Tag Archive | Steven Feld

Something’s Got a Hold on Me: ‘Lingering Whispers’ of the Atlantic Slave Trade in Ghana

Interior of Men's Slave Cells - Cape Coast Castle - Ghana, Image by Flickr User Adam Jones, PhD

Interior of Men’s Slave Cells – Cape Coast Castle – Ghana, Image by Flickr User Adam Jones, PhD

I am standing in the mouth of the female dungeon. I hesitate to breathe for fear the hole will swallow me. It is competing with a rising tide of anguish that also threatens to eat me alive. The hole is dark, dank and noisome yet oddly comforting. After all, this is why I, and others, come to this site of torture—to fill in the gaps of our history, to make better sense of our lives, to find some comfort. But how does one find home in throbbing loss? Why must one dig for answers—that, ultimately, produce new questions—within the locus of pain? I run my fingers across the length of the thick, cavernous rock. It is brown like my skin…I can’t tell where it ends or begins.

In a 2010 interview with FADER Magazine, poet Gil Scott-Heron declared, “The spirit should be material. It’s your blood. Inside your bloodstream is your parents and their parents and their parents and their parents and they want you to make it, because when you do what you do and you’re successful, then they’re happy you made it. You’re the link with immortality” (88).  What Scott-Heron articulates here is an ontological claim to spirit as inherently material and always already an eternal force over life’s struggles. The answers to the puzzle are embedded underneath the skin in an internal dialogue between spirit, mind, blood, bone and mass. This same ideological force is what pulls so many African American tourists back to Elmina and Cape Coast Castles in Ghana, in search of what Anne Bailey calls “lingering whispers” in African Voices of the Atlantic Slave Trade (3).  We spin back the wheel of time to re-trace its deep grooves and recover the loss/lost in dungeons, burial sites, Donkor Nsuo (The Slave River), and the Atlantic Ocean.

Marks made by slaves in the Cape Coast Castle slave dungeons, Image by Flickr user Floris van Halm

Marks made by slaves in the Cape Coast Castle slave dungeons, Image by Flickr user Floris van Halm

Perhaps one’s DNA is a recording that is not only biological and racial but cultural and cosmological.  Carolyn Cooper, in Noises In the Blood: Orality, Gender, and the “Vulgar” Body of Jamaican Popular Culture discusses “noises in the blood and reverberating echoes in the bone” as genealogical discourses of race.  Can one’s DNA be an embedded and embodied soundtrack that charts particular and interconnecting nodes of history? Are those memories, experiences, dreams and longings then “recorded on my body,” as Nancy Frey suggests in “Stories of the Return: Pilgrimage and Its Aftermaths” (101) ?   If we broke down the strands into coherent codes, or notes, or rearranged them into other combinations, what would they sound like? Would it produce a series of mixtapes, like hip hop records that sample older Black music—blues, R&B, funk, soul and jazz—and re-articulate them with new and emerging sounds? Perhaps it’s like Nathaniel Mackey muses in Bedouin Hornbook, “The last thing I remember is coming to the realization that what I was playing already existed on a record” (5).  The slave forts become the ontological point of racial and cultural identity because, according to Saidiya Hartman’s Lose Your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route,  “the dungeon was a womb in which the slave was born” and where, by the performance of walking through the “Door of Return” one’s social life can be recovered, revitalized or remade (111).

I strain to hear any forms of life. As Slavoj Žižek suggests in “‘I Hear You With My Eyes’; or, The Invisible Master,” “ultimately we hear things because we cannot see everything” (90 and 92).  According to tour guides at Elmina and Cape Coast Castles, the brick slave pens reverberate with the loss/lost of life, particularly at night, where bodiless moans, sobbing, screams and litanies can be heard rocking through the forts. But I can only detect distant sounds of activity beyond the back of the castle doors and “The Door of No Return.” The predominant noise is the Atlantic Ocean, crashing against the seashore. I hear the fishermen speak in rapid, hushed tones as their bodies struggle against the tiny canoes, their oars pulse against the waves as nets are thrown in with great precision. At the entrance of the castle, teenaged boys patronize African American tourists with “Sister! Brother!,” “Akwaaba”(Welcome), or “Welcome Home” as they pass folded letters with requests for contact information, money, or school donations, colorfully braided bracelets or other trinkets for sale.  Market women pierce the air with unique calls for customers to try their products of bagged ice water, oranges, sugarcane, pineapple, and groundnuts. Cab drivers compete for tourists’ attention with loud, intermittent honks, verbal petitions or hisses.

