with turbo-folk, Bulgarians have chalga, Albanians muzika popullore, and even the Armenians have their rabiz, as Estelle Amy de la Bretèque and Victor Stoichiţă show (2012). We may thus usefully widen our perspective on manele spatially as well, with reference to the cultural area of the Balkans. The context becomes that of “pan-Balkan hybridity,” painstakingly documented by Speranţa Rădulescu (2000), or the wider and more diffuse context



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of the “Ottoman ecumene” (Buchanan 2007a) in which manele no longer appear exceptional either in time or in space. And this remains true even if today’s manele are not a direct heir of the old style of the same name but rather its illegitimate child. Last but not least, manele are also a business and, as such, carefully marketed. Even if direct sales have gone down recently and manelişti (performers of manele) earn more from live performances, especially in the criminal world as Adrian Schiop points out (see chapter 7), manele are still a commodity and a brand that different social actors try to boost in different ways. Aiming at different target groups, manele are thus mixed with hip-hop, electro, disco, even “popular music,” or are turned into a kind of “world music” to assure access to alternative sectors of the population. Successful or not, these experiments open up the fluid universe of manele even further. Beyond the performances themselves, much has been said—and still is said— about “the ‘manelization’ of society.” This is another point which is said to be “obvious” but leaves much to be discussed. Is it really plausible that Romani musicians, a few hundred of them at most, could have utterly transformed a whole society, or is it more realistic to consider that an already “manelized” society found in manele its scene of self-expression (or one such scene among many), that “manelism” gave birth to manele, rather the other way around? This is a chicken-and-egg question, but is it anyway more plausible to consider that manele—as a social phenomenon and not (only) a cultural/aesthetic one—appeared in society riding the crest of a much larger wave and therefore represent merely one facet of a more far-reaching social process, an integral part of a broader complex including other, related social phenomena? Likewise, Statelova begins her book about chalga by asserting that it is not a genre of music but rather a dimension of culture in the broad anthropological sense (2005:9). If we accept this logical hypothesis, our focus of study widens significantly, and right from the word go we must identify this broader social process—or its defining aspects—common to societies where manea-like performance has mushroomed and that far from being explained by the actions of the manelişti themselves may clarify the meaning of their existence in the various societies. This distinction between manele as a particular manifestation and manelism as a genre then further legitimates the start of a public discussion about manele in the larger frame of reference to manelism. In particular, the widespread and concerted rejection of manele by the most varied sectors of society is itself part and parcel of the social phenomenon of manelism. As Alexander Kiossev put it more than ten years ago, when discussing “their” chalga: “The revulsion exists, thus the revulsion must be theorized!”3

AT FIRST SIGHT . . . This chapter does not intend to produce such a theory and even less so to present research about manele. Its only aim is to propose a preliminary reflection on how sociology/anthropology may approach manele in order to make sense of this complex

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and emotionally loaded social phenomenon. Or, to put it another way, what might be a promising viewpoint offering a comprehensive perspective on manelism? In this respect, what can one see at “first glance”? Let us start, then, from the several facts on which most people would probably agree. On the one hand, the genre is part of a wider, older cultural heritage; a background in which manele and all that goes with them have their roots. There is also, everywhere, a professional category available to take over this heritage and update it to meet the taste of the day. Taken together, these are the necessary and sufficient preconditions of the very possibility of the manea phenomenon. On the other hand, manele, just like turbo-folk, chalga, muzika popullore, or rabiz appeared as totalitarian societies opened up to Western market capitalism and its related individual freedoms: the collapse of the Soviet Union in the case of Armenia, the post-socialist order in Romania, Bulgaria, and Albania, in Tito’s Yugoslavia the freedom of migration to work and then in a second round, the fall of Slobodan Milošević’s regime. Thus, it seems plausible to see manelism from the perspective of a sudden opening-up of society and forced Westernization (whose traces are found in the very structure of the latest manea music) and of emotional reactions to this new context, so that we can then look for some causal conditions of the phenomenon. Before asking why manele one should thus start by wondering why now?

THE PRIMITIVE ACCUMULATION OF DESIRE So what happened—at the individual rather than the institutional level—after the great decompression of the fall of communism? For most, I believe, the first years of post-communism were a kind of primitive accumulation of desire. After decades of controlled expectations, individuals gave free rein to individual desires and began to capitalize on these—all the more so as the totalitarian state in which they lived became quintessentially laissez-faire overnight, a kind of Deus otiosus for the acolytes of liberalism, and freed its desirous citizens from all constraints. This dreamlike demand initially overwhelmed the market offer, producing a bulimic and chaotic consumption that does not consume but merely fulfils the desire of consumption: thus the main concrete result was visibility. Shortly afterward, these scattered individual desires began to be concentrated in the hands of legitimated actors, mainly in the market and/or state: unbounded individual desires turned to bounding social desirability. Many entered this new game and were successful at it or at least content with it, but many others felt in a way dispossessed, with their intimate desires blowing in the wind. A kind of proletariat of desire thus emerged—and has been growing ever since. Frustrated or just confused, it became more and more marginal and/or started to feel marginalized. Its huge capital of desire could find no direct satisfaction on the market and/or the political scene, producing a large range of frustrations and discontents, proportional to the initial overflowing of desire. Nor, on the other hand, could these frustrations and



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discontents find release through forms of social protest. Desire was not framed in the “rational” form of interest, more or less matching socioeconomic opportunities, or the legitimate forms of challenging them. For this inchoate kind of proletariat, desire remained a leftover motivation and a horizon of unfulfilled dreams. The manele offered them, in different ways and to different degrees, a backdrop against which to display all of this.

MORAL DARWINISM Poorly engaged in “real life” competition, this leftover stock of desire was a kind of pure desire or “basic instinct.” It was “ethological” to some extent, rooted mainly in blow-out sex, food, and domination. One may call it moral Darwinism, staging the desirability of the “dominance of the fittest” and accordingly splitting the world at large into winners and loser (“Mama n-a făcut un fraier” 4 [Mother never gave birth to a loser], as Nicolae Guţă sings). The watchword of this primal Darwinism did not take long to arrive on the scene: “Ce vrea muşchii mei!” ([I throw my weight around!” Literally, “I do what my muscles want!]. Note this explicit “embodiment” of the social model!). Manele simply amplified this credo and turned it into a kind of body-power ideology as a manea summarizes this creed: Credeţi-mă pe cuvînt: Eu vă cumpăr, eu vă vând. De o viaţă fac ce vreau: banii jos şi fruntea sus, ş’am ajuns unde-am ajuns.5

Trust my word: I buy you and I sell you. All my life I’ve done what I want: cash down and head held high, and see what I got and where I am.

The hero of this worldview is the baştan or barosan, argot nicknames for the “big boss,” the very personification of manele, the embodiment of the winner: “I’m barosan, I’m the biggest barosan!” as the manea singers never cease to claim. Amplified by all kinds of media, this leitmotif offered the proletariat of desire what it wanted to hear: whatever your actual status, you, too, can be a winner and enjoy life; all you need to make it through is “insolence” (tupeu, another watchword of manele). There is a strange message of equality in this promise of joyful dominance: basically, we are all the same, so may the best man win! But this phantasm of the mighty winner is just the loser’s desire, the dream of those who could not make their place in the main arena of society. This moral Darwinism is thus also a compensation, wishful thinking. It is also the core of the larger phenomenon I called manelism, staging the phantasm of the winner throughout society and by many other means than just manele. It is, so to speak, the post-communist Romanian dream, hardly comprehensible outside this specific context.

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MANELISM AND THE SECRET DREAM OF THE OMNIPOTENT BAROSAN Desire may be individual—and during this period of primitive accumulation nearly every individual gave free scope to his/her dreams—but success and failure are social, existing through social recognition and attendant images. Accomplishment has to be shown off, with every society having its code of more or less shared representations of excellence. In the case of post-communist Romania, old codes were more or less dismissed, social stratification was broken, and people looked for new references on the free market of social representations. One of the most obvious choices was money on display: Hai aruncă, hai aruncă banii,/dă-te mare să moară duşmanii6 [Come on, come on and throw your money around./ Ride your high horse in spite of your enemies] as the manelist Sorin Copilul de Aur [the Golden Child] challenged his audience. And beyond any link with manele, people were literally throwing money around in public spaces, from pubs to television shows. At a lower and more local scale, former peasants started to display their relative riches won as migrant labor by building “pride houses,” huge rural households with ten or more rooms in which they rarely lived. Thus, they asserted their self-made success in a way that their neighbors could see and understand (Mihăilescu 2011), a way shared in all the post-communist countries mentioned. There was a name for it in ex-Yugoslavia, where the phenomenon is older: turbo-architecture (Jovanović Weiss 2006), or turbo-urbanism (Vöckler 2010). “Pride ceremonies” go hand in hand with such ostentatious houses, with more and more families amassing huge sums in euros to have the best manelişti at the weddings of their kin or at house-warming parties. At the top of society, we may find overt or more hidden manelism in the attitudes of the main political actors, specifically those whom public discourse long ago labeled “local barons,” staging their power and wealth beyond—and sometimes even against—any political reason. The political struggle itself has more and more become an image competition between winners and losers, friends and enemies, and the media talk shows are a mere stage for these confrontations with more emotional than political content. Deep in their souls, all these people and others like them are dreaming in their own ways of being a barosan—recognized as such by their fellows. Manea singers, like generations of lăutari before them, play to order—and people want to hear about the phantasm of the barosan, about what Victor Stoichiţă summarizes as “an enchanted world of might” (see chapter 6). But this is also the original sin of manele: they indecorously say aloud what, for many of these people, should nevertheless remain a secret dream they like to hear about without being heard. A source of the hatred for manele is thus the guilty secret dream of the barosan.

THE TWO FACES OF THE CARNIVALESQUE Manele, as the message and expression of social manelism, are not, however, a report or direct expression thereof but relate to it in a specific and defining way; this relation, on



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the one hand, individualizes manele but, on the other, inscribes it into the long-term practice of popular culture—not in the old romantic-triumphalist sense we are used to, nor in Adorno’s more recent and reticent meaning (1991), but rather in the sense of Bakhtin (1993), who looks at “the popular” through the complementary categories of the carnivalesque and the grotesque. Manele are therefore not a subculture in the axiological meaning nor in the larger anthropological sense and even less a subculture of contest like hip-hop, for instance, but rather a “popular culture.” Stoichiţă (chapter 6) invokes the carnivalesque frame with reference to manele, as does Statelova (2005) when discussing chalga; such a frame seems not only useful, but probably the proper approach. It helps us to place manele not in a militant subculture which voices the oppressed or marginalized but in the perennial and much more diffuse register of what Bakhtin (1993) called the “popular-festive culture” of the “second” or “unofficial world,” distinct from the “official world” but always complementary to it. Were he alive today, Bakhtin would probably use the trendy terms of mainstream and underground: Manele are indeed an “underground” phenomenon, but in the Bakhtinian carnivalesque sense. Through this carnivalesque nature, manele cock a snook at social hierarchy, “overturn” it just as in any carnival, and establish equally distributed good temper among the participants. This subversive denial by manele—and by popular culture in general—is not, however, taken for granted [pe bune], but parodical [la mişto], as Stoichiţă has emphasized—and as Bakhtin initially specified when talking about the meaning of “laughter.” All manea characters have “prestige” and “conviction,” “value” as şmecherul cel mai tare [the smartest trickster], but everything is nebunie fără măsură [total craziness]. Manele stage the “men of might” and flatter their vanity, but at the climax of their glory here comes Nicolae Guţă to remind them that Atunci când tu te crezi rege,/ vine garda să te lege [When you believe you’re the boss,/the police comes for you]. While almost all manea heroes show off in their “big Mercedes,” Guţă whispers ironically in their ear: Nu-i căruţă ca merţanu. Am o ţigancă desculţă şi cea mai tare caruţă, şi moare ţigănia că mi-am pus radar pe ea.7

A Mercedes is not like a horse-cart. I have a barefoot Gypsy lady and the hottest wagon [cart], and the Gypsies all around are dying [of envy] ’cause I’ve put my speed camera detector on it.

The slogan of manelism is “Ce vrea muşchii mei” [I throw my weight round], but for just this reason one of the most famous manelişti, Florin Minune, launched the parody Pumnii mei minte nu are [My fists has (sic) no brain], in which he ironizes the overtly macho character who boasts that Am şi eu o pasiune/să bat cît mai multă lume8 [I have a passion/to hit as many people as I can]. (When this song became a hit, something very interesting happened: although intended as parody, it seems that it was taken seriously by so many of the public that Hi-Q Studio, the

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producers of the clip, had to issue a written warning on their site, stressing that “This video clip is a PARODY addressed to those who use their fists instead of their brains!” The moral of this fable is that manele are not “dangerous” in themselves, as many fear, but can constitute a risk through their social reading that can be more “manelist” than “manele.” . . .) However, under no circumstances should one fall into the opposite extreme and believe that manele are only parody or mere mockery! As Bakhtin also argued, “laughter” is essentially ambivalent. Manele also play with desire, but do not deny it. Power, sex, money, partying, and drinking are all legitimate desires and performed accordingly. The parody intervenes only in counterpoint, like a kind of musical flat note undermining the main melody. The category of “grotesque realism” proposed by Bakhtin and belonging to the same world of the carnivalesque is also useful for putting manele into a proper perspective. From this point of view, manele appear “grotesque” rather than “vulgar,” as Ruxandra Cesereanu (2005) considers them. At the same time, the relationship that Bakhtin (1993) established between this variety of grotesque and “the inferior layers of corporeal material” expressed as “grotesque” by popular culture may also be useful for a comprehensive approach to the bodily/embodied “primitivism” in the practice of manele. There is, thus, an insurgent dimension in manele as in any other carnivalesque performance. In their “primitive” impetus, manele are ready to blow out and discredit everything standing in their path including institutions and the stiff and outdated pontificators still valued by the wider public. As Speranţa Rădulescu (2010) has pointed out, manele themselves make a break with former “traditions,” meaning the communist tradition of Cîntarea României national song festival or simply more general (post-)romantic folklore, carelessly undermining them. It is precisely because of this insurgent potential that the hipster crowd flirts with manele, too, and eventually embraces their style: manele do not care about the mainstream (they even challenge the establishment); we play games with the mainstream, too; ergo manelişti may be our friends . . . From private parties to public events, manele thus enter a broader social world to which they did not initially belong. For better and for worse, manele are also a wind of change. Manelism is thus a market of compulsive desire, unleashed by the fall of communism and left at the margins of post-communist society. Manele stage, express, and flatter the manelist dreams of the barosan, thus confirming their legitimacy and empowering their carnivalesque insurgence. Sometimes both manelism and manele overflow into “official society,” which then fears its “manelization.” However, “underground” manelism and “mainstream” society are two sides of the same coin, forming the dynamics of the “second” and “official” worlds as Bakhtin (1993) described it in the medieval context. As a matter of fact, the carnivalesque as rite of reversal is meaningless without the order which it reverses or undermines. At the other end, order comes away confirmed



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or even strengthened as “official” order. Looking down on manele is a way of asking for confirmation in the magic mirror: “Who is the fairest of them all?” Thus, dismissing manele from well-mannered high society is also a way for this “official society” to polish up and legitimate its self-image. Denial of the denied is a shortcut for selfdefining: we are not what they are! And this kind of mirrored identity is even more useful since members of this ordered society have to an upsetting degree lost their identity markers and are confused in claiming who they really are. In this respect, the elites have to hate manele! Anti-manelism is a welcome and powerful means toward self-legitimization and distinction; to give up demonizing manele would thus be to lose face. This also explains why anti-manelism is even more vocal in the public sphere than the loudspeakers of the manelişti themselves. Ethnicity fits perfectly into this game: manelişti are Roma, and manele are in their blood; this is their culture. We, the majority, are “civilized,” and the fact that we hate manele is one more proof. Romanian manea-lovers are just the black sheep of the flock. Rejecting manele as purely and only Romani is thus a way of denying them without offending the majority as well. Last but not least, this instrumentalization of manea-hatred also explains why practically no member of the elite dares to go a step further and question what manele are really all about: manele may remain useful as long as they are not approached as a common social phenomenon but simply as a particular, enclosed ethic and/or aesthetic phenomenon.

