Singeli is a genre of fast-paced electronic Tanzanian music born out of a fusion of taarab, bongo flava, and mchiriku music. In this essay, our author takes a closer look at Polish filmmaker Jan Moszumański’s film Singeli Movement: Greed for Speed and uses it as a starting point for a reflection on the genre’s grounding in the digital age and the dissonances embedded deep in its music.
The first time I listened to singeli music, I became nostalgic about a popular Kenyan practice called disco matanga (funeral disco). During night vigils and following burials, mourners break into song and dance either accompanied by musicians or any popular recorded dance music blaring from vibrating loudspeakers. Disco matangas are both embraced and reviled; at best they are positively cathartic and uplifting for those who grieve, but they can be sites of excess – drunkenness, lasciviousness, and misconduct. Singeli music has a unique tone and rhythm, but to me, singeli serves a similar function, marshaling dissonant performers and their audiences – all of them disenfranchised – to a place of connection and surprising harmony.
The dissonance in the sound of singeli music is striking. In the film, it is best articulated by producer Jay Mitta, who, discussing the relationship between performers and audience, says that as the music is played, «we both get crazy; me when playing, and you dancing». I experience singeli as a generation’s response to multiple ruptures.
This Show Is for All of You
A few minutes into Singeli Movement: Greed for Speed we meet MC Makaveli, proclaiming in Kiswahili to his audience at an open-air concert in Dar es Salaam, «this show is for all of you, it’s for all of us, the children of uswahilini neighborhoods. Singeli Movement will play singeli music. This is the place of singeli, from Mburahati to Manzese. The others are only copying us». His words ring true throughout this 60-minute documentary, delving into singeli’s roots, creators, and reception in Dar es Salaam, as examined through close-up encounters with artists, producers, and enthusiastic fans.
Artists like Anti Vairas, Memory Card, and Kadilida (card reader) have names that point to the necessary accoutrements of urban life; the little bits one hassles for to create this music, to make oneself legible and build a fanbase. These names also contextualize singeli’s grounding in a digital age unlike that of previous generations’ social and economic environments. Though singeli carries musical influences from the past, there are neither western nor local traditional instruments used directly in the music. Digital equipment and electronic sound are bridges where barriers to making music are overcome. In these musicians’ worlds, proximity to modern technology is a significant determinant of one’s ability to progress.
Singeli has emerged from the bare minimum; through Moszumański’s lens we see how singeli music is produced using well-worn keyboards, dated computer monitors, and rasping loudspeakers. A cameraman improvises a professional lighting umbrella with a shirt resting atop his head, gently wrapping the handheld camera to get the desired shot. Though these artists work under incredible resource constraints, these aren’t limitations; they are the sauce that catalyzes the resultant music and music videos.
Sites of Entertainment
Connections between singeli performers and their audiences can be tenuous. Even though singeli has been associated with uhuni1and other negative anti-social behavior, the focus returns to the strong positive testimonials of the achievements singeli music has enabled. These musicians’ growing global appeal is one example. In the film, Nana, a dancer, expresses her frustration by saying, «people look down on dancers to a point that it hurts. They should respect me and the fact that this is a job like any other. For anyone who leaves their home and goes to work, the same goes to me… For me the dance floor is my office». Listening to Nana, I recognize the conflicts arising from the fact that her and other dancers’ bodies are sites of entertainment.
I imagine even now, as people move along the streets of Mburahati Dar es Salaam, Sisso and other studios are abuzz with continuous recording sessions, launching careers and churning out new songs. When dusk sets in, chirping crickets layer their sounds, easing the transition to nighttime and contrasting with the day’s up-tempo beats. I’m curious to see how this music evolves and how these streets will be changed as more of its creators find prominence in Tanzania and globally.
1. Swahili term that refers to aimlessness, hooliganism.
«Singeli Movement: Greed for Speed» has been officially selected for the 12th Norient Festival 2023 and celebrated its world premiere at the festival in Bern, Switzerland.