Outside Cape Coast Castle, Image by Flickr User Abby Flatcoat

Outside Cape Coast Castle, Image by Flickr User Abby Flatcoat

Outside the Door of No Return - Cape Coast Castle - Ghana, Image by Flickr User Adam Jones, PhD

Outside the Door of No Return – Cape Coast Castle – Ghana, Image by Flickr User Adam Jones, PhD

The shops in the courtyard just beyond the reception area are now filled with traditional instruments—drums, guitars, piano boxes, and rattles—beads, cloth, masks, paintings, rugs and postcards. It is no longer a market in Black flesh but of “African” objects, or cultural artifacts that amplify the racial identity of diasporic visitors, and make them more “real” once they return home. Shop owners busy themselves making crafts, passing the day chatting with one another and potential customers.

This cell in which I stand is one of many at the Twin Castles, the gargantuan fortresses that after five hundred years continue to hold fast to the southern coast of Ghana. The intersecting trails of fine cracks rupture the once-pristine white paint on the walls. . .possibly one for every person stolen out of the dungeons. The hull is transfixing, the hold captivating. For some reason, I am suddenly reminded of Rev. James Cleveland’s gospel song, “Something’s Got A Hold On Me” where he proclaims, “Something hit me/Up over my head/And run right to my feet.”

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Cleveland is talking about the power of the Holy Ghost to re-fashion his troubled life through spiritual re-birth. He sings of transformation from a life of misery to a brand new liberation that is manifested like a shock through his entire being and body. This new shock counters the crisis he regularly experiences “in the world.” This new bodily sensation permeates his entire being and acts as a shield against daily strife. Similarly, Etta James’ secular version, “Something’s Got A Hold On Me” attests, “My heart feels heavy/my feet feel light/I shake all over/ but I feel alright.”

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James’ something is more possessive of her person; it is the overwhelming yoke of romantic love that seeps into her pores and won’t let up. This occupation of James’ senses is so startlingly pleasurable that she longs for and needs it. Similarly, The Miracles’, “You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me” pronounces, “Don’t want to leave you/don’t want to stay here/don’t want to spend another day here/oh, oh, oh, I wanna sit now/I just can quit now.”

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Robinson expresses the ambivalence of love and longing—frustration, disappointment, ecstasy and desire—that crowds the senses with the sheer torture of being powerless over this structure of feeling. The protagonist is unable to shake hold of the beloved object, which makes him question his own capacity.

The “hold” becomes embodied and acts out in ways the mind cannot comprehend or prevent. It is the same hold the castles have on many African American visitors—an enigmatic narrative of love, loss and longing that the progeny of slaves refuse to relinquish and attempt to retell by inserting their bodies into slave histories. African Americans tour the castles as a way of tracing what Ralph Ellison calls “the grooves of history” in Invisible Man (443). Like a phonograph record, grooves are meant to be linear and progressive, but diasporic African history is awkward, uneven and full of odd ruptures, gaps and distortions. As James Clifford insists in “Diasporas,” “Diaspora discourse articulates, or bends together, both roots and routes” (251).  These grooves consist of a series of complex and overlapping relationships that are multi-directional and non-linear. Like an album record, the records of history indicate particular events of static (crisis), interludes (junctures), and rhythms (discourse).

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78 Record grooves by Flickr User Roger Smith

“The music is mysteriously ‘in’ these physical recesses, pressed into the vinyl,” Steven Feld argues in Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues, “and listeners may imagine journeying there to merge right ‘into the groove’” (111).  Grooves are doubly intentioned as: 1) the tracing of deep historical roots through specific routes of migration and 2) a physical and/or psychic space where utopic possibilities are imagined, alternative choices can be sought out, and past and future events are persistently contextualized within the present moment. To be “in a groove” is to be in tune with multiple realities simultaneously, to compress or stretch out time and space and one’s capacity in extraordinary ways.

Strangely, this cell is absent of all sound, even the static, white noise of silence. But it refuses to sound for me and tell me its history. I hear nothingness in the emptied hole. All that remains is a heavy vastness of what once was. As Mackey so profoundly articulates, “I wept for the notion of kin, as though the very idea were an occasion for tears, a pitiful claim to connection, a bleeding socket whose eye’d been plucked out” (21).

Over time, the cold stone has absorbed the blood, sweat, feces and bones of its inhabitants. It is the only material trace that proves the enslaved were once there.

Sionne R. Neely received her Ph.D. in August 2010 in American Studies & Ethnicity from the University of Southern California. Her dissertation examines how music artists in Ghana create transnational work alliances in response to shifting political regimes under independence, from Kwame Nkrumah’s administration to the present. Since 2005, Dr. Neely has recorded and archived more than 150 interviews with creative artists and industry professionals based in Ghana. In 2010, Dr. Neely co-founded ACCRA [dot] ALT, a cultural organization that promotes the alternative work of emerging Ghanaian artists through innovative programming and international exchange with artists worldwide. In 2011, she co-produced the Accra homecoming concert and documentary film for hip hop artist Blitz the Ambassador and Afro-Pean soul duo, Les Nubians. She is co-producer of Gbaa Mi Sané (Talk To Me), a short documentary film that explores the creative process of young visionary artists in Ghana (to be released in Summer 2013). Dr. Neely will also publish an article on hip hop practices in Ghana in the forthcoming Cambridge Companion Series (Fall 2013).

