Louis Andriessen, with his piece ‘The Republic’, engaged in a discussion about the role of music in politics, asserting that music has never caused the state to change its course. He critiques Plato for failing to differentiate between the musicians and the culture their music generates. Before Andriessen offers his critique, he clarifies that this does not mean he considers music to exist outside the realm of politics or the social world.
In Plato’s ideal state, music and art have only one function: to imitate the ideas and worldview of his ideal state. All forms of music that express dissonance, melancholy, or excessive empathy with so-called ‘lesser others’ would be banned, and the musicians and artists who engage in such expressions would be exiled. In this view, music and the state are ideally intertwined.
Andriessen finds this idea both absurd and, in a way, regrettable. He wishes that music could do more on its own.
In this essay, I explore the impact of art, language, and music with the political and social domain.
According to Andriessen, the music one listens to, as well as the instruments and styles one is familiar with, is largely shaped by their social context and environment.
He says that although the elements of music—such as rhythm—are found universally in nature, it is when these musical components are structured that they transform into culture, becoming a social fact. In many cultures, this understanding of art and music is no higher knowledge; instead, music serves as a vital social tool for engaging with cultural practices, rituals, and expressing political dissent.
I want to delve into some of these traditions rooted in West African culture, exploring the sounds and understandings that have influenced my social habitus.
My grandmother often says, “Inu orin adura wa,” which translates to “In every song lies a prayer,” or “In elk lied schuilt een gebed” in Dutch. This reflects a distinct understanding of the role and significance of music, closely aligned with the Yoruba epistemological perspective on what art ought to do.
Orin meaning song, resembles the word ‘ori’. Which can be translated to ‘head’.
When exploring the concept of “ori,” we discover that it encompasses more than just the physical aspect of the body. It carries a deeper metaphysical meaning, transcending mere bodily existence.
The term “ori” consists of the prefix “o,” representing the witnesser or in Western terms the individual, regardless of gender, and the suffix “ri,” which signifies perception. Together, they form the concept of “ori” as the seat of perception. In Western theological terms, it can be likened to the “seat of consciousness,” while in Taoism, it corresponds to the “unknowable I” at the core of self-awareness. Ori represents the essence of individual consciousness and self-awareness.
The concept of Ori originates directly from Ifa, the sacred scripture of the Orisha. Orisha, representing the spiritual forces found in nature, is individually and collectively associated with Ori, which is “the essence of consciousness in all of its manifestations.” Ori represents the ancestral guardian soul, often seen as an individual’s higher self or divine essence, responsible for addressing their needs, desires, and interests.
The tradition of Oríkì, the oral praise poetry of the Yórùbá, serves as both a celebration of life and death and holds the key to the unique recipe that shapes an individual’s life.
It is believed within the Yórùbá tradition that words have spiritual power, and that writing poetry, whether oral or literate, is in itself a spiritual practice. As I mentioned my grandmother, iya nla, often tells me inu orin adura wa. It is only fitting within the Yoruba concept of spirituality and language that the word for song orin resembles the word for our spiritual essence ori. Oríkì contains three words, ori head, orin song and kí greeting. It narrates the tale of one’s lineage and ancestors, and predicts the future of the descendant.
When a child is born, it is given different names from parents and family members. The child also gets an Oríkì. Literally translated oríkì means song-greeting. The song with which you are greeted into life. It is a name specifically for the child, not to be shared outside of the family, and the name bears a song. For instance a boy could be born and given many names, including an Oríkì-name based on his attributes and the characteristics of his ancestors. In the song a tale is told about the family’s history and based on that, a prophecy is made on the life of the child. Professional singers/spoken word artists are hired to sing/speak this oríkì during the naming ceremony. It is said that when a person finds themselves lost or astray, they should ask their parents to sing/speak their oríkì and in this tale, may they find their way back to their destiny.
My mother, the eldest child and daughter of my iya nla, left Nigeria to be with her husband in her mid-twenties. She had only returned to her birth place twice before she turned fifty. Her younger brother and his family came to visit her for the first time in the Netherlands that August. They had been planning the big surprise back home. Finding and hiring a poet who would travel to the villages, to the specific compound my grandparents were raised on, and from there going further to the very first compound our ancestors originated from. Gathering tales, myths and stories about her lineage, and the virtue of my mother as a person. The poet creates verses, chanting to a drum beat, invoking the spirits of our ancestors while reciting. The specific role of these poets and chanters is that of a historical archiver.