Trailer
Biography
Lutivini Majanja is a writer from Nairobi, Kenya. She has fiction and non fiction published in various publications. She participated in Sound of Nairobi’s City Walk’s 2019 workshop. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Maryland. Follow her LinkedIn, and on her Website.
From breakdance in Baghdad, the rebel dance pantsula in South Africa to the role of intoxications in club music: Dance can be a form a self-expression or self-loosing.
From the music format «78 rpm», the melancholic echoes of a dubbed out rave night in London, and parodic mockings of «perfect house wifes» by female Nigerian pop musicians.
Sunayana Wadhawan traces a map of events, stories, songs, and movements in New Delhi that foreground the effects of urban redevelopment on arts and heritage in the city. Featuring artists from diverse communities and art forms, the article highlights the systemic marginalization, displacement, and invisibilizing of folk and indigenous practices. Meanwhile, the artists continue to resist the undermining conditions and find creative and tactical ways to sustain their artistic forms and desires.
The Delhi Master Plan is a legal document that defines norms for land use, basic amenities, and space allocation for arts and heritage. Delhi now also has an Art Master Plan which has been put together by the Delhi Urban Art Commission (DUAC) to provide guidance on promoting art in public spaces.1 However, the reality on the ground is in stark contrast to what is projected on paper. Apart from the usual clubs and cultural venues in Delhi, all one finds is the persistent rise of elite cultural centers owned by industrialist families that are aiming to celebrate art while alienating the public and street art from spaces they occupy in the city.
Kathputli Colony
It is in this context that the story of Kathputli Colony (translated to Puppeteer’s Colony) becomes crucial when tracing a map of the artists and art forms that are displaced and delegitimized in the name of development. Kathputli Colony, near the Shadipur bus depot in central Delhi, famously known as «the largest community of street performers» became home to over 12 artist communities including puppeteers, magicians, musicians, singers, dancers, acrobats, sculptors, craftsmen, and artisans from Rajasthan from the late 1950s. Many of them belonged to the denotified tribes like Nat, Bhatt, Madari, and Baghari, communities who had settled in Delhi as demand for their work increased post-independence.
Their patrons began to expand beyond the feudal ones back in their villages, more with politicians, art enthusiasts, and tourists who were also instrumental in promoting Indian art and culture in Europe and America. The nature of their profession meant frequent traveling for performances and the need for public transport. The folk artists of Kathputli Colony have traveled to over 80 countries representing India with their art forms, won prestigious national awards, and participated in several national and international festivals, Republic Day parades, and social awareness campaigns. Over the years, such opportunities have reduced and folk artists find themselves without secure homes, relying mostly on private events and the wedding season to ensure they earn something to sustain their families.
Collective Worlds
Kesri Devi, 90, a folk singer from the Nat-Bhat community, was one of the many artists who was concerned about the future of her children and their livelihoods. She came to Kathputli Colony at a young age when she got married to Mohan Bhat, a renowned puppeteer. She recalls the thrill of running away from home as a child every time she heard the sounds of singing and live music in her village to fulfill her heart’s desire to learn how to sing. Along with being proud of her cultural heritage, she celebrates her voice and her renditions of traditional folk songs that she has kept safe in her treasure of memories, which she has sung for All India Radio, and while accompanying her husband during puppet shows.
Kesri Devi, Goru Bhatt, and friends singing folk songs on a rooftop in Kathputli Colony before it was demolished, 2014 (video: Sunayana Wadhawan).
Kathputli Colony too was like her village where artists came together and sang, where young children practiced percussion on dhols, tashas, and even buckets, and watched the elders of their community get ready for work or craft musical instruments and more. Over the years, migrant workers from several states of India found shelter here, leading to a flourishing exchange of work, culture, and common aspirations among the different communities that created a unique cultural economy in the heart of the city of Delhi. Ironically, it also became a tourist spot promoted by luxury hotels like Hyatt Regency.