Quebec’s #casseroles: on participation, percussion and protest

en francais suivant

NOTE: Due to the ongoing nature of the protests and the official bilingualism of Quebec, Sounding Out! wanted to ensure Jonathan Sterne’s work could be read by as many participants of the manifs casseroles as possible. Therefore, we bring you his wonderful post in English and French, with the French below. This translation could not have happened without the lightning-fast English-to-French skills of the excellent Frédéric Milard, fredericmilard@yahoo.ca, and of course, Jonathan’s generous flexibility and patience. Merci beaucoup and bang on! –JSA, Editor-in-Chief

Every night around 8pm, in neighborhoods across Montreal and Quebec, you can hear the din of clanging pots and pans in manifs casseroles (manif is short for manifestation en cours, a street protest). About a block from our home in Montreal’s Villeray neighborhood, at the intersection of Jarry and St-Denis—one of the major epicenters—our local manif begins with people crossing in the crosswalks, banging loudly and rhythmically. We see neighbors and people from local businesses, families with small children, elderly and retired people, working adults, and many students.

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Sometimes a manif casserole sounds like random banging, but most I’ve experienced leave sheer raucous pounding for moments when one march meets up with another, or when someone on a balcony does something particularly cool to cheer on the marchers. A rhythm usually arises from the chaos, encircling the disorder and enveloping everyone. Sometimes the rhythms connect with chants like “la loi spéciale, on s’en câlisse,” which roughly translates to “we don’t give a fuck about your special law.”


Eventually, the numbers grow, and then all of a sudden, as if by magic or intuition, we stand in the middle of the intersection, blocking traffic. The police have taken to simply routing traffic away from the protest. Eventually, we march south on St-Denis toward other neighborhoods (the exact route varies), often swelling into a giant parade of thousands, or as E.P. Thompson might suggest, a parody of a formal state procession, announcing the “total publicity of disgrace” for its subject. (“Rough Music Reconsidered,” 6,8).


The numbers are part of the politics. For the last 100-odd days most Quebec students have been on strike against tuition increases of over 70% in five years. Some protests have numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The Quebec government tried to suppress the student movement by passing Bill 78 on May 18, 2012. Among its many preposterous provisions, any spontaneous gathering of over 50 people is illegal without prior police approval—even a picnic. Protesters not only must disclose their planned route, but also their means of transportation, According to Law 78, people are criminals the minute they join a protest, which is why so many people have taken to the streets.

21st Century Charivari­

In a piece I co-authored with Natalie Zemon Davis for the Globe and Mail, we connected the casseroles with a 700-year-old Francophone tradition of charivari. In English, the tradition is called “rough music”; there are also Italian, German and Spanish versions and the practice has spread from Europe throughout its former colonies. Groups of disguised young men would meet up at night and bang on pots and pans and make a grand din outside an offender’s home. Usually the offense was against some heterosexual norm, but they sometimes took on a political character, and older people would join in. As Allan Greer has shown in The Patriots and the People, they played an important role in Lower Canada’s failed rebellion of 1837-8, where charivaris greeted British officials who would not surrender their commissions (252-57).

Granville, “Eine Katzenmusik” lithograph published in La Caricature, 1 Sep. 1831

In the French tradition, charivaris were (usually) an alternative to violence on occasions where community reparation was possible. Charivaris were largely inclusive, as the subjects of harassment were usually allowed to return to good standing after paying some type of fine. This history may well have resounded in Jacques Attali’s ears when he described music is a simulacrum of violence in Noise: “the game of music resembles the game of power: monopolize the right to violence; provoke anxiety and then provide a feeling of security; provoke disorder and then propose order; create a problem in order to solve it” (28).

Of course, the broader multinational traditions of rough music have no guaranteed politics. Pots and pans were sometimes heard before lynchings in the American South, but also as improvised instruments for black musicians in New Orleans’ public squares. John Mowitt has even suggested that rough music is one of the cultural roots of the drummer’s trap kit, that backbone of rock and jazz music.

Image by Flickr User Scott Montreal

In the 20th century, varieties of rough music largely moved from domestic concerns to political protest, though again without guarantees. Rough music has greeted bank failures in Latin America and—most recently—Iceland; it was the sound of Spanish citizens opposed to their government’s involvement in the 2003 Iraq war. In Chile, protesters used pots and pans to protest Allende in the early 1970s, and later to protest Pinochet in the mid-1980s.

The casseroles thus have symbolic roots in charivari, but of course they are also creatures of social media and the particularities of Quebec culture and politics. A popular 2003 Loco Locass song “Libérez-nous des libéraux” (“Liberate Us From the Liberals”), written for the provincial election, mentions a charivari for Quebec’s liberal party.

