Gendered Instruments

The discoursal features and wider significance of music and lyrics have each been addressed through several different fields of study and theoretical approaches. Linguistics, discourse analysis, musicology and ethnomusicology have all been employed to examine and interpret that which is ‘said with sound’ (van Leeuwen 1999:4), how layers of personal and social identities, cultural constructs and values shape (and are shaped by) the sound of a performance. But what can be said of the instruments used to make these sounds?

Dournon & Arom (1981) adopt the view of musical instruments as tools and artifacts that both produce sound and carry a variety of meanings reflective of their cultures. Independent of the musician and the specific discourse of their performance, instruments are said to be objects with identities and powers of their own (Doubleday 2008). This perspective can effectively set the performer against the instrument, creating a ‘contested site of meaning’, whereby instruments can be implicated in different kinds of personal, cultural and social relations (Bates 2012).

There is a wealth of research in the field of western music education that attests to the way in which society perceives musical instruments as possessing a particular gender (Abeles 2009, Wych 2012, Abeles et al. 2014 among others). As school aged-children select which instruments to learn, this genderisation has a direct influence on the decision making process.

Studies conducted in a number of countries have consistently found that flutes, violins and clarinets (smaller, higher-pitched) are typically played by girls, while instruments such as drums, trumpets and trombones (louder, lower-pitched) are typically played by boys. (In research carried out by Hallam et al. (2008), the least gendered instruments were African drums, cornet, French horn, saxophone and tenor horn). Apparent contradictions of these associations are often deemed transgressions, punishable by social or relational ostracizing (the sexualisation or questioning of one’s musicianship, for instance).

In all but a handful of nations, this imbalance continues through to semi-professional and professional levels. Studies by Sheldon and Price (2005) into the make up of 170 ensembles in 25 countries showed that whether male dominated (much of Europe and Africa), female dominated (Australia, England, Iceland and Japan) or equally divided (Australia and North America), the split across instruments echoed many of the same patterns of genderisation (Wych 2012).

Launched in 2014, Zohra is the first all-female orchestral ensemble in Afghanistan.

This carries into the ‘masculine-coded’ domains that have been cornerstones of artistic creativity in Western music since the early 20th century: pubs, bars, clubs, recording studios and record shops (Bayton 2000). In popular music, the demarcation between male and female instrumental roles can be most clearly observed in the use of drums, electronic instruments – particularly guitars – and other technology (for DJing, mixing, production and mastering), all of which may be considered by audiences as ‘interruptive to femininity’ (Green 1997). It is interesting to note that, while the role of public performer has historically been dominated by men, in the 130 years that preceded the invention of the electric guitar, female [acoustic] guitarists actually outnumbered them. This serves to illustrate how female musicians were, and still are, pushed to the margins of society, with the mastery of one’s instrument seen as a gender-privileged aspect of musicianship (Koskoff 1995, Jarman-Ivens 2011).

The didjerdidu (digeridoo) presents an interesting deviation from these ingrained relationships and underlines the ‘fluid and negotiable’ nature of gender itself. An instrument with a history spanning almost 2,000 years, its symbolic meaning and the discourse around it has shifted significantly in the last four decades.

Originally developed by the indigenous Aboriginal people of what is now northern Australia, the ‘personhood’ and symbolic qualities of the didjerdidu are continually debated. In traditional ceremonies it is almost exclusively played by males – indeed, among some indigenous communities it is thought that a woman who touches the instrument would become pregnant (Barwick 1997).

Of course, this certainly would not be the first culture in which the ‘division of musical labour’ is linked to notions of gender ideology and control. Music is central to many religious ceremonies, secular rituals, rites of passage and even social movements. Within these settings, there are often defined gender roles which are reflective of long-established socioeconomic power relations. With very few exceptions, men are principal musicians or bandleaders while women are singers, dancers or other accompanists.