A REGIONAL FLAVOR: BALKANISM AND THE BODY From an ethnomusicological point of view, manele belong to the cultural space of the Balkans, as we have already seen. But manele are not just music, they are performances, too; and in performing manele, there is also a “Balkan” way of displaying and enjoying the body. “Communication is different,” a German entrepreneur once said to me in an interview about the “economic culture” in post-socialist countries. “Here, people talk with their whole body!” And he was not the only one to spell out this “cultural shock.” Indeed, to some extent there still is a different culture of the body, rooted in a longue durée regional history—different to the extent that this “Oriental” part of Europe was submitted only much latter, and to a much lesser extent, to the centurieslong “civilizing process” described by Norbert Elias (1978). As Marianne Mesnil (2011) stated, the price to be paid for civilization to win was nothing less than the body. Beginning with Erasmus’s Civilitas morum puerilium9 (if we can speak of a “beginning” in the longue durée), the Western world, starting with its aristocratic elites, was submitted to a rational and moral control of the body. The ideal of “good manners,” evolving from courtoisie to civilité and later to civilisation and passed down to the masses especially after the French Revolution, was the main means of censuring man’s natural (i.e., “animal”) tendencies in order to lift him up to the defining world

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of the spirit. A civilized man thus became master of his body, superior by virtue of this spiritual control over the body to the animals as well as to his “uncivilized” fellow men. It is precisely in this respect that the Occident perceived the Balkans, under Ottoman “Oriental” rule until late in the nineteenth century, as uncivilized and, indeed, less “civilized” than the Western world. Que voulez-vous, nous sommes aux portes de l’Orient où tout est pris à la légère! as Raymond Poincaré complained publicly while visiting Bucharest. After the revolutionary year of 1848, all these Balkan societies turned their backs on the “Orient” and started to seek Western modernization as the marker of a new national identity. But while national elites were compulsively overthrowing their “Oriental” (meaning “uncivilized”) heritage, the “second society” was still enjoying some of its pleasures. The body was maybe the most important one, a do-as-youplease body still associated with the “uncivilized” Balkans. Beyond its foregrounded political meaning, Balkanism thus also implies an underground emotional ambivalence. Mistrusted and looked down upon for its “uncivilized” attitudes and behaviors, an incomplete European self, as Maria Todorova (1997) labeled it, still governed by Oriental sensuality and debauchery, homo balkanicus is also secretly envied precisely for his lack of “civilized” constraints and unrestrained expressions of the body. For former Balkan countries, Balkanism is their repressed identity and thus a matter of shame, but also, from time to time, an outburst of joyful authenticity. In this respect, the best-known illustrations are probably Kusturica’s movies and Bregović’s music. By their Balkan/Oriental “nature,” manele are part and parcel of this game of pride and shame. They are a matter of shame for “official society,” which perceives the manea trend as outrageous debauchery, a kind of falling back into Oriental moods and values: manele are a way of losing (national) face. As Oişteanu phrases it, listening to manele means that “the war against the Ottomans is lost” (2001:3). The music’s association with Roma only emphasizes this “shameful” character. In Bulgaria, chalga is also associated with the Turks, an older and greater problem for the Bulgarians, thus doubling its potential for ethnic pollution: in 1999 a group of prominent Bulgarian officials requested official censorship of this “uncivilized” and “foreign” music. In Serbia, where turbo-folk has a longer and less marginal history and was generally promoted by “locals,” the situation is somewhat reversed: in the post-Milošević era, current criticism tends instead to level the charge of an excess of nationalism, represented by the emblematic couple Ceca and Arkan, a turbo-folk star married to a national hero who was also a notorious criminal (Gordy 1999). But for present-day Serbia, aspiring toward Europeanization, this kind of “nationalism” is another “erroneous” form of national identification. Likewise, as Catherine Baker (2006) notes, the fanatical Croatian rejection of turbo-folk influences (as “Serbian,” “Eastern,” and thus degradingly “Balkan”) in discussion around Severina Vučković’s song representing Croatia in Eurovision 2006 served to reiterate Croatian national particularity by rejecting the “Balkanism” of their Serbian neighbors. “Balkanism” thus serves both an intra- and an inter-ethnic competition in which the ethnic (or



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merely social) “other” is rejected and categorized as worthlessly “Balkan” (BakićHayden and Hayden 1992). The Rom, the Turk/Ottoman, the Balkan primitive: all are fused in the social imagery of manele, offering “official society” and national elites a perfect scapegoat for their fears and inferiority complexes about being insufficiently “civilized,” meaning insufficiently European. Dismissing manele is, in turn, a way of claiming one’s European identity. Once again: for “official society,” hating manele is a national cure!

TURBO-AUTHENTICITY A matter of shame for “official society,” manele are also a matter of pride for the “second society” and its “popular culture”: that’s the way we are and/or dream of being! It’s simply where we’re at, as Charles Taylor would probably put it. And here we meet the puzzling concept of authenticity, not in its classical, somehow notary or patrimonial sense, evaluating equivalence to an “original,” a norm, model, or even divine prescript, all of which remain external to the individual, but authenticity as Charles Taylor (1992) describes it, in the sense of a seeking to be true to oneself and as a moral ideal of self-expression and accomplishment. In a dialog with Ron Kuipers, Taylor further explains his concept: I’m using authenticity as shorthand for the background idea that everyone has their own particular way of being human and that you can then be either true to that or untrue to that. And I think this is a background idea that’s shared by large regions of Western society, which is why I refer to our present age as an age of authenticity. . . . This idea has become the common background from which people work out their lives. From that point of view one reaction is to say, “Listen, we’re neither for nor against authenticity; it’s simply where we’re at.” From another point of view, there are certain gains and losses associated with living in an age of authenticity. On the one hand, a trivialization of authenticity is readily available that can make people quite unserious about certain very important issues; and on the other hand, authenticity can introduce the opportunity for discovering better and more profound ways of living and engaging with these issues. (Taylor and Kuipers 2008)

Authenticity is thus not perceived as “good” per se but rather as a description of a state of society—and a state of mind—that spread mainly after the 1960s. It “gets paired with the bad products of trivialization and ‘I’m just doing my thing’ and all that kind of stuff ” (Taylor and Kulpers 2008). It is precisely this tendency to end in trivialization that Adorno (1991) feared. Manele, too, may be inscribed in this trivial “I’m just doing my thing” attitude. But it is nevertheless a way of authenticity-seeking, fuelled by desire more than by reflection, true to personal compulsive dreams rather than to socially constructed self-achievement. It is a turbo-authenticity, one might say, paraphrasing the existing concept of turbo-architecture. It ends in mass belonging, where individual

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self-expressions melt, but it is a bottom-up rather than a top-down regimentation, fleeing establishment regulations and value claims. Yet “official society” dislikes and condemns precisely this escapism, still considering itself the only legitimate actor imposing “true” authenticity over society as a whole. In Taylor’s view, this is no longer possible in an age of authenticity. The phenomenon of manele is a sad story. Both sides, lovers and haters, “unofficial” and “official” society compulsively want to “be true to themselves,” but neither one nor the other knows how to do it other than by a rhetoric of mutual denial and rejection. Both sides claim authenticity but seek it emotionally and reactively rather than self-reflexively. On the one hand, the “second society” feels comfortable in its common dream of the barosan and ignores or even mocks the legitimate establishment. On the other hand, institutional elites cannot bring themselves to give up the historical privilege of naming what is “really” authentic in the nation as a whole so that their last argument against the heretic triviality of manelism is offense and even hatred. It is not about good or bad, it is just about how things are. But society as a whole cannot—or does not want to—approach “where we’re at” in a reflexive way. Manele are thus a sui generis story of post-communist confusion, to which society as a whole still mainly reacts in an emotional way.

NOTES 1.  I would like to thank Bogdan Iancu and particularly Victor Stoichiţă for information and for their indispensible commentary on draft versions of this text. 2.  A pun: in Romanian, codul manelelor elegante is very similar to the French le code des manières élégantes, so that the obvious English pun is on the famous dictum that “manners maketh the man.” 3.  Kiossev voiced this at a conference, “Chalga—Pros and Cons,” held at the University of Sofia in 1999. 4.  See www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pu2-p578Gbc, accessed 29 January 2015. 5.  Florin Salam, Banii jos şi fruntea sus [Cash down and head held high], www.youtube.com/ watch?v=8imQKcorwPs, accessed 29 January 2015. 6.  Sorin Copilul de Aur, Cash cash, full full, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrrUOZ jN2wEaccessed, accessed 29 January 2015. 7.  Nicolae Guţă, Nu-i căruţă ca merţanu [A Mercedes is not like a horse-cart], www.you tube.com/watch?v=2TYP1pr4nUU (not available). 8.  Florin Minune, Pumnii mei minte nu are [My fists has no brain], https://www.youtube .com/watch?v=VqprMzZXTf4, accessed 29 January 2015. 9.  De civilitate morum puerilium per Des. Erasmus Roterdamum libellus nunc primum et conditus et aeditus, Johann Froben, 1530 [La civilité puérile d’Erasme, Traduction, édition et introduction par Franz Bierlaire, Notulae Erasmiane III, La Lettre Volée à la Maison d’Erasme, 1999].

Epilogue Speranţa Rădulescu

While the authors were at work on their chapters for the present volume, the manea genre was still at the peak of its popularity, but the wave has begun to ebb. At that time, ordinary listeners were starting to lose interest—only slowly, but still perhaps faster than in the “classical” genres of Romanian vernacular music. By now, when most of the chapters are already submitted and the volume is nearly ready to go to print (2016), the manea craze is, it seems, moving to a new phase. Not long ago at a dance (Bihor) in a village in Transylvania (where manele have admittedly never been hugely popular), I noticed that the musicians played just one single manea, which the guests greeted with virtual indifference (Nimăieşti-Bihor, 2013). In another village, young Romanians who had come back from Spain for the Easter holidays hosted a party where the sole manea performed was heard shortly after midnight. While it was played, the young men shimmied their shoulders a little but the young women did not move at all. Even this manea was simply a transitional bridge between the disco music that started the party (to which no one danced at all) and the local traditional music that saw almost all of them up on their feet and dancing (village of Chişcău-Bihor, 2013). And traditional musicians in the countryside near Cluj play, with no great enthusiasm, only one or two manele toward the end of their longer sets, explaining that “That’s the way it’s done” (Gherla, 2013). In Bucharest and the larger towns of Muntenia, however, manele are still heard in the restaurants where rich locals throw parties and in specialized clubs where youth congregate (albeit to some extent less frequented now than in the boom times). They have live manea performances, and in between sets, the DJ (or even the club owner) sometimes puts on a CD of folkloric music (e.g., at Hanul drumeţului [The Traveler’s Inn], June 2013). Does this tell us that Romanian folkloric music is well-loved and even in demand among the partygoers at clubs? Manele are now performed overall less often at family celebrations (weddings, baptisms, birthdays, 259

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etc.) and often in versions that bring them closer to Western pop music. At a recent baptism party in Bucharest put on by a middle-class ethnic Romanian family (June 2013), Margaret Beissinger heard only one single manea, and that was from the 1980s: Şaraiman. Moreover, a concert by Florin Salam, due to take place in June 2013 in one of Bucharest’s largest venues (Sala Polivalentă, with over five thousand seats) was cancelled at the last minute due to insufficient ticket sales!1 Ever since the local city hall began to impose heavy fines for noisy parties in public spaces, manele have also vanished from the streets of Ferentari, a district in Bucharest that is approximately 25 percent Romani in population. Here residents had been in the habit of holding their wedding parties—with characteristic rituals, a banquet, music, and dance—in the open air in large tents pitched on the street between the high-rise blocks.2 Telephone ringtones with manea tunes likewise are heard less commonly these days since, at least for some, they have stopped being cool. Musicians in Mârşa tell us that at some weddings in the small region of Vlaşca on the Danubian Plain, the peasant-farmer clientele now only listens to two or three manele so as not to seem entirely left behind by the times. Young people still like to dance to manele in various ways just as they always have. But recently the women and girls have been swinging their hips and arms a little less vigorously, as though they have remembered that they are supposed to be modest and reserved. Jobbing musicians continue to play manele when requested or when they decide that it is appropriate, but it is clear that the public’s attention is more divided now than ten years ago when manele dominated the social dance repertoire. (Vocal soloists are gradually switching over to the rather impersonal style of music known as etno, which suits their singing voices and is now also in fashion at parties in the rural regions.)3 During summer 2013, the manelişti at the Black Sea resorts were still competing with the house music, disco, and hip-hop that the DJs played, but for how much longer? Comments on the Internet by fans and opponents of manele have also decreased and are much milder than they used to be; the same can be said of insulting comments about Roma. Similarly, manele no longer provoke such virulent attacks from those who, for one reason or another, feel the need to attack.4 Even the intellectuals no longer bother to denounce the genre publically as they used to. When some of the authors of this volume offered a course on manele at the National University of Music in Bucharest in spring 2011,5 reactions were extraordinarily hostile: one of us was even threatened with a lawsuit for “betraying the nation.” On the other hand, a broadcast from a cultural show on national state-funded television that was mostly about manele hardly caused a stir in April 2013 and again in April 2015.6 One reason why the intellectuals may have calmed down somewhat is that some of them may have recently realized that they at least ought to pay lip service to the ideals of tolerance and respect that the European Union upholds for the “faiths” and cultures of the “benighted masses.” Moreover, over the past twenty years, the cultural activists who were indoctrinated in the nationalist tradition of the old communist regime, brave champions of the  “purity of folklore,” have either retired or passed on, and



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their younger acolytes seem less fearsome. Ordinary people have begun to think about other things. Journalists, who not long ago followed the manea story with as much objectivity as they could muster, have similarly grown tired of a topic that no longer provokes a scandal or—as the case may be—increases ratings for their radio or television channel. Some would argue that many manele no longer display quite so clearly the two characteristics that distinguished the genre from the many other forms of new popular music: the rhythmic formula of amphibrach-spondee in the accompaniment and the “Oriental” coloring of the melismatic line in the melody. To a certain extent, although by no means in all cases, manele have preserved some of the other distinctive elements: the vocal and instrumental timbre as well as the bold harmonizations. All of these phenomena could be discerned a few years ago; they were mentioned in chapter 1, most of which was written in 2011. By now, however, they are less obvious. Some would say that the identity of manele has become so diluted that it is imperceptible. As Marian Colcea, agent and public relations manager of Florin Salam, recently remarked, today’s manele are no longer, in fact, manele (Bucharest, June 2013)! New stars have not appeared yet. The old “kings” of manele find that they have a problem: they are growing older, slowing down, and beginning to look like their slick patrons with fat necks and prominent paunches. They have realized that they have to work to keep the genre alive—often against a background of weariness revealed through a lack of verve and imagination. Furthermore, they see worrying problems taking shape on their horizons. The first problem, outlined in chapter 1 of this volume, is that the economic recession has made all of their clients, rich and poor, more cautious with their money. The second, just when hardly anyone was expecting it, is that some of the most notorious underworld figures (and patrons of manele) have ended up in prison. The manea musicians who sing their praises have hurried to admonish their “subjects” who have forgotten the respect that they owe them: Îşi face de cap lumea; a uitat teroarea mea. Dar revine barosanu’, Şi am să le tai elanu’.7

People are following their own whims; They forget how scary I [underworld “boss”] am. But the boss [I] will come back and take the wind out of their sails.