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And, as the student movement has already demonstrated, the protest cultures here are extremely vital. While New York’s May Day Parade was happy to attract tens of thousands in a metropolitan area of over ten million, participation here can be counted in the hundreds of thousands for a region with three million.

Rhythm and Participation

We need to listen to the casseroles protests to understand them. They are, after all, embodied acts in the old-fashioned sense, performed loudly and defiantly by people in the streets. They have a politics of volume and frequency, as well as rhythm.

In Percussion, Mowitt writes: “there is something extraordinary about the importance of beating, of creating a specifically percussive din … as though a distinctly sonoric response was called for when a breach in the community’s self-perception was at issue” (98). Rhythmic participation in the casseroles is a kind of political involvement, and participation of various kinds plays a role in most of the positive political visions associated with music.

Image courtesy of Flickr User Juan Madrigal

“Participation is the opposite of alienation,” wrote Charlie Keil in his essay “Participatory Discrepancies and the Power of Music”, and his account of music as a social process in “Motion and Feeling through Music” helps us better understand the casseroles’ particular combination of clangor and rhythm. Writing amidst massive changes in the 1960s, Keil challenged prevailing theories of musical affect, like Leonard Meyer’s, which assumed that musical meaning was lexical and syntactic, contained in melody and harmony. While Meyer attempted to draw universal conclusions about emotion from Western Art Music and its attendant values, Keil derived his theory of musical affect from African-American traditions like blues and jazz. Against the ideals of concert hall perfection and rational mastery, Keil—along with writers such as Christopher Small, Leroi Jones, and Steven Feld—argued that music should be understood as action. Thus, Small coined the term “musicking,” describing music not as a collection of rarefied texts performed by experts and professionals, but rather as a field of social action that includes all participants, from musicians to the people cleaning up after the event.

By the 1980s, Keil specified the affective power of music through its “participatory discrepancies,” the mixture of groove on one hand, and timbre and texture on the other (96): “music, to be personally and socially valuable, must be ‘out of time’ and ‘out of tune.’” Over the minutes and hours, the casseroles sway in and out of both, as people join and exit, and as the procession happens to each new block. Because of their unique musical character, the nightly manifs casseroles are profoundly inclusive. They are in many ways closer to the utopian ideals of collective musicking one finds in Keil and Small’s work, and that of Attali’s “composition,” than the so-called digital revolution in musical instruments. They are also good fun, as any child will tell you.

Contre la loi spéciale : les casseroles!, May 23, 2012 in Quartier Latin, Montreal, QC, CA, image by Flickr User . . .bung

Despite Anglophone press caricatures that recast the protests as the product of entitled, rabble-rousing students, the casseroles transcend differences that often structure local politics–like language, class, and race–as well as gender and age, which can present barriers in music-making (especially drumming) in addition to politics. Because the instruments are simple, cheap and improvised, almost anyone can join. Because the music is deliberately non-professional, the ideals of mastery and perfection and the weighty gendered and aged assumptions about who can be a “good musician” are inoperative. The beats are easy to pick up and play in time—and if you swing a little out there, all the better. I have heard skilled drummers syncopate catchy rhythms on single drums or cymbals, but most people are content to simply move in and out of time with everyone else. (My partner and I join with maracas and an otherwise-rarely-used buffalo drum—I am a bassist at heart—though we offer guests pots and pans).

Casseroles 26 mai 2012, Place Emilie Gamellin, Image by Flickr User scottmontreal

Taken together, volume and frequency work to immerse some in its proximal footprint, while hailing others at a distance. The sheer power and volume for someone inside a casseroles protest is hard to convey. My neighbor on a pot is a lot like my drummer hitting a cymbal. The transient (the sharp, initial part of the hit) can be piercing at close range due to frequencies at the very top of the audible range traveling at a high sound pressure level (this is why drummers often lose their hearing faster than guitarists). Inside the casseroles march, our ears are percussed with every hit; many people show up wearing earplugs.

The frequencies dull a bit farther away, and the more pitched sounds of the casseroles tickle the ear’s center of hearing in a gentler cacophony that is both declarative and invitational. Since the point of the protests is to audibly flout Law 78, the fact that they can be heard much further than they can be seen helps make this lawbreaking an expressly public and political act. Montreal mayor Gerard Tremblay acknowledged as much: “They can stay on their balconies to make noise. I’m in Outremont [a wealthy enclave next to Mile End and the Plateau, another epicenter of the protests] and I can hear it. No need to go onto the street, to walk around and paralyse Montreal.”

The volume’s territorial reach also works as an invitation to join in, either by banging along on one of Montreal’s ubiquitous porches, or by entering the procession itself. While at the other end of the frequency spectrum from Steve Goodman’s “bass materialism,” it affords some of the “collective construction of a vibrational ecology” he describes in Sonic Warfare (196), as the whole of the pots and pans becomes greater than the sum of its parts.