A jam by percussionists on Kathputli Colony streets, 2014 (video: Sunayana Wadhawan).
Displacement in the Name of Urban Redevelopment
The artists and migrant worker families of Kathputli Colony appealed to politicians and government authorities for a dignified life and land rights in the city for many years, but in 2009, they found themselves surrounded by uncertainties with the news of a public–private partnership to redevelop Kathputli Colony. The Delhi Development Authority signed a contract with a private developer to construct 2800 multi-story flats for the residents of Kathputli Colony while giving the developer rights over the land to also build luxury apartments and a shopping mall. There were questions that needed answers: why only 2800 flats when there were many more families who resided in Kathputli Colony? Why not land rights, especially when multi-story housing is not suitable for their arts and livelihoods, and most importantly, why were all these plans made without the consent of those being affected by the project?
The residents were in the process of building a collective understanding of the existing policies and their entitlements, when I, along with a team of social workers from community-based organizations that had been seeking accountability for evictions and lack of housing for migrant workers in the city, began to support community-led documentation and accountability-building efforts.
Callous Encounters, Violent Evictions
These questions were also taken to court in search of justice by the Bhule Bhisre Kalakaar co-operative industrial society (translated as the Forgotten Artists co-operative) that was formed in 1978 by the artists of Kathputli Colony with the support of an NGO. There were powerful expressions of protest by the artist-residents during protests and public meetings to engage with the authorities and the media for accountability and inclusive decision-making.
The DUAC also had reservations about the project, which were on record, but 5.2 hectares of land in the center of the city appeared to be more precious to policymakers and private developers than the cultural heritage and homes that had been built by generations of folk artists and migrant workers in the city. The artists were accused of being «slum mafia», threatened with violence and surrounded by police forces to evict them and silence their collective efforts to save their homes and their livelihoods. In 2017, while they were demanding survey lists of families included in the redevelopment scheme, the DDA began a demolition drive with police personnel helping them clear the way for bulldozers by brutally attacking the protesting residents.
Systemic Failures
It has been almost six years since the evictions when 2800 families of over 4000 families of Kathputli Colony were shifted to temporary shelters in transit camps, while others were scattered on the outskirts of Delhi or rendered homeless and living around the streets, flyovers, and parks surrounding Kathputli Colony.
Kesri Devi has been living at the transit camp in Anand Parbat (an area in Central Delhi), where she has witnessed the loss of loved ones amidst the lack of work, adequate basic services, the horrors of fires breaking out, and the recent pandemic. Although artists like her have not given up on their art forms, the conditions are far from being conducive to promoting and protecting them.
The artists worry about the lack of opportunities for their children as well as the future of their art traditions. Increased unemployment, lack of space and resources, and rising cases of violence are making it more difficult for young artists to learn and practice art forms with the older generations of artists. Their work is seasonal, and the struggle to find work is only getting tougher. Street performers face harassment for trying to perform in public spaces even though the laws of the land have gone through changes. Even though arts and culture are critical to sustaining communities, those who are at the heart of practicing them are facing exclusion in the capital of India.
Resistance, Resilience, and Rebuilding
I have been learning endlessly from the Kathputli Colony about the struggle of folk artists to be able to work and create art amidst fears of eviction. The sight of a group of percussionists leaving their elders and children behind to guard their belongings and head to work in their bright costumes on the day that their homes were being demolished and turned into debris reveals who is truly trying to keep the arts alive in this country and who is ruthlessly destroying it.
The younger artists, amidst the displacement, have been going against all odds to begin recrafting their art forms, from becoming dhol players, especially for wedding processions, to redesigning their musical instruments, creating educational puppets, musical groups integrating Western instruments and collaborating with DJs, turning to online platforms, and even changing the objects used in their magic tricks to speak more to the times we live in.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, spaces and opportunities for artists were starkly reduced for folk artists in Kathputli Colony and other parts of the country, whereas privileged artists went live and «viral» on online platforms like YouTube. A few efforts to support folk artists in rural and urban areas through online charity shows and art workshops also did not succeed due to the lack of internet connectivity and access to technology.