This song was heard in one of the houses belonging to the underworld boss Sile Cămătaru while he was temporarily absent in prison. Even the majority of crooks still at large have begun to be afraid of the public prosecutor such that their appetite for ostentatious displays of wealth and televised parties has waned. The musicians have been forced to acknowledge that the client base from which they make their living has diminished significantly. In order not to scare away their remaining loyal customers, they have agreed, by some obscure means, to replace the word şmecher [wiseguy] in

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their songs with other, less legally pernicious terms. Thus, a recent manea by Florin Salam, Saint Tropez (2013), filmed and posted to the Internet in various versions, has a preamble in which he declares: Urmează cea mai specială melodie pentru toţi barosanii României de la al vostru Florin Salam, mai nou Briliantu’ României, pentru toti magnaţii care ştiu să-şi facă viaţa. Respect maxim pentru ei! 8 [What follows is the most special melody for all the “bosses” [barosani] in Romania from your own Florin Salam, lately the Shining Star of Romania, for all the “tycoons” [magnaţi] who know how to live the high life. Maximum respect to them!]

But Salam breathes not a word about how the “bosses” and “big shots” come to be “living the high life.”9 The third problem is that the newspapers and television stations refer ever more frequently to “methods that must be found to tax the income of the manelişti.”10 The threat of tax investigations is nothing new in itself nor does it seem so far to be about to take effect any time soon since the musicians still have ways to avoid it. But nobody really knows, so they are all taking at least a little more care. In other words, “cowboy capitalism,” which gave birth to the underworld bosses in the first place, granting them the confidence to believe that they were a law unto themselves and encouraging them to make manele their signature tunes, has suffered some setbacks in Romania. Against such an uncertain background, some of the top manea musicians are anxious about retaining the lifestyle that they have become accustomed to. They can either turn to more modestly placed patrons (e.g., lesser Romanian bigshots—the second rank, so to speak) or, as some small-time musicians have done, to the young listeners with no money in their pockets. Should they make do with the rich Romani clients who still show off in front of the world at large and have no fear of the justice system? Should they try to attract a new public? Should they perhaps aim, as they have been trying in recent years, for older audiences (who do not care one way or another about manele) and offer them music to suit their tastes? Should they temper the verbal and visual aggression of their songs and turn down the decibels? (Some performers have chosen these last two solutions.) For the time being, one precaution taken by those concerned has been to write lyrics that are far more circumspect about how they approach the nexus of “wiseguys” and their big money, power, and prestige. For example: Am aşa mulţi bani de parcă aş fi spart vreo mare bancă. Auzi ce vorbesc duşmanii: că pe mine mă plac banii . . .11

I’ve got so much money that it’s like I’ve broken into a big bank. Listen to what my enemies say: [they say] that I like money . . .

This is as far as Florin Salam is willing to go in a manea posted to the Internet in 2013; but he resists the temptation to describe just where this money comes from as perhaps he would have done until quite recently (incidentally, this song has not been well received by the Internet commentators).



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The simplest way to avoid any possible unpleasantness is to take refuge in the erotic subgenre of manele that in any case has always formed a large part of the repertoire. With much enthusiasm but shoddy delivery the manelişti dress up the theme of love with lyrics that heavily feature the moon, sun, stars, flowers, tears, and other banal, formulaic romantic tropes, sung with great feeling: Cere-mi tot ce vrea inima ta; te iubesc, te ador, eşti viaţa mea. Cere-mi tot ce vrei, şi îţi voi da; ne iubim, eşti al meu, sunt doar a ta.12

Ask me whatever your heart desires; I love you, I adore you, you are my life. Ask me whatever you want, and I’ll give it to you; I love you, you are mine, I am yours alone.

Some performers have even decided that it is not worth working too hard at the lyrics since people hardly listen to them, catching perhaps only a word here and there. I have tried to understand what the exact musical modifications are that the performers in this genre employ in order to breathe new life into their songs and prolong their careers. To this end, I have made the rounds of the Bucharest clubs and venues together with Margaret Beissinger and Anca Giurchescu and have spent quite some time on the Internet. The situation is chaotic everywhere. Some performers evidently do nothing to change and are content to repeat their own old material or that of others (and their success flags in proportion to their capacity to adjust). Others seem to break new ground by playing to their own strengths—which are, of course, different from case to case. Many of them, redoubtable users of the Internet, avail themselves more freely than ever before of hits by big Western pop stars, appropriating them (without shame) and rearranging them. Yet others make sure that they have a second repertoire in reserve—for example, traditional muzică lăutărească [lăutar music], etno, songs resembling romanţe that are sung in a blues rhythm, or other music—in case manele go completely out of fashion. Such is the case with Adi de la Vîlcea, who in 2014 turned to blues and rock (“my other face,” as he put it), apparently stating that he will never turn to manele again.13 It is difficult to identify accurately the changes that performers make. Perhaps the most important of them bears upon vocal and instrumental timbres that then lose their signature qualities. Another change consists of a decrease of “Oriental” ornamentation, while another concerns the distinctive amphibrach-spondee rhythm that becomes obscured within a range of other variations. Furthermore, sometimes the architectonic forms are curtailed and standardized (see Adorno 1941). Paradoxically, although the sources of melodic, harmonic, and timbral inspiration have multiplied significantly and have become accessible to everyone, ordinary manelişti increasingly produce pieces that adopt the schematic stylistic framework of the 1980s or, alternatively, that resemble commonplace pop songs. Such changes of direction are not, in fact, new having already been floating around in the diverse, prolific, and many-faceted universe that manele occupy.

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But now they take shape more deliberately. Taken together, some point toward a certain distancing from the Balkan-Mediterranean sound world. The manea performer Denisa can still sing: Ăsta e sistemul, cu cel mai nou balans, sistemul din Balcani: pentru toţi care nu ţin cont la bani; sistemul din Balcani: pentru şmecheri şi pentru barosani.14

This is the system, the latest thing, the Balkan system: for all those who never count their pennies; the Balkan system: for the wiseguys and for the bosses.

But Denisa sings alone, with no male vocalist alongside her and no instrumental accompanist from south of the Danube as might have been the case a few years ago when “Balkan” manele were sometimes produced through the direct cooperation of Romanian musicians with those from Bulgaria, Turkey, and other countries of the region. Many performers these days seem less interested in “Orientalism” since their attention has shifted instead to Western forms of music and to other musical genres from the further corners of the world: hip hop, reggae, jazz, disco, electro, house, Latino, samba, rumba . . . Manea performers take one or another direction mentioned above or even several at once depending on their own professional abilities but also on how they imagine the future of the genre. Or, as some would say, perhaps they refuse to change and opt instead to languish. One could argue that manele today are at an impasse and that one of the most accessible escapes from a dead end entails switching over to clichéd and easily imitated forms of popular music (indeed small-time performers and musicians—those who play at rural weddings, second-rate television shows, and modest restaurants and clubs—have typically produced clichéd manele, stylistically similar either to pop or folclor). One could alternatively argue that manele at the present time are not so much at a standoff as on a downward wave that is bound, eventually, to rise up again. Manele in 2016 are admittedly not as ubiquitous and wildly popular as they were ten and fifteen years ago, but the story of manele is by no means over yet. The example of arabesk in Turkey is instructive: “always ‘yesterday’s news,’ always disappearing, yet decades on from the 1970s, still present as a threat, a disturbance, a polluting current, still evoked by the elites as the problem with popular culture and the popular classes.”15 One gains a useful perspective in viewing such waves of trend and taste within a broader historical frame. Indeed the relative Westernization of manea performances at this moment in time reflects Romania’s integration into the European Union (2007), albeit with a certain delay since one point on the country’s uncommonly eventful politico-economic trajectory—the transition that began in 1989—is still not complete. Until 1990, Romanians had very few chances to travel the world; the communist state kept its citizens on a tight leash. After the events of 1989, the only



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capitalist state that Romanians could visit straightaway was Turkey, which imposed no visa regulations for entry across its borders. There then followed a period of more than a decade in which an enormous number of Romanians, from cities and villages, went to Turkey. On their return they sold or gave away inexpensive items obtained there that at that time were still not available in Romania. This included tapes of Turkish and Arabic music that Romanians felt to be both wonderfully novel and, at the same time, familiar. This Turkish and Arabic music met and mingled with the Romani manele and the styles that Romani lăutari had purportedly borrowed from Turkish performers in the Dobruja region to create a hybrid music known at the time as “Oriental”—or sometimes as “Turkish,” “Arab,” or “Gypsy” (S. Rădulescu 2000; Beissinger 2007). “Oriental” music swept the country. By the year 2000, a branch of this larger generic style had differentiated itself and become today’s manele. Over time, it increasingly absorbed musical elements from the Balkans and the Near East and later from the West and the rest of the world and refashioned itself and diversified, depending on which public it was targeting. Let us also go back to the 1990s when the lyrics of manele were a valve for the unrestricted gush of vulgarity and sexual content that communist censorship had so long and viciously repressed. A little later the cruder tendencies of these lyrics were reined in although the verses have typically—with one exception that I will mention shortly—been poor creations when seen as poetry regardless of the aesthetic criteria we may use to judge them. Between the mid and late 1990s, the wealthy parvenus adopted manele as their signature genre. Lăutari who had become “manelişti” hurried to offer them their services. But they did not forget the marginalized teenage and youth market; although poor, there were enough of these customers to be worth taken seriously. Nor indeed did they forget the Romanian emigrants in the West; the manele specially written for this market have lyrics that are very often simple, sincere, and heartfelt: Am visat frumos aseară; se făcea că sunt la mine-n ţară, c-aveam bani şi eu eram acasă şi stăteam lângă ai mei la masă.16

I had a lovely dream last night; I thought I was back in my own country, that I had money and was at home and was sitting with my loved ones at the table.

After 2002, and especially after 2007 (when Romania entered the European Union), West European countries allowed Romanians to enter without a visa. This led to a massively intensified circulation of people and goods, including cultural products, such as had already begun in other forms and on a lesser scale in the 1990s but now spread far beyond the borders of the Balkans. Today, more than 3.5 million Romanians, most of them from the countryside, work in Western Europe for shorter or longer periods. They periodically come back to their home country where they spread new ideas and models of European culture. For those who have

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stayed at home, the West, as a place where life is “better” and “more civilized” even during periods of global economic crisis, has gradually become far more interesting than the East. Conversely, for the Romanians in the West, everything from “home” is more beloved and precious by comparison with their new surroundings in a foreign country. Thus, they still remain fonder of manele than of the modern pop music they hear all around. Over time, Romania’s “cowboy capitalism” slowly became capitalism pure and simple, with all the many imperfections that Romanians had already had the chance to get to know. Romanian society as a whole became relatively more stable, the justice system began to work more efficiently, and a life of crime became somewhat riskier for those who chose it. The “wiseguys” of the transition economy are more hesitant about putting their wealth on display and playing their signature genre quite as brazenly as they once did. This is the moment at which the Westernization of manele and their downturn became apparent. Manele are still markedly popular with the poor and less-educated inhabitants of villages and suburbs (many with a majority Romani population), some of whom have found no legal means to profit by their European citizenship but act as they see fit to gain the maximum advantage from it nonetheless.17 Manele have thus withdrawn to those social circles where, a few decades ago, their ascendancy began. Not all ethnic Romanians have abandoned the genre however; nevertheless, some of them consider that the manele of today are a far cry from what they were twenty years ago. And so it happens that they have invented the concept of “old-time manele” [manele vechi], an umbrella term that encompasses the hits of their youth: Şaraiman, Cenuşăreasa, Prinţişorul, Maneaua florăreselor. . . . Taking their cue from this retro tendency, lăutari now include these songs in the sets that they play at parties, thus turning them into “evergreens.”18 By contrast, like pop music everywhere, most new manele will not last. Popular culture has always been this way: individual manele are composed and exist today, to be replaced tomorrow by others, which in turn will also disappear the day after that. They are and always have been ephemeral, like all consumer goods, “prêts a porter, prêts a jeter,” but not any less seductive at the moment of their comsunption nor any less dispensible as popular artifacts in the larger sweep of cultural history. And if manele were to vanish entirely, what would be left behind? For one thing, a noticeable inclination among vernacular musicians for hybrid musical forms. For another, certain distinctive vocal and instrumental timbres, some of which have made their way, more or less faithfully, into the musical cultures of the Balkans. Moreover, a few rather daring harmonizations that test the limits of tonality, and a number of melismatic formulas of which the traditional lăutari know a great many but which they have recently been employing less often. For when we look closer at performances by ordinary urban lăutari, we realize that their music has already shown many of these same signs of accommodation and transformation for some time now (I would even go so far as to say that if manele had never been heard in the Romanian soundscape, the music of the lăutari would not sound much different