Participants’ overwhelming response to the casseroles has been a kind of weighty sentimentality, an outpouring of emotion and relief. One can hear it in the viral video that has been making rounds:


and one can see it in letters like this one to the editors of Le Devoir:

Now people greet and talk. Now neighborhood meetings, discussions, vigils start up casually among neighbours on the steps and balconies of Montreal. The neighborhood will be less and less alien. This is a true political victory!

We should repeat this friendly beating [the evocation of tapage doesn’t quite work as well in English] possibly in other forms, until the land is occupied by neighbors who recognize one another, encounter one another each day by chance, and have known one another over the years. That is how we live in a place, that is how we become citizens.

My heart swells with joy.

Because “the clashing of pots and pans […] is so blatantly percussive, it is hard not to hear in the retributive structure of rough music something like a beating back—a backbeat, in short, or a response on the part of the community to what it perceives as a provocation, a call to act,“ writes Mowitt (98). The connections to charivari matter: the casseroles protests are local, neighborhood, community movements asking for a simple redress—the repeal of a heinous law. Of course there are many other resonances: signs can be seen challenging various aspects of neoliberalism alongside symbols of Quebec nationalism (which, I must remind Anglophone Canadians, is not automatically separatist). In my neighborhood, people collect food donations.

“If you keep us from dreaming, we’ll keep you from sleeping,” Image from Flickr user ScottMontreal

When we recently spoke about the differences between student activists in the 1960s and now, my former teacher Lawrence Grossberg pointed to the central role of music in the 1960s. Those movements had songs that everyone knew, and through which shared affect grew. Like many other observers, he doesn’t see music playing the same role today (perhaps supplanted by a wider range of media practices, as the usual story goes).

Apart from viral videos and the revivified Loco Locass tune, I’m not sure the current Quebec movement has unifying songs.

But it certainly has a groove we can move to.

Many thanks to Natalie Zemon Davis, Manon Desrosiers, Nicholas Dew, Dylan Mulvin, Derek Nystrom and Carrie Rentschler for comments on and conversations leading up to this piece. Thanks also to Jennifer Stoever-Ackerman for the space to do it and the engaged editorial eye.

Jonathan Sterne teaches in the Department of Art History and Communication Studies and the History and Philosophy of Science Program at McGill University. He is author of The Audible Past: Cultural Origins of Sound Reproduction (Duke, 2003), MP3: The Meaning of a Format (Duke 2012); and numerous articles on media, technologies and the politics of culture. He is also editor of The Sound Studies Reader (Routledge, 2012). Visit his website at http://sterneworks.org.

Quebec’s #casseroles: on participation, percussion and protest

Tous les soirs vers 20 heures, plusieurs quartiers de Montréal et de Québec s’animent au tumulte des manifs de casseroles. J’habite tout près d’un des épicentres du mouvement, à l’intersection des rues Jarry et Saint-Denis, dans le quartier Villeray à Montréal. Ici, comme ailleurs, la manifestation démarre quand quelques personnes se mettent à traverser sans discontinuer des passages piétons en martelant poêles et chaudrons. Ce sont des voisins, des commerçants du coin, de jeunes familles, des personnes âgées, des retraités, des travailleurs et, surtout, des étudiants.

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Si, parfois, les manifestations de casseroles peinent à s’élever au-dessus du simple tapage informe, la plupart de celles dans lesquelles j’ai été tiennent en réserve le vacarme pur et simple pour les moments où l’on croise une autre marche ou lorsqu’il est question de saluer ceux qui, sur leur balcon, se distinguent par leur ferveur pour la cause. Autrement, le chaos cède généralement la place à une structure rythmique qui vient encercler chacun et contenir le désordre. Parfois même, les rythmes s’accrochent aux slogans qu’on scande, du type : « la loi spéciale, on s’en câlisse! ».

Bientôt, les rangs grossissent et, sans qu’on sache trop comment, comme par magie ou par intuition, nous voilà en plein milieu d’un carrefour à bloquer la circulation. Les policiers, dépassés, se contentent de faire dévier le trafic dans les rues adjacentes. La marche finit par descendre le boulevard Saint-Laurent vers d’autres quartiers plus au sud (les itinéraires varient sans cesse). Elle se transforme alors en un gigantesque défilé de plusieurs milliers de personnes ou, comme le suggère E.P Thompson, en une parodie des processions politiques, annonçant pour ses sujets une « total publicity of disgrace » (“Rough Music Reconsidered,” p.6,8).