The poem reached my mother on her fiftieth birthday through a video recording her brother showed her. Upon hearing the words, my mom dropped to her knees. Her brown nose turned red from crying, her hands folded in front of her chest and her eyes shut, reaching inwards while listening to her Oríkì.
The oríkì now serves not only as a celebration of her life and ancestors but also as a vessel for her migratory grief, holding and expressing her feelings of loss and displacement. It is the sound of something both familiar and distant, finally reaching her. It serves as a reminder of her origins, despite being thousands of miles away, and reassures her that she is being guided along a path, entirely carved out for her.
Oríkì was used during battles, raising famous warriors from their graves to lend their powers. At burials it is used to appease or conciliate for a benevolent future for the descendants.
The echoes of the voices and the drums are reminiscent of their ancestors and the traditions of the past. The memories of such a past provide confidence for the present and courage to push ahead for a glorious future.
From: Oríkì in Traditional Yoruba Music Author(s): ‘Tunji Vidal: African Arts.
The drums as well play an important part in allowing her to enter in this meditative state; music is said to bridge between the physical and metaphysical world. Specifically the talking drum, having a tonal character is able to reproduce the same sound as the Yoruba language. The power of the Oríkì and its drum lie in its repetition.
To a westerner the continuous repetition of a simple, short melody is monotonous. To an African, it is electrifying, gratifying, and pleasant. The European hears music as an independent art, whose beauty lies in the amount of scientific engineering used to shape the raw impulses of emotion producing it. The African hears music as an incidental and symbolic art whose beauty lies in the religious and social order which it helps to control.
The difference is one of the society, of the way of life of the people in the society, and of the various institutions which have shaped the production of music in each society. Aesthetics is bound up with religion and social behaviour in African society whereas it is separated in European society.
From: Oríkì in Traditional Yoruba Music Author(s): ‘Tunji Vidal: African Arts.
Its sound and rhythm are an ancient tradition, reproducing it is allowing a reconnection to happen. One steps into the footsteps of the past by dancing along, the receiver does not need to fear, because the ones before them had been through this before, is lending its power (àṣẹ) and they are not alone. One could say, the drums, the slapping, duduke, and beat function as an interpreter between the living and the dead.
To claim that music is merely an art form deprived from politics reflects a deeper corruption familiar to the Western hemisphere—a culture that has diminished its own roots in nature, the divine, and tradition. This disconnection may stem from a desire to distance themselves from a national memory and collective psyche rooted in past actions.
The significance of the drum resonates with the descendants of Africans brought to the United States during the Atlantic slave trade. The act of drumming was explicitly forbidden on the ships and plantations, as it had the potential to incite uprisings. This prohibition highlights the fear that those in power had of the drum’s moving power, which served not only as a form of musical expression but also as a means of connection, communication, and resistance among enslaved people. The drum thus embodies a crucial element of cultural heritage, resilience, and the enduring spirit of a community fighting for its identity and freedom.
Poet, philosopher and human rights activist Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden:
“The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad,
And if I repent of anything,
It is very likely to be my good behaviour.
What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?”
I encountered it as a motto in the novel A Different Drummer by William Melvin Kelley. In the novel, a formerly enslaved man buys the land of his former owners and, without a word, sets it to flames. As a curse being broken, all the formerly enslaved people who were still working on the land leave and abandon the village. The story is told from various white voices left behind without laborers.
David Henry Thoreau also wrote the world-famous essay Civil Disobedience, which was often cited to persuade white citizens to vote for the abolition of slavery. It doesn’t then surprise me when Thoreau’s essay Walden ends with:
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, Perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears,
However measured or far away.”
Within the Yoruba’s epistemological understanding of language. Words have an authoritative power. This is called ‘Àṣẹ’. Àṣẹ derives from an ancient Kongo-Saharan word for “hand,” emphasizing the significance of action through which àṣẹ derives its meaning.
“Ise,” the word for “work,” and “se,” the word for “do,” also reside in àṣẹ. As creatives, writers specifically have been gifted with access to this power. It is believed that they have the authoritative power to incite change.
What should we make of all this information? Like Louis Andriessen, I believe that art allows us not only to influence the present and shape the future but also to engage in an ongoing conversation with the past. Is language, composed of sound and elongated syllables, not essentially a relic passed down from generation to generation? When we engage with poetry and music, we are, in a sense, in essence, simply visiting an archive.
[song in praise of Oya, the orisha of wind and change]