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from how it does today). As for dance, a few undulant moves with sexual overtones, unlike those of the ordinary Romanian “folk” dances, would remain. The imagination was unleashed and old inhibitions were cast aside; the restraints once imposed by folk dance on the one hand and by stage performance traditions on the other in the name of strictly policed decency fell by the wayside. Manele and the whole aura of events, gestures, postures, and behavior that goes with the genre persuaded Romanians to accept unreservedly the intrusion of “foreign” elements into their music. They won the right to enjoy whatever kind of music and dance they wished rather than what was imposed by the state controlled media. In the final analysis, manele gave Romanians the feeling that they were no longer a mass of isolated, insignificant people but rather citizens of the global village. The “mission” of manele has been fulfilled; some would argue that now they can pass on. But even if they were to pass, the name, which seems to be more resilient than we supposed when we started this research, would remain. In the past, the term manea was used for virtually all music with an “Oriental” flavor; at the present moment it is applied to practically anything played by musicians who are manelişti. This is, of course, not the first time in history when the name has persisted even when the reality to which it refers has evolved or become uncertain.19 Its persistence is significant since, in my opinion, it underscores the deep connection between Romanian popular culture and that of the rest of the Balkan-Mediterranean world, a connection that can be expressed at any time in the potential forms of music, dance, and behavior. Therefore, any estrangement from the Balkan-Mediterranean musical world can be neither complete nor definitive. It cannot be complete because the music of ordinary inhabitants of Romania, be they Romanian, Romani, Greek, Bulgarian, Serb, Ukrainian, Armenian, or even the Hungarian and German citizens of the country, share much in common with Balkan and Middle Eastern musics: the vocal and instrumental timbres, the musical scales, the melodies and melodic formulas, the rhythmical systems and formulas, and the approaches to musical tempo. All of these are engraved into Romanian village music and are especially present in the most solid and enduring musical corpus—one that cannot easily be uprooted: the repertoire of the peasants. Admittedly, peasants are a social class in decline and no longer make music to the same extent that they used to. Nevertheless, their music has “migrated through processes of urbanization and centralization from the provinces to the center” (Bohlman 2011:74); it has been modernized in all kinds of ways and perpetuated by city dwellers in new forms that do not decisively change its identity. It will probably persist for a long time to come, even under conditions less favorable to its survival. Any estrangement can also not be definitive: the last five centuries have shown that Balkan and Middle Eastern musical culture can (unexpectedly) flood Romanian popular culture with waves of renewal and inspiration. These waves emerged as conservative reactions rejecting the Europeanist or “autochthonist” waves brought about by social-political events and the significant ideologies of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: the reunification of the Danubian Principalities and their

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transformation into a kingdom (1859 and 1881, respectively), full independence from the Ottoman Empire (1878), the nationalism associated with Romanian state- and nation-building, and the country’s orientation toward the West (from the mid-nineteenth to the mid-twentieth centuries); and after World War II, the installation of communism (from 1944) and the aggressive nationalism cultivated and induced by that “new” regime (from 1963 to 198920; and finally, the failed attempts to reconstruct the Romanian state along EU guidelines (after 1989 and especially since 2007). At this time in Romania’s history, “Occidental” waves are seemingly on the ascent as “Oriental” waves appear to be receding. But while the “Eastern” whitecaps may ebb under the pressure of the prevailing “Western” breakers, they are far from disappearing. In the future, political, economic, social, or cultural events as yet unimagined may perhaps awaken the “Oriental” waves to return with fuller force to the shores of Romania. The First World War would doubtless have taken place even without the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. The Communist regime in Romania would have been overthrown whether or not the Soviet secret services and European media had incited the people to fight the Ceauşescu dictatorship. And the musical tastes of the masses in Romanian society most likely would have shifted toward southeastern Europe and may well continue to do so, who knows when or how, even without any apparent cause, but rather for deep and indestructible reasons: geopolitical proximity and a political and cultural history that is largely shared.

NOTES 1.  Florin Salam is currently the biggest manea star. 2.  A wedding of this sort was organized in August 2013 on a street in Ploieşti. The couple’s relatives had set up tables, tents, and speakers in the parking lot of an apartment block. The police arrived immediately after the beginning of the “concert,” and because they could not come to an agreement with the lăutari and those in charge of the wedding, they opened a criminal file on them (adev.ro/ms8ov9, accessed 30 August 2013). 3.  A musician from the mountain village of Dămuc on the border between Transylvania and Moldavia recently gave us a neat, punchy definition of etno music: “folklore music with a disco beat” (May 2013). (By “folklore,” he meant the folk music broadcast on all the media but especially television.) 4.  At present most Romanians are in an aggressive mood, at least latently. They have many reasons to feel upset about society today and have not yet found a democratic way to express their discontent. 5.  The course, “The Manea in the Romanian Public Debates on Transition, Democracy, the Romani Minority, and the Reconstruction of National Identity,” was taught from March to May 2011; it was financed by the Erste Stiftung, Vienna, through the PATTERNS Lectures program and implemented by World University Service (WUS) Austria. 6. The manea singer Florin Salam was Iuliana Marciuc’s guest in the Tuesday edition of the show Destine ca-n filme [Destinies like in the movies] on TVR2, which issued a press release



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promising that “we will discover a different person from that which people believe him to be.” The presence of Florin Salam in a show on public television has been both criticized and regarded with leniency by public figures; see https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?pli=1#inbox/ 14c93faf66705526, accessed 10 April 2015. 7. See adevarul.ro/news/bucuresti/lumea-interlopa-pusa-jar-sile-camataru-isi-ameninta -dusmanii-manelisti-1_50be01f37c42d5a663d1c0b2/index.html), accessed 18 June 2013. 8.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tXO2QtjixaM, accessed 18 June 2013. 9.  As it happens, the song in question is a cover of a chalga by the Bulgarian musician Martin Biolchev (performed by Azis) and has been posted on the Internet in a very professionally produced clip. In one version, Salam is filmed at a high-society party where no one gives baksheesh or throws money around, there are no obvious crooks or vulgar gestures, the beautiful women wear low-backed dresses with plunging necklines, the gentlemen wear smoking jackets, and the champagne glasses are proffered graciously in a ballroom decorated with exotic plants (see example 4.30; see also note 8). 10.  See www.ziare.com/articole/manelisti+impozite, accessed 21 June 2013. 11.  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMfR7Oh7IOI, accessed 22 June 2013. 12. Sung by Denisa; see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tpbw76x72fM, accessed 9 January 2016; see also note 10. 13.  See www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXDJH1ASaU8 , accessed 29 January 2015. 14.  See www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHm741uo9gU, accessed 19 June 2013. 15.  Stokes personal communication, 10 February 2016. 16.  See www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3QeNslVYBg, accessed 17 June 2013. 17. Today, poor Roma from such backgrounds constitute a major social problem, for which neither Romania nor the EU has found a lasting solution. 18. This is the case with the song Cenuşăreasa [Cinderella], examined in versions from 1985 and 2012 in chapter 3. 19.  This occurred in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and then again in recent decades when ordinary people have tended to call manea any kind of music that they suppose, rightly or wrongly, sounds “Oriental.” 20.  In August 1963, Nikita Khrushchev published a document in the socialist bloc known as the Valev Plan, which the USSR intended to impose before long on its subject states; it envisaged that every Comecon member country would focus on one branch of the economy. Under this plan, Romania would become the grain supplier for the whole of the Comecon and would, at the same time, abandon any kind of industrial production. The plan was published in the central newspaper România Liberă [Free Romania] and was tabled for discussion in all Party meetings at all levels. Sharp criticism of the Soviet leadership was couched in “patriotic” terms, foreshadowing the much cruder nationalism that developed from 1965 on under Nicolae Ceauşescu (see www.ro.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planul_Valev, accessed 30 June 2013).

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Chapter Three http://www.libertatea.ro/detalii/articol/adrian-minune-despre-maneaua-man-down-rihannas-a-inspirat-din-muzica-balcanica-356890.html, accessed 28 January 2014. http://antimanelero.evonet.ro/, accessed 11 August 2009. http://www.algoritma.ro/dilema/104/CezarGI.htm, accessed 2010 (not available). http://www.pagini.com/blog/2006/01/13/romania-din-caraibe/, accessed 28 January 2014. http://www.criticatac.ro/3957/cum-au-ingropat-elitele-romaniei-manelele-o-poveste-cu-coca lari/, accessed 28 January 2014. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhujpKTPb5s, accessed March 2010. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcsVnaJS3Pc, accessed April 2011.

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Index

“The Abduction from the Seraglio.” See “Răpirea din Serai” absorption, 74, 90, 91n7 academic culture, 39, 44n79 academic musicians (muzicieni), 158n7 accordion, 6, 16, 17, 21, 87, 98, 100, 112, 210, 212, 213–14, 217, 226, 233 additive formal structure, 42n44 Adi de la Vîlcea, 263 Adorno, Theodor, 253, 257, 263 Adrian (Copilul) Minune, 45, 63, 75, 109, 118, 121, 124, 134n46, 135n65, 137n93, 147, 160n32, 181, 187, 197, 213, 217, 224 adversaries, 151–52, 153, 154, 260 aesthetics, 208 African-American entertainers, 138n151 agencies, 169–70 Albanian communities, 166 album sales, 186 alcohol, 181, 193 Alecsandri, Vasile, 47, 56, 57 Alexandru, Tiberiu, 50, 52, 53, 55, 59n21 alms giving. See priveghi “Am amant şi-s măritată” (I’ve got a lover and I’m married), 195, 203n23 “Am nevastă sexy” (I’ve got a sexy wife), 127, 218, 220

“Am o casă-aşa de mare” (I have such a big house), 124, 222 “Am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă” (I’ve got a wife who’s good and lucky), 233 Amadeus, Rambo, 108 Aman Doctor, 6, 51, 54 amanes (pl. amanedes), 54–55, 56–57, 61n43, 61n50 American dance. See “dans american” amphibrach-spondee, 6, 15, 16, 21, 42n23, 50, 54, 65, 74, 81, 147, 261, 263. See also çiftetelli amplification, 87, 100, 143, 149, 160n34, 133n20, 163, 171, 177, 218, 220 Amy de la Bretèque, 44n75, 248 Anglaises, 13 anthropology, 249–50 “Anti-Manea Campaign of Romania,” 152 anti-manelism, 255 Antim Slum. See Mahalaua Antim Apărători, Gicuţă din, 163 arabesk, xvii, 14, 17, 39, 111, 264 Arabic, 48 Arabic music, 265 Arab rhythms, 41n12 Arkan (Željko Ražnatović), 104, 120, 134n32 Armeanca, Dan, 101 291

292

Index

Armenulić, Silvana, 99, 118–19, 133n10 artificial soundscapes, 220 assonance, 115 “Astă seară vreau să beau” (Tonight I want to drink), 125, 225, 228 attire, 200 audience, 90, 95, 147, 156; adversaries, 151–52, 153, 154, 260; emotions of, 166–67; ethnicity of, 148–49; fans, 148–51, 153, 154, 165, 260; intellectuals and cultural activists, 152–53, 154; manelişti, 143, 145, 146; manipulation of, 187; musicians and, 157, 168 authenticity, 226, 243n87, 256–58 Avram, Grigore, 48 Azis, 100, 127, 269n9 Babi Minune, 19–20, 38, 117, 181, 187. See also Minue, Babi; Wonder, Babi bacşiş. See tips bagabonţeşti (vagabond music), 201 “Băiatul şi fata mea” (My son and my daughter), 210, 212, 213 Bajraktarović, Zilha, 133n10 Bajramović, Šaban, 109, 135n57 Baker, Catherine, 256 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 181, 253–54 Balkan cosmopolitanism, 96 Balkan ethnopop, 95–96, 97, 100, 107, 110–14, 132. See also narrative meanings Balkan gangsta, 185 Balkan genres, xxviii Balkanism, 255–57 Balkan languages, 3 Banat, 3, 5, 16–17, 40n4, 94n49, 100, 240 baptisms, xxvi, 3, 4, 21, 26, 97, 129–30, 186, 189, 207, 215, 219–20, 259–60, 264 “Bărbate, mă păcăleşti!” (You’re cheating on me, husband!), 122 Bărbuleşti, Ştefan de la, 213, 220 Bariţiu, George, 48, 55, 57 Bârlează, Stănică, 49 barosan, 252, 254, 258 Băsescu, Traian, 33, 117

bass guitar, 80, 81, 82, 84, 112, 133n19, 224 bass viol (double bass), 6, 16, 21, 51, 87, 210, 212–14, 219, 228, 229, 242n56 Baxandall, Michael, 92n28 beauty contests, 137n92 Beissinger, Margaret, xxiii–xxiv, xxviii, xxix, 75, 89, 161n53, 240n2, 242n49, 260, 263 belly dancing, 10, 11, 13, 24, 26, 29, 30– 31, 41n16, 42n23, 43n55, 43n59, 104, 113–14. See also çengi Bercé, Yves-Marie, 180 Bešlić, Halid, 109 beste, 52–53, 55 besteler, 57 “Bezumna lyubov” (Reckless love), 121 Biolchev, Martin, 269 “blues” manele, 235 body, 255–57 body-power ideology, 251 “Bomba bombelor” (The bomb of all bombs), 172, 173, 187, 195, 232 Bonini Baraldi, Filippo, 161n55 “Both friends and enemies”. See “Şi prieteni şi duşmani” Bourdieu, Pierre, 208 Bouët, Jacques, 63 bourgeois lifestyle, 37 “The Boyar in the Helicopter,” 176–77 boyars (land owners), 5, 12, 46, 57, 181 Brăila, 86, 93n33 Brăiloiu, Constantin, 51, 93n35, 93n35, 93n37 branches, 9 Brăneanu, Pană, 50 brâu (dance), 64, 216, 238 “Brazilianca” (Brazilian girl), 118, 235 brează (dance), 43n47, 64, 91n11 Bregović, Goran, 94n49 Brena, Lepa, 99, 103, 105, 111, 118, 119 bribery, 156, 169 brothel, 181 “Brothers who love each other”. See “Fraţii care se iubesc” Buchanan, Donna, 41n7, 75, 96, 101, 104, 108, 110–11, 131, 133n15, 134n35



Index 293

Bucharest, xxiv, xxix, 6, 34, 44n78, 48–49, 50, 74, 76, 77–78, 79, 92n26, 96, 106, 117, 165, 175, 191, 194, 203n20, 205, 206, 207, 209, 212, 232, 214–28, 230–31, 233–35, 238–40, 241nn8–9, 248, 256, 259–61 Bucşan, Andrei, 13 Bugeanu, Petrică, 51 Bulgaria, 6, 8, 10, 26, 93n44, 96, 99, 116, 130–32, 132n1, 133n14, 134n33, 250 Bulgarians, 76, 247, 248, 256 Burada, Teodor T., 48–49, 53, 55–56, 57, 59n13 Buricea, Costică, 191 Bursuc, Dan, 22, 74–75, 89, 107, 135n50 Butler, Judith, 226 Buzău, 84 Byzantine chant, 58n10 Byzantine notation, 50, 55, 59n23, 61n45 “Ca boierii ăia mari” (Like those great boyars), 235, 238 cadânească (odalisque dance), 13 café concert, 140, 158n6 café manes singers, 61n43 “The call”. See “Poziv” Cămătaru, Sile, 261 Cămătaru brothers, 198 “Când am bani eu dau la toţi” (When I have money, I hand it all around), 193 Candoi, Gică, 211, 241n23 Cântarea României, 254 cântece de petrecere (party songs), 65, 73, 80, 91n8 cântece lăutăreşti (lăutar songs), 91n8, 125, 126, 129, 130, 135n140, 150 cântece orientale, 212–14 Cantemir, Dimitrie, 45–46, 52, 53, 58n5 capitalism, xxvii, 8, 165, 250, 262, 266 “Cap şi pajură” (Heads and tails), 198 Caracal, Oniță de la, 195 Caragiale, I.L., 47, 56, 57, 58n6 carnival, xxix, 167, 180–82 carnivalesque, 252–55 cassette culture, 101 Catanga, Cornelia, 226, 244n91 CDs, 22, 160n39, 227–28