En politique, les chiffres ont leur importance. Depuis plus de 100 jours, une bonne partie des étudiants du Québec fait la grève pour s’opposer à une augmentation des frais de scolarité de plus de 70 % sur cinq ans. Certaines des manifestations se sont chiffrées à plusieurs centaines de milliers de personnes. Le 18 mai 2012, le gouvernement du Québec a voté la loi 78 pour tenter de mater le mouvement étudiant. Une de ses nombreuses dispositions aberrantes rend illégale toute manifestation spontanée de 50 personnes et plus si celle-ci n’a pas été approuvée au préalable par les autorités; un pique-nique rentre dans cette catégorie. Les manifestants doivent révéler non seulement leur itinéraire, mais aussi le moyen de transport qu’ils entendent utiliser. Selon la loi 78, une personne est coupable dès qu’elle se joint à une manifestation; c’est pour cela que tant de personnes sont descendues dans la rue.

Un charivari du vingt-et-unième siècle

Dans un article écrit en collaboration avec Natalie Zemon Davis pour le Globe and Mail, j’ai rapproché le phénomène des manifestations de casseroles à la tradition du charivari, qu’on retrouve dans les pays francophones depuis 700 ans. En anglais, on appelle rough music cette tradition, qui existe aussi dans des variantes italienne, allemande et espagnole et dont la pratique s’est propagée de l’Europe vers ses anciennes colonies. Des groupes de jeunes hommes déguisés, auxquels se joignaient parfois des personnes plus âgées, se retrouvaient le soir pour faire du tapage devant la maison d’un individu au comportement jugé déviant, généralement à l’aune de quelque norme hétérosexuelle. La faute, cependant, pouvait être de nature politique. Ainsi, comme l’a montré Allan Greer (The Patriots and the People, p.252-57), les charivaris jouèrent un rôle important au Bas-Canada lors de la rébellion manquée de 1837-38 et visèrent les fonctionnaires au service de la Couronne qui refusaient d’abandonner leurs fonctions.

Granville, “Eine Katzenmusik” lithograph published in La Caricature, 1 Sep. 1831

Dans la tradition française, les charivaris étaient (habituellement) une solution de rechange à la violence dans des cas où il était possible d’expier sa faute envers la communauté. Les charivaris avaient un caractère inclusif, les victimes rentrant généralement en grâce après avoir fait amende honorable. Il est probable que Jacques Attali, dans son livre Noise ait eu en tête de telles pratiques quand il décrit la musique comme un simulacre de la violence : « The game of music resembles the game of power: monopolize the right to violence; provoke anxiety and then provide a feeling of security; provoke disorder and then propose order; create a problem in order to solve it » (p.28).

Les diverses traditions internationales de la rough music n’ont évidemment pas toutes cette dimension politique. Le son des casseroles a parfois servi de prélude aux lynchages du sud des États-Unis, mais a aussi enrichi les improvisations des musiciens noirs dans les squares publiques de La Nouvelle-Orléans. John Mowitt suggère même que la rough music est une des origines culturelles de la batterie, pierre angulaire du rock et du jazz.

Image by Flickr User Scott Montreal

Au 20e siècle, les variantes de la rough music ont migré, en grande partie, des affaires domestiques vers les manifestations politiques, avec encore une fois quelques bémols. La rough music a ainsi servi de bande sonore à la faillite des banques en Amérique Latine et, plus récemment, en Islande; c’est au son des casseroles qu’en 2003 les Espagnols se sont insurgés contre leur gouvernement au sujet de l’engagement de leur pays en Irak. Au début des années 70, au Chili, les opposants d’Allende sortirent leurs casseroles, imités quinze ans plus tard par ceux de Pinochet.

Le phénomène des manifestations de casseroles puise donc ses racines symboliques dans le charivari. Mais pas seulement : il est aussi, bien entendu, une créature des médias sociaux et le fruit des particularismes politiques et culturels du Québec. Une célèbre chanson du groupe Loco Locass, Libérez-nous des libéraux, composée au lendemain des élections provinciales de 2003, appelle ainsi explicitement au charivari contre le Parti libéral du Québec.

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Les traditions de militantisme, comme celle entre autres du mouvement étudiant, sont aussi très actives. Tandis que New York, forte de ses 10 millions d’habitants, s’enorgueillit d’attirer les manifestants par dizaines de milliers pour son défilé du premier mai, ils se comptent, à Montréal, une ville d’à peine trois millions d’habitants, par centaines de milliers.

Rythme et participation

Il faut écouter ces manifestations de casseroles pour en saisir le sens. En effet, elles sont avant tout des spectacles vivants (au sens classique du terme) donnés dans la rue, par bravade et à plein volume. Elles participent ainsi d’une politique du volume et des fréquences, une politique du rythme.

Dans son livre Percussion, Mowitt écrit : « There is something extraordinary about the importance of beating, of creating a specifically percussive din … as though a distinctly sonoric response was called for when a breach in the community’s self-perception was at issue » (p.98). La participation aux rythmes des casseroles est une forme d’engagement politique; de même, la participation sous toutes ses formes joue un rôle dans la plupart des visions politiques positives portées par la musique.