However, the specific case of the didjerdidu draws into focus a conflict around its social meaning and cultural (re)positioning in today’s Australia, interweaving issues of nationalism, popularism and modernity. Notably, since the 1980s, the instrument ‘has been considered the primary aural signifier of Aboriginality, both in Australian public culture and New Age discourse’ (Doubleday 2008), where gender associations are more fluid and attitudes to ceremony more eclectic (Lopez-Atkinson 2017). In order for the instrument to be accepted as an icon in the Australian mainstream, it has been largely disassociated from its gender-stratified traditions.

The status conferred to the didjerdidu on both sides of this debate elucidates how interpretations of an inanimate object can directly inform the definitions of ‘persons, institutes or cultures’ (Tilley et al., 2006:10). Not only does the instrument become a medium through which ideas, customs and social behaviour materialise but, having first been endued with specific powers, then co-opted and recontextualised in a new social structure with its own value systems and gender expectations, the didjerdidu constructs multiple ethnicities and/or identities for a single social group (Halstead & Rolvsjord 2015).

There are very few, if any, areas of culture that are free of bias. Likewise, instruments are not simply passive tools; they directly facilitate ‘the performance of personal and social identities’ (Bates 2012, Dawe 2001). Musicians may use an instrument to empower themselves, either by affirming roles granted through a given social order, or by willfully disrupting these social conventions. This approach to the social lives of instruments points to what Jones (1994:349) describes as a ‘complex, dynamic and frequently ambiguous history of contestation, co-option and reconstruction’ that continues to the present day.


Abeles, H. F., Hafeli, M., & Sears, C. (2014). Musicians crossing musical instrument gender stereotypes: a study of computer-mediated communication. Music Education Research, 16(3), 346-366.

Barwick, L. (1997). Gender ‘taboos’ and didjeridus. In K. Neuenfeldt (Ed.), The didjerdidu: From Arnhem land to internet (pp. 89-98). Sydney: John Libbey and Company.

Bates, E. (2012). The social life of musical instruments. Ethnomusicology, 56(3), 363–395.

Bayton, M. (2000). Women and popular music making in urban spaces. In J. Darke, S. Ledwith, R. Woods, & J. Campling (Eds.), Visibility and voice in urban space. Basingstoke: Palgrave.

Dawe, K. (2001). People, Objects, Meaning: Recent Work on the Study and Collection of Musical Instruments. The Galpin Society Journal, 54, 219.

Doubleday, V. (2008). Sounds of Power: An Overview of Musical Instruments and Gender. Ethnomusicology Forum, 17(1), 3-39.

Dournon, G., & Arom, S. (1981). Guide for the Collection of Traditional Musical Instruments. Paris: UNESCO.

Green, L. (1997). Music, Gender, Education. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Hallam, S., Rogers, L., & Creech, A. (2008). Gender differences in musical instrument choice. International Journal of Music Education, 26(1), 7-19.

Halstead, J., & Rolvsjord, R. (2015). The gendering of musical instruments: what is it? Why does it matter to music therapy. Nordic Journal of Music Therapy, 26(1), 3-24.

Jarman-Ivens, F. (2011). Queer Voices: Technologies, Vocalities, and the Musical Flaw. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan.

Koskoff, E. (1995). When Women Play: The Relationship between Musical Instruments and Gender Style. Canadian University Music Review, 16(1), 114.

Lopez-Atkinson, S. (2017). The Didgeridoo, an Instrument of Oppression or Decolonisation. In Feminism (s) in Early Childhood (pp. 25-33). Springer.

Sheldon, D. A., & Price, H. E. (2005). Sex and instrumentation distribution in an international cross-section of wind and percussion ensembles. Bulletin of the Council for Research in Music Education13, 163, 43–51.

Tilley, C., Keane, W., Kuechler-Fogden, S., Rowlands, M., & Spyer, P. (2006). Handbook of Material Culture. London: Sage Publications Ltd.

van Leeuwen, T. (1999). Speech, Music, Sound. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan.

Wych, G. (2012). Gender and Instrument Associations, Stereotypes, and Stratification: A Literature Review. Update: Applications of Research in Music Education, 30(2), 22-31.

Dying for a Song


In this recently broadcast radio programme, BBC Radio 4 speaks to musicians from across the globe who have been persecuted for their art. Some have risked being banned or exiled from their communities for speaking out against perceived injustices and corruption; others are being tortured, imprisoned and even killed.