“Ce frumoasă e dragostea” [How wonderful love is], 111, 118 Ceauşescu, Nicolae, xxvi, 99, 268, 269n20 Ceca. See Veličković, Svetlana (“Ceca”) Çelebi, Evliya, 58n4 çengi, 10–11, 12, 13 censorship, xxiv, 265 census, 93n33, xxxin3 “Cenuşăreasa” (Cinderella), xviii, 65, 66–67, 80–86, 92n31, 93n37, 93n39, 177–78, 184n23, 210, 266 Cercel, Ionuţ. See Earring, Ionuţ Cercel, Petrică. See Earring, Petrică Cesereanu, Ruxandra, 254 chalga, xvii, xxiv, 8, 14, 22, 39, 95, 96, 97, 100, 101, 247, 249, 253, 256; appearance of singers in, 137n93; culture and, 249; as entertainment, 117; gender and, 109, 135n67; identity of, 105, 131; improvisation in, 112; industry, 105; lipsynching in, 105–6, 134n42; lyrics of, 121; mainstream, 116; in media, 107; men and, 123; music videos, 137n100; non-mainstream, 135n60; public contempt for, 105, 134n39; rhythms of, 136n70; Serbian ethnopop and, 104; sexuality and, 113; stars of, 105–6; styles of, 104, 106, 110, 134n33; terminology of, 108, 135nn53–54. See also narrative meanings “chef ”, 124–25 “Chef de chef ” (Time to party), 124–25 “Chef la şmecheri” (The wiseguys’ party), 201 children, 121, 122, 129–30, 138n121, 138n148, 190, 213, 225, 229 chindie, 53 christenings, 163 Christian Orthodoxy, 3 chromaticism, 16 church melodies, 48 church music, 55 çiftetelli, 6, 9, 10, 13, 41n12, 41n16, 42n23, 58, 106, 111, 131, 136n70, 207–8, 212–13, 220, 235 cimbalom, 6, 16, 17, 21, 87, 210, 212–14, 217–19, 229

294

Index

“Cinderella”. See “Cenuşăreasa” “Cine-i mare barosan?” (Who’s the big boss?), 125, 167–68 Cinoi family, 160n43 Cîntarea României, 254 Ciobanu, Gheorghe, 49, 52, 53, 59n17 circle dance, 12, 242n48 circulation, 36, 38 civilization, 255 clarinet, 6, 17, 87–88, 100, 112, 217 class, 1, 3, 39, 123–24, 182, 206, 208, 215, 222, 227, 228, 231, 232, 239, 267 Claudia, 35, 109, 111, 175–76, 244n92 Clejani, 5, 7, 13, 51, 60n26, 150, 161n45, 210, 241 CNA. See National Audiovisual Council of Romania cobză, 61n48 čoček, 42n29, 113 color range, 9 “Come for a Ride, Girl” (Hai, gagico, la plimbare), 175–76 coming-of-age ceremonies, 186, 189 commission, for songs, 194–97 commodification, 36, 146, 156 communication, 27–28, 248, 255 communism, xxiv, xxxin2, 24, 28, 37, 76, 78, 95–99, 101, 102, 106, 130, 132n1, 133n14, 134n33, 157n2, 158n3, 165, 184, 209, 210–12, 264; circulation and, 38; collapse of, xxv, 3, 219, 250, 254; dismantling of, 115; ideology of, 38–39; post-communism, 115–16 competitions, 30–31 composers, 139–40, 153 composition, xxvi–xxviii, 22–23, 43n49, 94n49 computers, 16n9, 216, 230, 240, 244n105 concerts, 30–31 Constantin, Vasile, 51 Constantinople, xxvii, 4, 13, 40n3, 48–49, 53, 56, 61n50 contracts, 141, 144, 158nn15–17 contrapuntal order, 92n16 “Copiii mei” (My children), 129–30 copyright, 22 Corbu, Stănel, 191

corruption, xxvi, 8, 39, 103, 116, 137n100, 152, 155 Cosma, Viorel, 52–53, 58n5 cosmopolitanism, 157 Crăcănatu, Titel, 191 Craven, Lady, 42n20 creative process, 22–23, 43n49 crime, 104, 107, 116, 125, 134n32, 190 Cristi Nucă, 178, 184n24. See also Nut, Cristi Croatia, 96, 133n27, 256 cultural activists, 152–53 cultural production, 102 cultural shock, 255 culture, 209; academic, 39, 44n79; cassette, 101; chalga and, 249; dance and, 10; European, 265–66; family and, 121; forbidden, 101; globalization and, xxx, 4; Greek, 12; militant and criminal culture in turbo-folk, 103, 104, 134n32; Ottoman, 12; popular, 253, 264; Romanian, 58; traditional, 207; urban and rural, xxix; village culture, 216 daily conversation, 182 Dămuc, 268n3 dance, 5, 8, 41n15; Anglaises, 13; Balkan ethnopop and, 113–14; belly dancing, 10, 29, 41n16, 43n59, 104, 113–14; brează, 43n47, 91n11; cadânească, 13; çengi, 10–11, 12, 13; çiftetelli, 10, 42n23; circle, 12, 242n48; čoček, 42n29, 113; codified meanings of, 26; communication and, 27–28; culture and, 10; earliest documentary evidence of, 13; ethnic, 13; folk, 12–13; formalization of, 25; Françaises, 13; Gypsy, 25–26; horă, 23–24, 26, 40, 235–36; identity and, 14; improvisation, 26; Islam and, 11; köçek, 10–11, 13, 14, 23–24, 26; Lady Craven on, 42n20; line, 242n48; in Măceşu de Jos, 50; mahala, 14; models of, 25–26; music and, 27–28; Occidentalized, 26; open form, 25; Orientalized, 25–26; Orientalstyle, 13–14, 42n28; peasant, 25–26, 27; pe manele, 27–28, 36, 43n55; Polonaises,



Index 295

13; polymorphic character of, 27–28; repertoire, 207, 216, 260; Roma, 12–13, 26; Romani style of, 24; roots of, 10; sârbă, 26, 52, 60n41, 235; sexuality and, 11, 24, 26, 36, 126, 267; state of, 27; stereotyped movements, 25; traditional, 242n48; of turbo-folk, 113; Turkish music and, 13; ungurică, 43n47, 91n11; waltz, 13; weddings, 13, 26, 29–30, 42n29, 216–17, 219, 231–32, 235; women and, 14, 36, 260; young people and, 260 dancers, 36 “dans american” (American dance), 232 danţ, 63 Danube River, 1, 3, 5, 13, 28, 50, 80, 87, 90, 100, 127, 150, 247, 264 Danubian principalities, 56–58, 61n47 Danutsi (Taxes), 116 Darwinism, 251 Dassin, Joe, 75 “Dead sea”. See “Mrtvo More” debauchery, 152, 256 decapentasyllabic meter, 47, 53, 61n50 “De cine mi-e mie dor?” (Who do I long for?), 225 de cingerit (dance), 17, 24 De la prima mea vedere (From the first time I saw you), 101 decline, 248 dedications, 123–24, 126–27, 154–55, 160n33, 170, 178–81, 183n10, 186–88, 194–99, 202, 219, 225, 228–29, 234, 235, 259, 260, 264; lyrics and, 199; from manelişti, 146, 160n33; money from, 186–87, 193; rural, 208–9; urban, 208–9; wealth and, 229, 236–37 def, 11 Dem, Ioanne, 48 Denisa, 35, 109, 244n92, 264 Dentith, Simon, 174 Deoancă, Adrian, 186 desire, 250–51 development, xxviii, 1 discos, 14, 41n15, 149, 208, 215, 238, 247 disco music, 15, 26, 103–4, 113, 249, 259, 260, 264, 268n3

discrimination, 132n2 dishonesty, 130 dissemination process, 36 diversity, 75–76 DJ Shantel, 185 Dobruja, 6, 13, 42n24, 52, 54, 57, 59n20, 265 doine, 40 “Dokaz” (Evidence), 120 dominant, 18 double bass, 87 Drăghici, Marius, 230–31, 233–34, 236– 38, 240 drugs, 146, 201, 203n20 drums, 87, 183n12, 212 Drumul Taberei, 220 Dunin, Elsie Ivancich, 42n2 duşman (enemy), 124, 182 “Duşmanii îmi poartă pica” (My enemies envy me), 126 düyek, 50, 55, 58 dynamics, 8, 21–22 Earring, Ionuţ (Ionuţ Cercel), 22, 129, 181 Earring, Petrică (Petrică Cercel), 129–30, 181 echo, 171, 220 economy, 185, 188–89, 193, 207, 266 education, 164, 165 effects, 172, 183n14 Efterpi (Ευτέρπη), 50, 55, 61, 61n44, 61n46 elderly, 149–50, 214 electric amplification, 133n20 electric guitar, 98, 100, 112, 123, 177, 217, 220 electric violin, 16, 21, 87, 112, 224, 228, 231, 238 electronic sound processing, 233, 236, 238 elite, 39, 165–66, 215, 239, 247, 256, 258 Emilia, 121 emotions, xvii, 166–82, 187, 256 enchantment, 166–67, 188 enemies, 124–26, 128, 129, 130, 138n140, 157 ensembles, 130 ergo manelişti, 254

296

Index

escapism, 127, 258 ethnic dances, 13 ethnic groups, 76, 78 ethnicity, xxviii, 96, 97, 131, 206, 226, 228, 239; of audience, 148–49; instruments and, 227; of lăutari, 141; of manelişti, 144, 255; of singers, 109–10 ethnologists, 4 ethnopop, xvii, xxiii, 75, 132n1; Balkan, 95–96, 97, 100, 107, 110–14, 132; genres, xxviii, 101–7; “Oriental,” 95, 97; Serbian, 104; terminology, 107–8. See also narrative meanings etno, 15, 42n36, 260, 263, 268n3 etymology, 41n6, 45 “Eu sunt bun dar şi nebun” (I’m a good guy, but don’t make me mad), 189 European dress, 13 Europeanization, 256 European Union, xxvi, 115, 117, 230, 260, 264, 265 “Eu sunt mare gagicar” (I’m a great ladies’ man), 127, 138n146 “Făi nevastă, făi muiere!” (Hey wife, hey woman!), 214 fairy tales, 86 fame, power and, 169 family, 32, 34, 36, 42n29, 95, 99, 114, 120, 121, 128–30, 138n148, 143, 148, 158n12, 185, 190, 193–95, 201, 209, 212, 213, 215–16, 219, 259 fans, 148–51, 153, 154, 165, 260 “Fata mea” (My daughter), 235 fathers, 36, 64, 74, 97, 129, 149, 150, 158n12, 181, 227, 232, 240n2 feasts, xxix, 180–82 Felix, 168–69, 177 Feraru, Nicolae, 229 Ferdinand, Franz, 268 Ferentari, xxix, 78, 194, 203n20, 260 fertility, 245n127 Filimon, Nicolae, 52 financing, 139–40, 157n1, 158n3 first appearance in print, 1 fixed tuning, 94n48 Florăresele (The flower girls), 213

Florin Fermecătorul. See Florin Salam Florin Fish. See Florin Peşte Florin Peşte, 175–76, 181. See also Florin Fish Florin Purice, 198, 204n39 Florin Salam, 16, 37, 106, 111–12, 118, 125–27, 128, 135n47, 135n65, 147, 176–77, 181, 184n15, 184n26, 186–87, 190, 197, 199–200, 229, 231, 235, 236–37, 238, 239n9, 262; live footage of, 190; music videos of, 37; style of, 233–34; on television, 269n6 “The Flower girls”. See “Florăresele” The Flower girls’ manea. See “Maneaua florăreselor” folclor, 140, 157n2, 264 folk dance, 12–13 folklore, 151, 152, 157n1, 254, 268n3 folklorism, 23, 28, 37 “Forget”. See “Zabravi!” forms, diversity of, xxvii Françaises, 13 France, 180 “Frate, frate” (Brother, brother), 210 “Fraţi adevăraţi” (True brothers), 129 “Fraţii care se iubesc” (Brothers who love each other), 129 freedom, 165, 180 free market, 182 free rhythm, 5, 21, 54, 60n38, 84, 111, 136n77 French Revolution, 180, 255–56 funerals, 4, 29–30 fusion, 98 Galaţi, 152 Gambetta, Diego, 190, 200 Gane, Nicolae, 47, 56, 57, 61n48–49, 242n28 gangsta rap, 185, 200–201 gangsters, 189, 190, 192–93, 200 “Garda de fier” (Iron Guard), 200 Garfias, Robert, 6, 45, 106, 210 gazel, 54, 61n43 Geambaşu, Costel, 84, 86, 133n224, 177, 184n23, 210 Gell, Alfred, 188



Index 297

gender, 95–96, 97, 130; chalga and, 109, 135n67; instruments and, 226, 243n90; of lăutari, 141, 158n9; lyrics and, 117–18, 238; NKNM and, 109; power and, 117, 127–28; roles, 115, 131, 226; sexuality and, 244n93; of singers, 109– 10, 135n67; turbo-folk and, 110, 120, 122–23, 135n67; of vocalists, xxviii, 109–10, 135n67 Generalul, Amar, 196 generational divisions, xxvi, 8, 163, 182, 211, 214–15, 217, 238, 239–40 genres, 15, 205, 216, 223, 259, 264 Ghică, Ion, 52 gigs, money from, 186–87 Gicuţă din Apărători, 163, 167 Giurchescu, Anca, xxiii, xxvii, 6, 161, 210, 235, 241n15, 263 glamour, crime and, 134n32 globalization, xxvi, xxx, 4, 39, 94n52 Gloria, 108, 109, 112, 121, 123 good manners, 255 Gordy, Eric, 102, 134n29 Gorj, 87 grammar, 164 Gramophon Record Company, 51 Greater Romania Party, 117 Greek culture, 12 Greek music, 1, 2, 80, 93n34 Grujić, Marija, 110, 116, 122, 132n9, 133n13 guitar, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 87, 112, 214 Guţă, Nicolae, 106, 122, 125, 129, 186, 187, 196, 225, 253 Gypsies, 159n24 “Gypsy,” xxiv–xxv, 40, 43n59, 107, 153 Gypsy dance, 25–26 “Hai, gagico, la plimbare” (Come for a ride, girl), 175–76 “Hajde da se volimo” (Let’s fall in love), 118 “Half you, half me”. See “Jumătate tu, jumătate eu” harems, 11 harmonic functions, 18 haromonizations, 266 hatred, 37