Image courtesy of Flickr User Juan Madrigal

Charlie Keil écrit dans son essai P“Participatory Discrepancies and the Power of Music”: « Participation is the opposite of alienation ». Sa description de la musique comme processus social permet de mieux saisir la combinaison particulière de bruit métallique et de rythme qu’on retrouve dans les manifestations de casseroles. Plongé au coeur des bouleversements des années 60, Keil entreprit de réfuter les théories alors dominantes de l’affect musical, comme celle de Leonard Meyer pour qui le sens de la musique était lexical et syntaxique, et résidait dans la mélodie et l’harmonie. Alors que Meyer cherchait à tirer des conclusions universelles sur l’émotion depuis l’art musical occidental et ses valeurs sous-jacentes, Keil, lui, élaborait une théorie de l’affect musical à partir des traditions afro-américaines, telles que le jazz et le blues. S’opposant aux idéaux de virtuosité formelle et de perfection des salles de concert, Keil — tout comme Christopher Small, Leroi Jones, et Steven Feld— soutenait que la musique doit avant tout être comprise comme action. C’est pourquoi Small a proposé le terme musicking : la musique doit être conçu non pas comme une collection de textes ésotériques joués par de rares experts et musiciens professionnels, mais plutôt comme un champ d’action sociale qui inclut tous les participants, des musiciens jusqu’à ceux qui s’occupent de nettoyer les rues après les manifestations.

Dans les années 80, Keil précisa la nature de ce pouvoir affectif de la musique grâce à sa description des participatory discrepancies (qu’on pourrait traduire par « hiatus dans la participation ») : un mélange de groove d’un côté, et de timbre et texture musicale de l’autre. Il écrit : « Music, to be personally and socially valuable, must be ‘out of time’ and ‘out of tune » (p.96). Au fil des minutes et des heures, les manifs de casseroles passent d’un ton à l’autre, suivent et perdent le rythme pour en créer d’autres à mesure que la procession grossit en nombre à chaque pâté de maisons. En raison de leur caractère musical unique, ces manifestations nocturnes demeurent profondément inclusives. Elles se rapprochent, à bien des égards, de l’utopie du collective musicking des travaux de Keil et de Small, et de celle de la composition décrite par Jacques Attali. En plus, et ça n’importe quel enfant vous le dira, ces manifestations sont franchement amusantes.

Contre la loi spéciale : les casseroles!, May 23, 2012 in Quartier Latin, Montreal, QC, CA, image by Flickr User . . .bung

N’en déplaise à la presse anglophone qui aime à caricaturer les manifestations comme la seule oeuvre d’étudiants gâtés et dissipés, les manifestations de casseroles viennent transcender les différences qui souvent structurent la politique locale — la langue, les classes sociales, les différences de race, de genre et d’âge —, tout ce qui peut faire obstacle à la production de musique (particulièrement celle faite à l’aide de percussions) ainsi qu’à l’implication citoyenne. Parce que les instruments sont improvisés, simples et pas chers, tout le monde peut participer. Délibérément non professionnelle, la musique se départit de ses idéaux de virtuosité et de perfection, et l’argument éculé selon lequel il y a un âge et un sexe pour être un « bon musicien » devient soudainement caduc. Les rythmes sont faciles à suivre et à reproduire; qui perd la cadence en créer de nouvelles, et ne s’en porte que mieux. J’ai entendu des batteurs chevronnés se lancer dans des rythmes syncopés sur des tambours ou des cymbales, mais la plupart des gens se contentent de suivre les cadences capricieuses du groupe. (Ma compagne et moi — un bassiste invétéré — avons déterré nos maracas et un vieux tambour en bison pour l’occasion, et laissons les chaudrons aux invités.)

Casseroles 26 mai 2012, Place Emilie Gamellin, Image by Flickr User scottmontreal

Pris ensemble, volume et fréquences pénètrent complètement les marcheurs qui tombent dans leur aire, en même temps qu’ils interpellent ceux qui se tiennent au loin. Il est difficile de rendre compte du volume et de la puissance purs ressentis à l’intérieur d’une manif de casseroles. Mon voisin qui se déchaîne sur son chaudron produit le même effet que mon batteur qui frappe sur une cymbale : à proximité, le son transitoire (la partie initiale, suraiguë du coup) peut être perçant parce qu’il mobilise des fréquences au faîte du champ auditif et qui voyagent à un niveau élevé de pression sonore (c’est pourquoi l’audition d’un batteur se détériore souvent plus vite que celle d’un guitariste). À l’intérieur d’une manif de casseroles, chaque coup atteint l’oreille; on voit ainsi beaucoup de manifestants porter des bouchons.