To understand and bridge the increasing gap and invisibilization of folk artists from digital spaces and support their search for resources while they were stuck in their homes without work, I began facilitating folk artists, mostly in North India, to create their own music recordings to share their works on independent and artist-owned YouTube channels. This way they could also own rights to their works and question the continuing appropriation of their work.
Artists Navigating the Terrain
From Talb Khan in Barmer, Rajasthan, to Geeta Parag in Dewas, Madhya Pradesh, to the Milaap Kalakaar collective of artists in Punjab, and more recently, folk musicians like Kesri Devi from Kathputli Colony, it has been a journey full of moments of learning, economic empowerment and recognition, and full of questions around technology and devices; how contemporary laws, practices and digital cultural economies are shaping art, its value, ownership, and community rights. These efforts do not address the lack of accountability and continuing injustices folk artists are facing, but have made some room for discussions on fair practices and wages, making technology accessible, and the importance of strengthening livelihood opportunities.
Sound engineers and recording artists from Delhi aware of these recurring challenges also joined us to address the technical challenges of recording live performances in their villages or in home concerts. We have also encouraged artists to find studios in their region to sustain their efforts to record and share their work. These hopeful steps were also supported by a few legal experts and artists from different parts of the country.
One constant source of support and inspiration has been folk singer and social activist, Prahlad Tipaniya, who continues to question and address the discrimination, invisibilization, and appropriation that artists like him encounter in their journeys. His team has set a strong example of how folk artists can also reclaim their space on platforms like YouTube and in live music events.2
There are signs of an active audience present on online platforms that folk artists, folk musicians, and dancers can find from their regions and beyond. It is through this demand for folk art, and accessible platforms like YouTube for audiences to participate in, that online platforms are slowly becoming a source of income for folk artists. This effect also extends to not just folk artists receiving a few more work opportunities but also those integrating contemporary music forms into their lives.
PP Rapstar, a young rapper from Kathputli Colony, has been writing songs in the last few years to claim his rightful space in the city and the music scenes. His music is strongly influenced by hip hop and reflects his strong refusal to submit to a system that is driven by money to oppress the futures of young people like him. While some may feel he is moving away from his traditional art forms, maybe we should see it the other way round; that the system is making him speak a different language of art in the city, that he is opting out of a system where artists of his community are exploited and still expected to adhere to casteist cultural norms and not given the respect every artist and every citizen deserves in this country.
Deepak Mady and Aijaz from Seemapuri, a locality in Northeast Delhi, released a song with Jamnapaar Records, «Ta Ta Thayi», which calls out people who judge rappers like him and the neighborhoods they belong to. They question classist and communal politics that deny access to youngsters like him. In their song, they also declare that the era of labels is over and the youth are embracing independent culture.
A few years ago, I worked with young women who are children of evicted families rehabilitated in flood-prone resettlement colonies of Delhi like Madanpur Khadar. They were not trained in any particular art form, but chose to write about their experiences of the city through a Hindi hip hop slam song. The group often saw only young boys in their neighborhood getting into hip hop and rap. They decided they wanted to learn about these genres and make songs to express themselves creatively. «Khadar ki ladkiyaan» maps the journeys of the women from evictions to the increased struggles around education, livelihoods, and safety, which they confront with their fearless voices.
Rocksan is another young rapper and singer residing in Jai Hind Camp of South Delhi whose song «Basti mein masti» speaks of the contradictions in the aspirations of those living in his settlement while they all seek certainty in the form of a secure space to live and go to work. Rocksan, unlike PP Rapstar, is not from an artist community. He works the night shift in the informal sector and spends the daytime working on his music and his dreams to become a full-time musician. He chooses to write about what exists in his reality and does not agree with the idea of pretending to be someone else to appear cool and attractive to the audience. In a recent conversation, he said, «I write the truth in my songs. If I am riding a bicycle, I will write about the bicycle. I won’t write about driving around in a car… I’ll do that when I have my own car.» At the same time, he reports the lack of access to resources for an artist like him to record his songs. He misses the days when his neighbor, who worked as a helper at a music studio, learned the basics of music software and supported Rocksan with his recordings at Jai Hind Camp.