“Heads and tails”. See “Cap şi pajură” Helbig, Adriana, 159n24 Heliade-Rădulescu, Ion, 47, 61n50 heroin trafficking, 203n20 heterogenization, 74–76, 90, 91n13, 179 “Hey wife, hey woman!”. See “Făi nevastă, făi muiere!” hip-hop, 15, 113, 134n28, 182, 200, 248, 249, 253, 264 “His love, his kidney,” 179 historic origins, 4, 40n2 history, 45 Hollywood weddings, 145 homogeneity of musical style, 65–73 honor, 37–38, 123 horă, 23–24, 26, 40, 235–36 horă lăutărească (lăutar hora), 13, 17, 23– 24, 36, 40, 241n20–24 horă țigănească, 24 hore, 16 humor, 179–80 “Hundreds of millions”. See “Sutele de milioane” “Ia-ma, viaţa mea, în braţe” (Take me, my love, in your arms), 234 “I can’t forget you, Georgi”. See “Ne moga az da te zabravya, Georgi” “Iar am pus-o” (I’ve done it again), 111, 112, 126 iconography, 36, 176 identity, xxiv, 14, 255, xxxin3; authenticity and, 226, 243n87; of chalga, 105, 131; dance and, 14; instruments and, 228, 243n90; lyrics and, 170; music and, 240n5; regional, 141; religion and, 96; repressed, 256; Romanian, 43n69, 57; rural, 209; of turbo-folk, 131; weddings and, 216 “I don’t need life without you, my dear.” See “Šta će mi život bez tebe dragi” Ienuş, Ştefan, 64 “If you get on my nerves,” 178–79 “I have such a big house”. See “Am o casă-aşa de mare” “I like to pretend.” See “Îmi place să mă prefac”

298

Index

illegal activities, 107 “I’m a great ladies’ man”. See “Eu sunt mare gagicar” “I’m a happy father”. See “Sunt un tată fericit” imams, 48 “Îmi place să mă prefac” (I like to pretend), 126–27, 235 immorality, 164 impropriety, 150, 227 improvisation, 22, 43n48, 60n38, 136n77, 172; in Cenuşăreasa, 86; in chalga, 112; composition of, 94n49; dance, 26; Oriental, 74 “I’m so lucky”. See “Sunt plin de noroc” individualism, 23 industrialization, xxv, 115, 209 inequality, 130 influences, 90 “Inima-n mine de dor s’ăncingie” (My heart burns with longing), 50, 51 insecurity, 130 instruments, 16, 87–88, 93n44, 112, 183n12, 207, 214; class and, 227; ethnicity and, 227; gender and, 226, 243n90; identity and, 228, 243n90; sexuality and, 243n90; traditional, 208, 210, 219, 224, 228; urban, 208; weddings, 217–19; of Zaharia family, 230–31 intellectuals, 39, 44n79, 103, 139–40, 141–42, 151–53, 154, 215, 260 intelligentsia attitudes, xviii intensity, 8 intent, 179 interlopi (persons active in the underworld), 34 Internet, 4, 8, 36, 74, 79, 139, 143, 152, 155, 190, 216 Ioniţă, Costi, 109, 135n66, 251 Ionuţ Cercel, 22, 38, 119, 127, 129, 181. See also Cercel, Ionuţ; Earring, Ionuţ Iordan, Florin, 5 irony, 166, 173–82, 195 Islam, dance and, 11 I’ve got a sexy wife. See “Am nevastă sexy” “I’ve got a wife who’s good and lucky”. See “Am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă”

“I’ve got the most beautiful son”. See “Am un băiat cel mai frumos” jazz, 15, 105, 248 jealousy, 37 “Joacă manea” (Dance to the manea), 19–20 job competition, 228 journalists, 261 “Jugoslovenka” (Yugoslav woman), 111, 115 “Jumătate tu, jumătate eu” (Half you, half me), 118 kafana, 99, 104, 105, 131, 132nn8–10 Kantouniaris, Nikiforos, 60n34 keytar, 21, 43n46, 87, 93n43, 224 Khrushchev, Nikita, 269n20 kitsch, xviii, xxiv, 107, 112, 164, 174, 208 Kligman, Gail, 215–16 köçek, 10–11, 13, 14, 23–24, 25, 26 Kratimata, 58n10 Kristal, 104 krǔchma, 105, 131 krǔchmarski pevci, 105 Kuipers, Ron, 257 Kurkela, Vesa, 93n44, 110–12, 134n33, 135n54, 136n70, 137n99–100, 242 kyuchek, 60n38, 104–5, 111, 113, 133n18, 136n70 laika, 95 Lampadarios, Petros, 48 land owners. See boyars language, 3, 41n6, 61n49, 181–82 laughter, 254 lăutari, xxiv–xxv, xxvii, 14–15, 64, 131–32, 140; attacks of, 191–94; in Clejani, 51, 60n26; clients of, 141–42, 159n17; contracts of, 141, 158nn15–17; customs, 154; definition of, 164; elderly, 214; emotions of, 187; enchantment of, 166–67; ethnicity of, 141; gangsters and, 192–93; gender of, 141, 158n9; good and bad, 172; jealousy and, 37; manelişti and, 159n24; money for, 188, 191–94; occupational skills of, 240n2; old-style, 153; patrons of, 141; playlists, 142; public and, xxix; repertoire, 141, 153;



Index 299

requests, 141, 142, 159nn16–17; rural, 141; threats against, 191–94; tips, 141, 142; village, 220–23; weddings and, 268n2; young, 157 lăutar music, 28 Lăutar song, 68–73 Lazăr, Gabi, 27 Leo de la Strehaia, 194–95, 201 “Let’s fall in love”. See “Hajde da se volimo” “Levovete v marki” (Leva to marks), 111, 116 liberalism, 250 life-cycle celebration, 211, 215 lifestyle, 127 Ligné, prince of, 13, 42n21 line dance, 242n48 linguistic investigation, 50, 58n20 lip-synching, 105–6, 134n42, 155 listeners, xxviii–xxix literary sources, 46–48, 58n6 The Little Prince. See Prinţişorul Little Sorin the Kid (Sorinel Puştiu), 125, 129, 167–69, 172, 173, 176, 213 live performance, 23, 28–30, 43n73, 163, 186, 241n10, 249 Liviu Puştiu, 122 “Ljubav fatalna” (Fatal love), 116, 120, 123 “local barons,” 252 longevity, 139 “Long live the chief!”. See “Trăiască şeful!” Lortat-Jacob, Bernard, 63–64 loudness, 133n20, 171, 218 love affairs, 181 love and attraction, 117–22 lovers, 180 “Loving two women”. See “Să iubeşti două femei” loyalty, 128–29 luck, 125, 128 Lukić, Lepa, 99, 115 Lunca, Gabi, 106, 210, 213, 241n19 lust, 181 lutes, 93n44 lyrics, xvii, 31–32, 131, 164, 181–82, 253; of Cenuşăreasa, 81–85; of chalga, 121; clichéd, 95; dedications and, 199; family and, 128–29; gender and, 117–18,

238; identity and, 170; of manelişti, 143, 147; men and, 122–23, 125; metaphors in, 197–200; money and, 167–68, 238, 262; pornographic, 34; of power, 167–69, 262; quality of, 33; of Răpirea din Serai, 65; replacement of, 75; sexuality and, 6, 34, 117–18, 219, 238, 263; simplicity of, 265; sponsors within, 194–97, 201; suffering in, 33; symbolism in, 219; taboos in, 197–200; of turbo-folk, 120; understanding, 248; vulgarity of, 151, 152; weddings and, 178, 219; women and, 34, 122. See also narrative meanings Macarie, Hieromonk, 55 Macedonia, 42n29, 98, 137n92 Măceşu de Jos, 50 “Made in Romania,” 117 mafia, 105–6, 168, 190–91, 200, 201–2 Magnatu, Sorin, 195, 203n25 mahala dance, 14 “Mahala şi ţigănie” (Slum and Gypsydom), 68–73 Mahalaua Antim (Antim slum), 77 major modes, 17 makam (pl. makamlar), 17, 42, 54, 55, 111, 136n78, 177 makams hikaz, 17 makam suzinak, 55 male dominance, 117 mane, 60n38 manea turcească, 209–12 “Maneaua florăreselor” (The Flower girls’ manea), 65, 266 manele lente. See “blues” manele manele turceşti, at weddings, 213–14 manelism, 249–50, 251–54 manelişti, xxv, xxix, 15–16, 18, 34, 35, 36, 207; audience, 143, 145, 146; contracts of, 144; decline in popularity of, 147; dedications from, 146, 160n33; definition of, 142; description of typical, 143–44; drug use of, 146; ethnicity of, 144, 255; fans of, 147, 160n38; honor of, 37–38; lăutari and, 159n24; lyrics of, 143, 147; mediocre, 154; messages

300

Index

encrypted in overall discourse of, 145– 47; microtonally tuned synthesizers of, 42n41; money of, 143, 159n21; patrons of, 143, 144–45; plagiarism of, 160n32; repertoire, 143–44; sound intensity of, 145, 160m30; websites of, 147–48; weddings and, 144–46, 160nn30–31; young people and, 155 manelization, 249, 254 Mané Taxim, 49 mani (pl. maniler), 53, 58 maniler, 53 Maramureş, 87 Marinova, Sofi, 109 market economy, xxiii marriage, 78, 120–21, 122, 127. See also weddings masculinity, 124, 131, 143, 226 maturity, 81 meaning, 223 media, 79, 107, 154–55, 267 Mega chef Indian, 35 mehterhane (military brass band), 5, 10, 48, 52, 53, 59n13 melody, 89, 247–48 men, 245n127; chalga and, 123; lyrics and, 122–23, 125; macho, 35, 120, 122, 127, 131, 143; power and, 127–28; privilege and, 128; turbo-folk and, 123 Merlin, Dino, 103 metaphors, 197–200 meter, 41n16; Constantinople, 53; decapentasyllabic, 47, 53, 61n50; “Gypsy,” 43n59. See also rhythm mehterhane (Ottoman military band), 45, 53, 55, 58n4, 59n12–13 Melchisedek, Bishop, 48, 55, 57 Mesnil, Marianne, 255 Meti, Gheorghe, 63–64 microtonally tuned synthesizers, 42n41 Middle Eastern sound, 111, 205, 212 migration, 96, 209 Mihăilescu, Vintilă, xxix–xxx Mihai Viteazu Regiment 6, 51, 56 military brass band. See mehterhane Milošević regime, 102–3, 109, 250 minimum wage, 169

minor mode, 17 Minune, Adrian, 75, 118, 121, 124, 134n46, 137n93, 147, 181, 187, 213, 217, 224 Minune, Babi, 19–20, 38, 117, 187 Mirković, Dragana, 98, 103, 111, 112, 119, 133n13 Miss Piranda contest, 10, 30–31, 114 mizrahit, 39 Mladenović, Ivana, 203n25 modernity, 21, 37, 39, 57, 148, 156, 207, 214, 218, 240; loudness and, 133n20; tradition and, 215–16 modernization, 150, 161n45, 215–16 modern life, 121 Moisil, Costin, xxvii, 41 Moldova, 1\xxiv, xxxin3, xxxin4, xxxin7, 7, 8, 40n1, 40n3, 45, 46, 48, 57, 59n20, 61n41, 61n51, 75, 87, 94n49, 132n4, 159n17, 177, 183n2 money, 126, 150, 152, 181; alcohol and, 193; commissions for songs, 194–97; from dedications, 186–87, 193; display of, 194; financing, 139–40, 157n1, 158n3; friendship and, 192; from gigs, 186–87; for lăutari, 188, 191–94; lyrics and, 167–68, 238, 262; of manelişti, 143, 159n21; nouveaux riches, xxv, xxix, 31, 34, 90, 208; power and, 155–56; sharing, 124–25; urban ensembles and, 229–30; wealth, 76, 123, 169–70, 190, 229, 236–37 Moore, Allan F., 87 moral Darwinism, 251 morals, 150, 152, 165 mosques, 48 “Most wanted”. See “Urmărire generală” Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 64 Mr. Juve and Susanu, 184n18 “Mrtvo More” (Dead sea), 120 Muntenia, 8, 14, 28, 40n1, 64, 84, 87, 90, 93n40, 150, 206, 207, 210, 212, 269 Muntenian villages, 206 Muscalagiu, Păun, 51 musical notation, 74, 140; Byzantine notation, 50, 55, 59n23, 61n45; ignoring, 158n8; knowledge of, 158n4;



Index 301

rhythm, 164, 173; Western notation, 59n23 musical roots, 167 musical structure, 14; of Occidentalized music, 17–18; of Orientalized music, 17–18; peasant, 16, 18; Romanianlăutar manele, 16–17; sections, 17–18; Transylvanian-Banat manele, 17 musical style, 64 musical style, homogeneity of, 65–73 musical taste, weddings and, 149 musical warfare, 172 musicians (muzicanţi), 140–45; audience and, 157, 168; definition of, 140; intent of, 179; as occupation, 97; patrons and, 160n41; Romani, 76; stealing from other, 79, 92n18; traditional, 96 music school, 22 music videos, 37, 113–14, 116, 120, 130, 137n100, 269n9 Muslimović, Halid, 109, 123 muzică bănăţeană-sârbească, 100 muzică de petrecere. See “party music” muzică lăutărească, 14–15, 17, 32, 43n69, 65, 74, 91n9, 109, 130, 138n150, 152, 263; association with, 37–38; creation of, 159n25; violin, 94n48 muzicanţi. See musicians muzică orientală, xxiv, xxv, 41n12, 101, 106–7, 212–23, xxxn1 muzică populară, 140, 157n2 muzică sârbească, 99–101, 108 muzică uşoară (pop music), 65 muzicant (musician), 140–41, 156, 158n7– 8, 158n14 muzicieni. See academic musicians muzika popullore, 95, 132n1, 166, 248, 250 “My children”. See “Copiii mei” “My enemies envy me”. See “Duşmanii îmi poartă pica” “My princess”. See “Prinţesa mea” Naipu, 214 narcissism, 152–53 narodna muzika, 100 narrative meanings, 114; contemporary society, 115–17; family, 128–30; love

and attraction, 117–22; representations of power, 122–28 Năsturică, Vasile, 68–73 National Audiovisual Council of Romania (CNA), 154 nationalism, 102, 103, 139, 256, 268, 269n20 national musics, 141, 158n10 natural tendencies, 255–56 Negruzzi, Costache, 46, 55, 57 “Ne moga az da te zabravya, Georgi” (I can’t forget you, Georgi), 121 neofolk, 132n6, 134n29 nesting orientalisms, 107 Nettl, Bruno, 92n24 “Nevastă ca a mea” (A wife like mine), 127, 214 “Am nevastă sexy” (I’ve got a sexy wife), 218, 220 nevbetler, 53 Nicolescu, Vasile, 59n22 nightclubs, xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, 4, 8, 14, 30, 95, 103, 105–6, 113, 114n42, 130, 142, 144, 147, 149, 151, 179, 181, 186, 199–200, 202, 208, 229, 241n8, 259, 264 nikrîz, 17 NKNM. See novokomponovana narodna muzika normality, 182 nouveaux riches, xxv, xxix, 3, 31, 34, 90, 104, 114, 146, 205, 208, 231 novokomponovana narodna muzika (NKNM), xxiv, 98–100, 101, 102, 131; early songs of, 115; gender and, 109; social conflicts and, 115; terminology of, 108; timbre of, 112; turbo-folk and, 103. See also narrative meanings “Numai fratele mi-e aproape” (Only my brother is close to me), 129 Nut, Cristi. See Cristi Nucă Nuţu, Tata, 196–97, 202 oaths, 191 obscenity, 152 “Am o casă-aşa de mare” (I have such a big house), 124