Bientôt, les fréquences ardues s’estompent quelque peu, les sons les plus aigus des casseroles finissent par amadouer l’oreille et se fondent en une douce cacophonie, à la fois déclarative et invitante. Puisque le but de ces manifestations est de bafouer la loi 78 de la manière la plus assourdissante possible, le fait qu’on puisse les entendre plus loin qu’on puisse les voir transforme ce délit en un acte public et politique exprès. C’est d’ailleurs ce que le maire de Montréal, Gérard Tremblay, reconnaît bien malgré lui : « Ils peuvent rester sur leur balcon pour faire du bruit. On va l’entendre le bruit. Moi, je suis à Outremont [une riche enclave entre le Mile-end et le Plateau, deux des épicentres du mouvement] et je l’entends le bruit. Pas besoin d’aller sur la rue, de se promener et de commencer à paralyser Montréal ».

La portée territoriale du volume fonctionne aussi comme une invitation à se joindre à la manifestation, soit en faisant du tapage sur les porches (emblématiques) de Montréal, soit en entrant dans la marche même. Si elle se situe à l’extrémité opposée du spectre sonore de ce bass materialism dont parle Steve Goodman dans son livre Sonic Warfare, cette portée territoriale du volume participe de cette « collective construction of a vibrational ecology » qu’il décrit (p.196). Là aussi, le tout formé par les casseroles finit par dépasser la somme de ses parties.

La réaction souvent unanime des participants aux manifs de casseroles est pleine d’effusion et teintée d’un sentiment de soulagement, comme on peut l’entendre dans cette vidéo virale qui a beaucoup circulé :

et comme on peut le constater dans bon nombre de lettres, comme celle-ci, envoyée au journal Le Devoir :

Désormais, les gens vont se saluer, se parler. Maintenant, mine de rien, s’amorcent entre voisins des rencontres, des discussions, des veillées sur les perrons et sur les balcons de Montréal. Le voisinage sera de moins en moins étranger. Ça, c’est une vraie de vraie victoire politique !

Il faut répéter ce tapage sympathique, éventuellement sous d’autres formes, jusqu’à ce que le territoire soit entièrement occupé par des voisins qui se reconnaissent, se parlent, se fréquentent au hasard des jours et se connaissent au fil des ans. C’est comme ça qu’on habite un lieu, c’est comme ça que nous devenons citoyens.

J’ai le coeur gonflé de joie.


Mowitt écrit : « [Because] the clashing of pots and pans […] is so blatantly percussive, it is hard not to hear in the retributive structure of rough music something like a beating back—a backbeat, in short, or a response on the part of the community to what it perceives as a provocation, a call to act » (p.98). Le rapprochement avec le charivari est ici capital : les manifs de casseroles sont en effet des mouvements locaux, communautaires qui, à l’échelle d’un quartier, demandent réparation : l’abrogation d’une loi liberticide. Évidemment, d’autres éléments entrent ici en résonance : on y voit autant de signes de défi contre certains aspects du néo-libéralisme que de symboles du nationalisme québécois (qui, il est bon de le rappeler aux Canadiens anglais, n’est pas forcément indépendantiste). Dans mon quartier, on organise même des collectes de denrées alimentaires.

“If you keep us from dreaming, we’ll keep you from sleeping,” Image from Flickr user ScottMontreal

Alors que je discutais récemment des différences existant entre l’agitation étudiante des années 60 et celle d’aujourd’hui avec mon ancien professeur Lawrence Grossberg, celui-ci soulignait le rôle de premier plan joué par la musique à l’époque : ces mouvements avaient des chansons que tout le monde connaissait et qui venaient renforcer des affects communs. Comme beaucoup d’autres, il considère que la musique n’assume plus aujourd’hui le même rôle (supplantée, peut-être, par un ensemble plus large de nouvelles pratiques médiatiques, comme le veut l’analyse habituelle).

Mis à part les vidéos virales et la reprise de la rengaine de Loco Locass, je ne suis pas certain que le mouvement québécois actuel possède de tels hymnes rassembleurs.

Une chose est incontestable cependant : elle a un groove sur lequel il fait bon marcher.

French Translation by Frédéric Milard, fredericmilard@yahoo.ca

Many thanks to Natalie Zemon Davis, Manon Desrosiers, Nicholas Dew, Dylan Mulvin, Derek Nystrom and Carrie Rentschler for comments on and conversations leading up to this piece. Thanks also to Jennifer Stoever-Ackerman for the space to do it and the engaged editorial eye.

Jonathan Sterne teaches in the Department of Art History and Communication Studies and the History and Philosophy of Science Program at McGill University. He is author of The Audible Past: Cultural Origins of Sound Reproduction (Duke, 2003), MP3: The Meaning of a Format (Duke 2012); and numerous articles on media, technologies and the politics of culture. He is also editor of The Sound Studies Reader (Routledge, 2012). Visit his website at http://sterneworks.org.

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