Knots and Tangles that Remain
Whether it is practicing art and access to space and resources, or fighting for basic necessities like water, healthcare, housing, or even studios, our city tends to make many artists feel ignored and disproportionately represented. It was a demand for space in the city for artists to live, learn, interact, and create art, for music groups to practice, for puppeteers to make larger-than-life puppets, for acrobats to walk on their stilts and practice their art, etc., that the artists had appealed to governmental authorities and courts to review the plans made for redeveloping Kathputli Colony and shifting their families into tiny multi-story flats without their participation or consent. The city houses art in big museums and galleries today, but it fails to provide homes and spaces for work to many artists. The question is: why are certain artists marginalized in the city while others thrive? What are the forms of art that are able to flourish while others struggle to survive? Is it the lack of inclusive policies, participatory planning, and meaningful promotion of arts, or is it the privilege of wealthier artists and audiences that are defining the way art is celebrated in the city? What do the «forgotten artists» want us to remember?
Kesri Devi on her desire to learn music and how she picked up various musical forms and instruments in her youth despite all odds (video: Geetanjali Kalta).
Kesri Devi calls out the greed and disregard for humanity that destroyed her neighborhood and hopes that artist communities can live and work together someday to share the cultural knowledge they embody with future generations so that young girls aspiring to be singers like her can follow their hearts as she did. What is our responsibility towards her hopes turning into certainty? How do we ensure artists and their voices are given the space, respect, recognition, and resources they deserve? Not just in the digital world, but in our social and lived realities?
1.Dilli Haat, a popular landmark for folk arts and handicrafts in Delhi, is a rare example of public land being dedicated to arts and culture and promoting artist livelihoods (this has its own share of complexities), which is a discussion for another time.
2. Folk singer and social activist, Prahlad Tipaniya, who sings the works of poets and social reformers like Kabir, Meera Bai, Sant Ravidas to engage with his audience on themes of self-awareness, equality, and communal harmony, has also questioned the appropriation of folk music traditions and unfair practices. His team has set a strong example of how folk artists can reclaim their space on platforms like YouTube and in live music events, while supporting several local folk artists with their efforts to connect with larger audiences.
Sunayana Wadhawan has worked with NGOs and community-based organizations in India towards participatory research and community-led initiatives for over 12 years on livelihoods, land, housing, water, basic services, childcare, public transport, gender justice, and human rights. Throughout her work, the focus has been on building community knowledge and media, and she has been a strong advocate of the power of art to bring social change. She is currently working on participatory art-based interventions for water, health, and sanitation in India, and is involved in volunteer work with survivors of violence and folk artists. In recent years, she has been supporting folk artists towards making digital spaces and legal rights more equitable and accessible. Follow her on Instagram, and Facebook.
How does this ideology, but also its sheer physical expressions such as labor affect cultural production? From hip hop’s «bling» culture to critical evaluations of cultural funding.
Since the advent of COVID-19, Algerian youth, artists, and studios have taken to TikTok to sell, promote, and binge-listen to the latest raï hits. So called «sonic gifts» are remarkable in this context, as they show that young people’s music consumption is not simply the result of algorithmic content curation or commodity exchange. Rather, as I argue in this commentary, TikTok cultures enable the use of sound in spontaneous ways. Studying sonic gifts is meaningful because these gifts reveal the complexity of how people build relations and reputations in digital media spheres.