302

Index

Occidentalized dance, 26 Occidentalized music, 1–2, 9, 17–18 odalisque dance. See cadânească “Od izvora dva putića” (Two roads lead from the water spring), 115 Odeon, 84, 101, 133n24, 177, 184n23 Odobescu, Alexandru Ioan, 47, 56, 57 Oişteanu, Andrei, 41n5, 45–46, 52–53, 58n1, 58n4–6, 248, 256 Oltenia, 40n1 “Am o nevastă cuminte şi norocoasă” (I’ve got a wife who’s good and lucky), 233 “Only my brother is close to me”. See “Numai fratele mi-e aproape” opera, 5 opponents, 37 oral music, 140, 156, 157 oral musical compositions, xxvii–xxviii oral transmission, 64, 85, 93n39 orgă. See synthesizers Oriental belly dancing, 10 “Oriental” ethnopop, 95, 97 Oriental improvisation, 74 Orientalism, 31, 131 “Orientalism,” 81, 264 Orientalized dance, 25–26 Orientalized music, xxvii, 1, 3, 9, 10, 17–18, 53 “Oriental” music, xxiii, 5, 8, 9, 10, 49, 53, 56, 73, 99, 101, 104, 110–13, 117, 208, 212, 223, 242n39, 265 “Oriental” ornamentation, 263 Oriental-style dance, 13–14, 42n28 ornamentation, 112, 136n81 Ottoman art music, 52, 91n8 Ottoman chamber music, 55–56 Ottoman classical music, 54, 61n43 Ottoman culture, 12 Ottoman Empire, 3, 41n6, 52, 53, 60n38, 61n47, 96, 268 Ottoman music, 5, 46, 50, 54, 57, 61n46 overall rhythm, 89 Paldum, Hanka, 103 pan-Balkan hybridity, 248–49 Pann, Anton, 45–46, 49, 52–53, 59n17, 59n24, 61n42

Papazov, Ivo, 100 parallel thirds, 171 paraphrasing, 81 parents, 138n148, 150 parody, 173–82, 254 parties, 170, 189, 190–91 “party music” (muzică de petrecere), 158n11 party songs. See cântece de petrecere patrons: of lăutari, 141; of manelişti, 143, 144–45; musicians and, 160n41. See also audience Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures (Baxandall), 92n28 Păun, Orlando, 232 Păun, Sile, 219–20, 232 peasant, 151, 252; dance, 25–26, 27; feasts, xxix, 180–82; musical structure, 16, 18; revolts, 180 pe manele, 27–28, 36, 43n55 Pennanen, Risto, 54, 228 performance spaces, 171 Perrault, Charles, 93n39 persons active in the underworld. See interlopi peşrevler, 53, 55 Petit Champs Theatre, 54–55 Petrache, Alina, 43n55 Petrache, Luminiţa, 36 Petrache, Nelu, 220, 232 Petrescu, Ioanne Dem., 48, 55, 57 Petrică Cercel, 129–30, 181. See also Earring, Petrică; Cercel, Petrică Petrovici, Emil, 50 Pettan, Svanibor, 211 Phanariot era, 40n3, 45–46, 47, 52, 53, 58n3 Phanariot Regime, 2–3, 13, 40n3, 58n5 piracy, 101, 186, 227–28 Piţigoi family, 160n43 place, xxvi, 206, 216, 222, 226, 227, 228, 231, 235, 239, 244n106, 266 “Plači zemljo” (Weep, o earth), 119 plagiarism, of manelişti, 160n32 play Aj, 175 poetics, 197–200



Index 303

poetry, 49, 53, 61n50, 107, 115, 124, 126, 265. See also lyrics political taboos, 177 politicians, 144, 154 Polonaises, 13 Popescu, Ştefanache, 61n42 Popescu-Pasărea, Ion, 49, 54, 59n17, 61n42 pop-folk, 95, 105, 108, 135n54, 136n70 pop music. See muzică uşoară popular culture, 253, 264 popularity, 207, 259 popular music, 93n44, 177, 249; foreign, 15; globalization and, 94n52; trends, xxx “Portofele portofele” (Wallet, o wallet), 184n21, 210 post-communism, 90, 97, 99, 105–6, 109, 115–16, 167, 208, 209, 210, 212, 240, 241n9, 250–52, 260, 265 poverty, 76, 125, 128, 132n2 power, 151, 188; body-power ideology, 251; emotions of, 167–82; experiencing, 172–73; fame and, 169; gender and, 117, 127–28; lyrics of, 167–69, 262; men and, 127–28; money and, 155–56; relations, 116, 124, 131; representations of, 122–28; sonic, 171; youth and, 150 “Poziv” (The Call), 120 praise poetry, 107, 124, 126 “pride ceremonies,” 252 “pride houses,” 252 primitive accumulation of desire, 250–51 primitivism, 254 “Prinţesa mea” (My princess), 121 “Prinţişorul” (The Little Prince), 65, 84, 210, 266 priveghi (alms giving), 29 privilege, 127, 128, 258 production, 36, 140 professionalism, 142 prohibition, 211 Pro Nuptia, 145, 159n28 proponents, 37 protest, 3, 28 public, xxix, 4, 152, 154, 252 pubs, 163 Puceanu, Romica, 106, 136n74, 210, 213, 241n18

“Pumnii mei minte nu are” (My fists has no brain), 253 puppet theater, 49 Purice, Florin, 198 “Pustite me da ga vidim” (Let me see him), 119–20 Puştiu, Liviu, 122 Puştiu, Sorinel, 125, 129, 167–69, 172, 173, 176, 213 rabiz, xvii, 248, 250 racism, 138n151, 153 Radio Ponos, 134n30 radio stations, 186 Rădulescu, Speranţa, xxiii, xxvii-xxviii, xxx Răgălie, Pîrvan, 52, 54, 59n21 Răileanu, Constantin, 50, 59n24 rama, 15 rap, 198, 200–201 “Răpirea din Serai” (The Abduction from Seraglio), 65 Rasmussen, Ljerka Vidić, 98–99, 103, 104, 110, 133n27 “Reckless love”. See “Bezumna lyubov” recordings, 6, 8, 22–23, 51 regional identity, 141 regional music, 73 regional styles, 205 relationships, 122, 128 religion, identity and, 96 rembetika, xvii remodeling timbre, 87–90 repertoire, 79, 161n45, 208, 214–15, 221, 242n34, 263; dance, 207, 216, 260; lăutari, 141, 153; manelişti, 143–44; traditional, xxix, 224, 234; weddings, 218, 231, 233–34, 235–36, 242n53; Zaharia family, 222 replication of uniformity, 91n16 representations of power, 122–28 reputation, 139 requests, 141, 142, 159nn16–17, 208, 235–36, 238 restaurants, xxvii, 4, 8, 30, 42n36, 91n8, 95, 141, 208, 264 retur, 193 reverberation, 171, 188, 220

304 Revista 22, 45 Reyes, Adelaide, 81n16 rhyme, 114, 131 rhythm, 56; amphibrach-spondee, 65, 74, 81, 147, 261, 263; Arab, 41n12; of chalga, 136n70; çiftetelli, 6, 9, 13, 40n12, 42n23, 106, 111, 131, 136n70, 207–8, 213, 220, 235; düyek, 50, 55, 58; examples of, 9; free, 5, 21, 54, 60n38, 84, 111, 136n77; kyuchek, 111, 113, 136n70; Macedonian, 98; of muzică orientală, 41n12; notation, 164, 173; overall, 89; South Slavic, 111; syncopation, 6, 9, 21, 25, 41n15, 43n47, 207–8; unmeasured, 40 Rice, Timothy, 91n7, 133n19–20, 134n33, 134n37, 135n53–54, 136n70, 243n90 Rihanna, 63 ringtones, 160n40 ritornellos, 17, 42n43 ritual music, 216, 218 rituals, 190–91, 223, 260 rock music, 100, 102, 105, 134n28, 212 Roma, xxiv, 107, 161n54; ambiguity of, 153–55; dance, 12–13, 26; negative perception of, xxiv; population, xxxin3; translations of, 40n5 Roman, Denise, 208 Romania, xxv, xxix, 1, 2, 42n24, 92n20, 230 Romanian Communist Party, 100 Romanian-lăutar manele, 16–17 Romanian Revolution, xxiii, xxv, 8, 78, 98, 100–1, 106, 180, 182, 205, 206, 207, 211, 213, 214, 217, 242n48 Romani musicians, 76 Romani style, of dance, 24 romantic love songs, 185 Roxana, 233, 235 royalties, 186 rural ensembles, 207, 212, 224–29 rural identity, 209 rural music, xxiv, 5, 15, 16, 17, 21, 42n36, 64, 65, 73, 79, 110, 151–52, 242n49 rural-urban dynamics, xxiv, 5, 81, 87, 115, 220, 224–30, 232–40 Russo, Alecu, 46, 56–57

Index Şăineanu, Lazăr, 49, 56, 59n18, 61n51 “Saint Tropez”, 127, 236–37, 262 “Să iubeşti două femei” (Loving two women), 121–22 Salami, Florin. See Florin Salam Saloo Salomeea, 222, 224 “Sama” (Alone), 112, 119 samba manele, 15 Samson, Jim, 44n79, 108, 208 “Şaraiman”, 210, 260, 266 sârbă, 26, 52, 60n41, 64, 216, 219, 232, 256 şarkıler, 57 saxophone, 6, 17, 21, 87, 88, 100, 112, 217, 228 Schiop, Adrian, xxix, 151, 249 security, 128 self-expression, xxix, 23, 150, 249, 257 sensuality, 164, 256 “Sen Trope”, 127 Şerban, Carmen, 109, 147, 244n92 Serbia, 10, 44n79, 96, 97, 98, 101–2, 102–4, 105, 109, 110, 112, 113, 114, 116, 131, 132, 133n27 Serbian-Banat music, 2, 3, 8 Serbian ethnopop, 104 Serbian nationalism, turbo-folk and, 103 seriousness, 179 sevadalinka, 39, 44n79 sexism, 117 sexuality, 116; chalga and, 113; dance and, 11, 24, 26, 36, 126, 267; gender and, 244n93; instruments and, 243n90; lyrics and, 6, 34, 117–18, 219, 238, 263; music videos and, 120; of singers, 244n93; symbolism and, 219; turbo-folk and, 113 shadow economy, 188–89, 193 shame, 256, 257 sharing money, 124–25 shows, 30–31 Shuker, Roy, 93n42 “Şi prieteni şi duşmani” (Both friends and enemies), 128 Sicilian Mafia, 190 Silverman, Carol, 104, 106, 116, 133n20, 134n40, 136n78, 137n78, 137n93, 218, 244n93



Index 305

singers. See vocalists/singers Sion, George, 49 “Şi prieteni şi duşmani” (Both friends and enemies), 128 “Si tu n’existais pas”, 75 skiladiko, 39 slang, 164, 168, 183nn6–7 slavery, xxviii, 97–98, 110, 131–32, 138n151 “Slum and Gypsydom”. See “Mahala şi ţigănie” şmecheri (tricksters), 34, 37, 126, 128, 161n46, 168, 169, 170, 177, 179–80, 183n7, 188, 261–62 social boundaries, 239, 240n5 social conflict, 115 social groups, 90 social hierarchy, 157, 253 social mobility, 116 social music, 216 social order, 126 social recognition, 123 social relevance, 180 social significance, 38–40 social status, 151, 158n15 social tensions, 4 society, xxvi, 115–17, 254–55, 268n4 sociology, 249–50 socio-professional categories, 76 soft porn, 115 Soldaţii (Soldiers), 199–200 songs, 194–97, 247–48 song structure, 131 sonic power, 171 Sorinel Copilul de Aur (Little Sorin the Golden Child), 181, 187 Sorinel Puştiu, 125, 129, 167–69, 172, 173, 176, 187, 195, 213. See also Little Sorin the Kid soţ, 18 sound intensity, 145, 160m30 sound production, 93n42 sound reproduction, 93n42 South Slavic rhythm, 111 Soutzos, Georgios Nikolaou, 53 Soviet Union, xxxin2 Sperber, Dan, 174

spirit, 256 Spitalul amorului, 52–53, 60n29 spoken passages, 29 sponsors, within lyrics, 194–97, 201 “Šta će mi život bez tebe dragi” (I don’t need life without you, my dear), 118–19 Staicu, Alexie, 212 Staicu, Costică, 242n34 standardized versions, 89 star performers, 23, 261 state institutions, 140 Statelova, Rosemary, 249, 253 Ştefan de la Bărbuleşti, 127, 135n65, 213, 220 status, 125, 131, 165–66 Stewart, Michael, 125, 138n136 Stoichiţă, Victor A., xxviii-xxix, 135n47, 136n88, 158n14, 187–88, 193, 248, 252, 253 Stokes, Martin, 74, 206, 240n5, 243n87, 244n96, 244n106 Strehaia, Leo de la, 194–95, 201 style, 215 stylistic diversification, 73–74 subculture, 116 subdominant, 18 Sublime Porte, 4–5, 8, 40n3 success, 126, 140 Sugarman, Jane, 92n19, 96–97, 166, 167 “Sunt plin de noroc” (I’m so lucky), 125–26 “Sunt un tată fericit” (I’m a happy father), 129 survival, 125 “Sutele de milioane” (Hundreds of millions), 196 svatbarska muzika, xxiv, 99–101, 133n15, 133n18–20 symbolic opposition, 3, 28, 38 symbolism, 190–91, 219 syncopation, 6, 9, 21, 25, 41n15, 43n47, 207–8 synthesizers (orgă), 88, 94n47, 112–13, 130, 131, 136n82, 171, 212, 225; genres and, 223; guest players, 220–23; impact of, 223; microtonally tuned, 42n41; role of, 227; smaller, 183n11; weddings without, 217–18; Zaharia