While conducting fieldwork on TikTok usage among Algerian youth, I participated in trends where people combined «audio memes» (Abidin and Kaye 2021) of raï songs with lip-synching and the local dance style way way. This performance style originates in the playgrounds, wedding halls, and cabarets of urban districts (Bouziri 2014). Singers like Chaba Warda Charlomante and microcelebrities like Choukri Pirate have attracted thousands of followers through performances to new raï. Some Algerians frown upon these TikToks, while others are proud to creatively spread their «sensory knowledges» (Hirschkind 2006). TikTokers derive social capital from dancing to anthems. They gain likes, gratitude, and followers, and establish bonds with others. One unique way for young people to engage in musical sociality is through didikas: what I call «sonic gifts».
From Cabaret to TikTok
I first encountered didikas in the comment section of an account whose TikToks I enjoyed watching. Didikas (Arabic phonemic orthography for the French word dédicace) literally translates as dedication, but also means request. It originated in radio shows and cabarets featuring raï performances, where audiences offered money to the singer (or a middleman) to praise their family or people present and perform their favorite song (Schade-Poulsen 1999, 47). This long-standing ceremonial act has spread to digital media, where audiences can request a didikas by commenting on a TikTok. Contrary to the cabarets, there is no money involved in this exchange, nor is it a competitive game where people make bids to get their tune played. Instead, it is a pleasurable gift-giving exchange.
The Soundedness of Belonging
Fans ask for a specific song, artist or – more commonly – for a TikTok dedicated to themselves, their kin, or their wilāya (district). In so doing, they proudly call attention to offline geographical origin and social relations inside online spaces. For example, a fan might comment «didikas khoya sohaib (bartout)» (didikas for my brother Sohaib (Bartout)). Audiences thus turn their comment into a gift for relatives or their communities and simultaneously get to enjoy a performance in their favorite genre. The performer directly responds to the fan’s comment with a gift in the form of a TikTok. At the heart of the giveaway is the highly celebrated genre raï, which represents young people’s refined class taste. Algerian youth who admire these TikToks send them to others, whereupon the maker gains prestige in return.
Like in Bronisław Malinowski’s ethnography of the kula in the Trobriand Islands – a ceremonial exchange of gifts that demonstrates the social value of objects beyond exchange and utility – the value of didikas lies in the relations and reputations that these gifts bring about. Sonic gifts are meaningful to young people who seek intimacy in a geographically dispersed digital network. On the one hand, the gifts represent translocal performance styles through which young people share a sense of belonging with Algerians at greater distance. On the other hand, through gifts, young people sustain intimate local networks with those nearby. In a viral world, sounds make life endurable and gratification lasting.
List of References
Abidin, Crystal, and Bondy Valdovinos Kaye. 2021. «Audio Memes, Earworms, and Templatability: The ‹aural turn› of Memes on TikTok». In Critical Meme Reader, edited by Chloë Arkenbout, Jack Wilson and Daniel de Zeeuw. 58–68. Amsterdam: Institute of Network Cultures.
Bouziri, Amira. 2014. «Le ‹Way way›, la nouvelle danse festive et subversive de la jeunesse algérienne». France24. Last modified on December 24, 2014. (https://observers.france24.com/fr/20141224-algerie-way-way-danse-festive-subversive-jeunesse-rai-ey-ey).
Hirschkind, Charles. 2006. The Ethical Soundscape. New York: Columbia University Press.
Malinowski, Bronislaw. 1922. Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea. London: G. Routledge & Sons.
Schade-Poulsen, Marc. 1999. The Social Significance of Raï: Men and Popular Music in Algeria. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Biography
Luca Bruls, also known as Lulu, is a junior researcher at Leiden University as part of the project «Decoding Digital Media in African Regions of Conflict». She holds a BA in Arabic language, a BA in cultural anthropology and a ResMA in Middle Eastern studies. Her experience working for various music platforms, alongside her DJ activities, led to an interest in understanding sound from a socioscientific perspective. In her master’s thesis she examined the role of sound on TikTok in Algeria. Follow him on SoundCloud.
From breakdance in Baghdad, the rebel dance pantsula in South Africa to the role of intoxications in club music: Dance can be a form a self-expression or self-loosing.