306

Index

family, 232–33, 238; Zaharia family crisis with, 229–30, 235 synthetic sounds, 163 Szeman, Ioana, 107 taboos, 197–200 “Take me, my love, in your arms”. See “Ia-ma, viaţa mea, în braţe” taksim, 55, 60n38, 111, 136n77 tallavala, 39 tanbur, 5, 48, 59n14 taraf (pl. tarafuri), 5, 87, 158n8, 158n12, 172, 212, 215; modernization of, 150, 161n45; weddings and, 144–45, 159n26; women and, 158n9 Taraf de Haïdouks, 60n26 tarafuri, 87, 141, 158n8, 158n12; modernization of, 150, 161n45; weddings and, 144–45, 159n26; women and, 158n9 Țăranu, Nicu, 191 Ţara Românească, 76 taskimler, 55 taste, 208 “Tata Nuţu,” 196–97, 202 Tatar population, 42n24 tax investigations, 262 taxi drivers, 8 Taylor, Charles, 257 techniques of enchantment, xxix technology, 143, 186, 223 teenagers, 148, 149–50, 160n42 television, 4, 22, 42n36, 75, 79, 92n27, 102, 151, 154–55, 186, 190, 198, 202, 230, 261, 264, 269n6 tempered system, of tuning, 94n48 tempo, 5 Teodorescu, G. Dem., 49, 56 terere, 58n10 teretismata, 58n10 texture, 171 timbre, 9, 21–22; of NKNM, 112; remodeling, 87–90; of turbo-folk, 112; vocal, 8, 15, 54, 65, 75, 142, 261 “Time to party”. See “Chef de chef ” tips (bacşiş), 29, 177; giving back, 170; lăutari, 141, 142; for singers, 43n67; wealth and, 169–70; at weddings, 170

Tito, Josip Broz, 102 Todorova, Maria, 256 ton, 18 tonalities, 18 “Tonight I want to drink”. See “Astă seară vreau să beau” tonuri, 18 “tough guys,” 168 tradition, 207, 215–16, 240 traditional contexts, xxvi traditional instruments, 224, 228 traditional music, 171 traditional repertoire, xxix, 221, 234 “Trăiască şeful!” (Long live the chief!), 199 Transylvania, 5, 8, 14, 24, 41n14, 42n28, 43n47, 47, 53, 87, 240n1, 259 Transylvanian-Banat manele, 17 tricksters. See şmecheri trivialization, 257 troubadours, 200–202 “True brothers”. See “Fraţi adevăraţi” trumpet, 6, 17, 88 “Tseluvai oshte” (Kiss me again), 112, 121, 123 tsiftetelli, 54. See also çiftetelli Tudor, Dumitru, 51 “Tu eşti femeia visurilor mele” (You are the woman of my dreams), 122 tuning, 41n15, 94n48 turbo-architecture, 252, 257–58 turbo-authenticity, 257–58 turbo-folk, xxiv, 3, 14–15, 39, 95, 96, 97, 108, 248, 250, 256; character of, 110; dance of, 113; electronic, 103; elements of, 134n28; emergence of, 119; gender and, 110, 120, 122–23, 135n67; growth of, 101; identity of, 131; lyrics of, 120; men and, 123; militant and criminal culture in, 103, 104, 134n32; music videos, 120; NKNM and, 103; popularity of, 102, 134n29; promotion of, 103; Serbian nationalism and, 103; sexuality and, 113; timbre of, 112; war and, 102, 134n27; Yugoslavia and, 116. See also narrative meanings turbo-urbanism, 252 “Turkish manea,” 6, 7 Turkish manele, 50, 51, 59n23



Index 307

Turkish music, 1, 2, 5, 8, 13, 265 Turkish population, 42n24 “200 na sat” (Two hundred [kilometers] per hour), 123 Ucenescu, Gheorghe, 50 “Am un băiat cel mai frumos” (I’ve got the most beautiful son), 220 uncertainty, 175 underworld, xxix, 34, 164, 185, 261; figures as favored clients, 187–89; parties, 190– 91; symbols and rituals in, 190–91 unemployment, 125, 132n2 ungurică, 43n47, 91n11 University and Șuțu Palace, 77 “Unul e Versace” (Versace’s the one), 195 urban ensembles, 207, 212, 217, 224–30, 243nn68–69 urbanization, xxv, 91n13, 98, 99, 115, 206, 209, 215–16, 240, 267 urban oral musics, 158n11 urban style, 238 “Urmărire generală” (Most wanted), 200 Ursulean, Vlad, 191 vagabond music. See bagabonţeşti Valdes, Valentin, 116 Valev Plan, 269n20 Vali from Giurgiu (Vali de la Giurgiu), 179 Vali Vijelie, 126, 127, 187, 213, 228–29 Van de Port, Mattijs, 103 variations, 79–80, 90 Vaseva, Sashka, 105, 111, 116, 121 Veličković, Svetlana (“Ceca”), 104, 108, 111, 116, 119–20, 123, 134n32 Versace, Geani, 195, 203n25 “Versace’s the one”. See “Unul e Versace” Vesela, 109 Vetar, Južni, 98–99, 103 vice, 152 Vijelie, Vali, 126, 127, 187, 213, 228–29 village banquets, 216 village-city intersections, 235–39 village culture, 216 village fairs, 163 viola, 87 violence, 103, 172, 182

violin, 6, 16, 41, 41n15, 42n23, 51, 52, 87–88, 94n48, 172, 210, 212–14, 224, 228 Vlad, Nelu, 80, 82, 86, 93n34, 210 Vlaşca, 260 vocalists/singers, 29; appearance of, 114, 137n93; café manes, 61n43; ethnicity of, 109–10; gender of, xxviii, 109–10, 135n67; sexuality of, 244n93; tips for, 43n67 vocal performance, 59n14 vocal timbre, 8, 15, 54, 65, 75, 142, 261 voice, 88–89, 171 Voiculescu, Cerasela, 122, 124, 128, 138n150 volume, 145, 160m30, 171, 239 vulgarity, 265 Vyzantios, Vasileios, 55 Wallachia, xxiv, xxxin4, xxxin7, 1, 4, 40n1, 40n3, 43n47, 47–48, 51–52, 57, 59n20, 61n51, 75, 132n4 “Wallet, o wallet”. See “Portofele portofele” waltz, 13 war, turbo-folk and, 102, 134n27 Wars of Secession, Yugoslavia (1991–95), 103, 115, 116 waste, 181 way of life, xxvii, 39 wealth, 76, 123, 169–70, 190, 229, 236–37 websites, of manelişti, 147–48 weddings, xxiv, xxvii, xxviii, 4, 21, 91n8, 95, 97, 100, 107, 113, 127, 129–30, 159n18, 163, 186, 189, 208, 264; dance, 13, 26, 29–30, 42n29, 216–17, 219, 231–32, 235; fathers and, 149; Hollywood, 145; identity and, 216; instruments, 217–19; lăutari and, 268n2; live performance at, 28–29; lyrics and, 178, 219; manele turceşti at, 213–14; manelişti and, 144–46, 160nn30–31; musical taste and, 149; muzică orientală at, xxv, 215–23; NKNM at, 99; repertoire, 218, 231, 233–34, 235–36, 242n53; rituals, 159n26; Romani, 209–10; rural, 209, 216–17; Serbian-Banat music and, 3;

308

Index

songs of, 212; without synthesizers, 217–18; tarafuri and, 144–45, 159n26; tips at, 170; traditional, 205–6, 207, 216, 240n4; urban, 231, 241n11; urbanization of, 215–16; village, xxix, 225. See also Zaharia family Western art music, 48 Westernization, 2, 250, 266 Western music, 5 Western notation, 59n23 Western pop, 130 Western tonal music, 136n81 “Who do I long for?”. See “De cine mi-e mie dor?” “Who’s the big boss?”. See “Cine-i mare barosan?” wife, 127 “A wife like mine”. See “Nevastă ca a mea” Wilson, Deirdre, 174 wine, 46 “wiseguys,” 150–51, 155–56, 161n46, 168, 170, 188, 199, 201, 261–62, 266 “The wiseguys’ party”. See “Chef la şmecheri” women, 35; dance and, 14, 36, 260; exploitation of, 123; lyrics and, 34, 122; role of, 131; suffering of, 117, 120; tarafuri and, 158n9. See also gender Wonder, Babi (Babi Minune), 19–20, 38, 117, 181, 187 working class, 3, 39, 231, 239 world music, 249 World War I, 268 Yaneva, Tsvetelina, 22 young people, 149–50, 155, 160nn42–43, 260

YouTube, 189, 190 Yugo-folk, 134n36 Yugoslavia, 2, 3, 96, 97, 98–99, 100, 101– 2, 102–4, 108, 109–10, 114, 115, 116, 119, 130, 131, 132n1, 133n14, 133n27, 135n49, 250 “Zabravi!” (Forget!), 121 Zaharia, Alin, 224, 230–31, 235, 238, 243n76 Zaharia, Băieţică, 212, 214, 217, 219, 221, 225–26, 227, 229, 230, 232, 233, 238 Zaharia, Bebe, 212, 217–18, 238 Zaharia, Costică, 211, 221, 224, 227, 229, 230, 231, 332, 233, 235, 238, 239 Zaharia, Jenică, 212, 215, 217–18, 221, 224 Zaharia, Marian, 212, 213–14, 217, 218– 19, 224–25, 226 Zaharia, Silvia, 210, 211, 212, 213, 218, 221, 225, 226, 228, 229, 231, 232, 233, 238 Zaharia, Tiu, 212, 217, 223 Zaharia, Vasile, 18, 212, 215, 217–18, 220–21 Zaharia family, 210–15, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222–25, 234, 236, 239, 243nn68–69; equipment of, 230–31; instruments of, 230–31; reputation of, 231; style of, 238; success of, 239–40; synthesizer crisis of, 229–30, 235; synthesizers, 232–33, 238 Zece Prăjini, 94n49 Zhivkov, Todor, 99, 133n14 “Ziua Învierii”, 49 zurlă, 112

About the Editors and Contributors

Margaret Beissinger (coeditor and author) teaches in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at Princeton University. Her research, writing, and teaching focus on oral literature; Balkan cultures and oral traditions; oral, epic, and Romani traditional culture and music-making, with an emphasis on southern Romania, where she has undertaken extensive fieldwork both before and after the 1989 revolution, especially among Romani musicians. She is the author of The Art of the Lăutar: The Epic Tradition of Romania (1991), coeditor of Epic Traditions in the Contemporary World: The Poetics of Community (1999), and has written numerous articles on manele, Romani music, epic, and Balkan traditional culture. Anca Giurchescu (coeditor and author), a Romanian/Danish senior ethnochoreologist, was a dance researcher at the Institute of Ethnography and Folklore in Bucharest for twenty-five years. After defecting in 1979, she settled in Denmark, continuing her research with the Danish Research Council for Humanities and the Danish Folklore Archives in Copenhagen. Giurchescu conducted extensive fieldwork and founded the theory and method of structural analysis for dance; she wrote widely on semiotic interpretation of dance, dance and ritual, dance and politics, dance and ethnic/gender identity, and dance heritage. She was the chair of the ICTM Study Group on Ethnochoreology (1998–2006) and the honorary chair until her death in April 2015. Florin Iordan (website technician), sociologist, ethnologist, and amateur musician, has worked since 2003 in the Ethnomusicology Section of the Romanian Peasant Museum in Bucharest. A graduate of the Faculty of Anthropology at the University of Bucharest (2005), he researches Romanian early and oral traditional music, folk music instruments, and the Romanian revival movement. In 2004, he founded the 309

310

About the Editors and Contributors

vocal-instrumental band Trei Parale [Three Pennies], with which he performs and records nineteenth-century urban and rural music. Iordan also participates in the production of the Ethnophonie traditional musics series. He has published articles in Romania, Bulgaria, and the Republic of Moldova. Vintilă Mihăilescu (author) is professor in the Sociology Department at the National School of Political Science and Administration in Bucharest, where he manages a project on Romani policies. In 1990, he founded the Romanian Society of Cultural Anthropology and between 2005 and 2010 was the director general of the Romanian Peasant Museum in Bucharest. Mihăilescu’s published works include The Fascination for Difference (1999), Five Introductions to Anthropology (2007, 2012), The End of the Game: Romania over 20 Years (2010), The Story of the Stray Dog Leuţu, About the New Domestic Order and Man’s Crisis (2013), and a book about anthropology in socialist countries published in Germany; he has also edited several journal issues on Romania and the Balkans. Costin Moisil (author) received his PhD in musicology from the University of Athens in 2012 with a thesis titled “The Construction of Romanian National Church Music (1821–1914).” He is an assistant researcher at the Romanian Peasant Museum and an associate teaching assistant at the National University of Music in Bucharest. Moisil’s first book, The “Romanianization” of chants: One technique and many controversies, was published in 2012. He was an Odobleja fellow of the New Europe College, Bucharest, during 2012–2013 and is also the main editor for the Ethnophonie series of traditional music. Speranţa Rădulescu (coeditor and author) is associate professor at the National University of Music and associate researcher at the Romanian Peasant Museum in Bucharest. A specialist on lăutar music, she is the author of The “Taraf ” and Harmonic Accompaniment in Dance Music (1984), The Lyrical Song (1990), Musical Landscapes in 20th-Century Romania (2002), and Chats about Gypsy Music (2004), as well as À tue tête. Chant et violon au Pays de l’Oaş, Roumanie (2002) with Jacques Bouët and Bernard Lortat-Jacob. Rădulescu has also published more than a hundred articles and supervises the Ethnophonie series (twenty-five CDs so far), which features traditional musics of the Romanians, Aromanians, Roma, Jews, Hungarians, and Ukrainians of Romania. Adrian Schiop (author) is a freelance journalist residing in Bucharest. He graduated from the Faculty of Psychology and Education Sciences, completed a Master’s degree in linguistics at Babeş Bolyai University in Cluj, and received his doctoral degree in anthropology in 2014 at the National School of Political Science and Administration in Bucharest in the Roma Public Policy doctoral program; his dissertation was on manele. Following a somewhat unconventional path, Şchiop spent a year in



About the Editors and Contributors 311

New Zealand working in farming and construction and has also been a high school teacher. He writes on urban Romani culture and music-making. Victor A. Stoichiţă (author) is an anthropologist at the French National Center for Scientific Research in Paris and the director of the Research Center for Ethnomusicology there. His first book (Fabricants d’émotion. Musique et malice dans un village tsigane de Roumanie, 2008) investigates notions of “tricks,” “cunning,” and “slyness” employed by Romani musicians in Romania in relation to musical structures. He has also worked on virtuosity, intellectual property, irony, and humor in live musical settings and in 2010 published a Romani songbook for pedagogical use. Stoichiţă’s current research deals with ontological assumptions underlying musical experience and the distributions of agency between humans and sonic structures.