It’s an engaging and illuminating listen. Not just because one can better understand the value and power of music as a force that can challenge and change aspects of society, but also becuase it highlights the price and responsibility that comes with having a public platform for one’s art.

From the BBC website:

Rex Bloomstein hears from musicians from around the world about how they have been persecuted for raising their voices against political, cultural or religious repression. He talks to artists whose say their songs have led to their imprisonment, torture and to the continuing threat of violence; artists who have been driven from their homelands, artists who, literally, risk dying for a song.

Freemuse, an international organisation set up to defend freedom of expression for musicians says in one recent year alone it registered 469 cases of censorship and attacks on artists around the world, nearly double the previous year’s figure.

In the wake of horrific murders, such as that of Syrian protest singer Ibrahim Quashoush, found dead with his throat cut, Rex hears stories of tremendous courage and determination not to be intimidated and silenced. Egyptian singer Ramy Essam tells talks of he was brutally tortured after his songs rallied the crowds in Tahir Square during the Arab Spring. Iranian singer Shahin Najafi continues to perform around the world despite a fatwa calling for his death, after his songs upset the religious leaders in his home country. He says: “At night I turn to the wall and slowly close my eyes and wait for someone to slit my throat”.

Lebanese rock band Mashrou’Leila talk of how various Arab countries have tried to suppress their often provocative satirical songs addressing politics, religion and gay love.

Deeyah Kahn tells Rex that she was forced to flee Norway in the face of violent threats from her own Pakistani community aimed at stopping her singing. And he hears from Iranian singer Mahsa Vahdat, banned from singing in her own country because she’s a woman.

Listen to Dying For a Song here.

Form 696: The Police vs Grime Music

One might say that grime music has always been trouble. The problem child of late 90s UK garage, grime swapped the champagne dances and hyperspeed feminine R’n’B vocals for braggadocio, street tales and a willfully jarring sound palette thick with foreboding and menace.

Even as early luminaries like Wiley, Dizzee Rascal, Logan Sama and Kano (later Lethal Bizzle and Skepta) packed venues and amassed sales, plaudits and prizes, the grime scene has continually been accused of providing a breeding ground for violence. In its 15 years, countless beefs and a small number of violent incidents in and around performance venues have only fanned the flames that the grime music and its parties harboured and glorified criminality.

Unsurprisingly, the state of the grime scene has not gone unnoticed by authorities. In 2008, The Metropolitan Police devised Form 696, a risk-assessment form that must be submitted by performance venues two weeks prior to an event in order to determine whether a licence should be granted (or revoked); failure to submit it can lead to a £20,000 fine or six months’ imprisonment. The form requests that licensees provide personal information about performers (stage name, real name, date of birth), and is specific to situations where:

“…you hold an event that is – promoted/advertised to the public at any time before the event, and predominantly features DJs or MCs performing to a recorded backing track, and runs anytime between the hours of 10pm and 4am, and is in a nightclub or a large public house.”

Metropolitan Police, Promotion Event Risk Assessment Form 696

Form 696 was revised from eight to four pages in 2008, the original having gone a step further, requesting the home addresses and phone numbers of all artists on the bill, and that details of ethnic groups likely to attend the performance be declared (these were removed as it was thought that they did not add value to the form).

The specificity of the above definition draws a uncomfortably tight border – one might say a noose – around black electronic music: techno, hiphop, dubstep, reggae, jungle and grime. Given the huge resurgence in grime music in the past five years, it is not surprising that the overtones of racial profiling have drawn criticism from prominent figures within the scene.

Released in 2014 and presented by JME, The Police vs Grime Music examines the effect of Form 696 on the grime scene and questions the lack of transparency in the process. Crucially, it asks why there has been no attempt made by the Metropolitan Police to engage in discourse with the scene’s promoters, artists and audiences on the issue of safety at grime events.

As the documentary notes, Form 696 (and by extension the police force) does not have the power to shut down an event, but it does place venues under huge pressure to pull out on the grounds of public safety. The explicit link with artists made on the form effectively chokes the scene, with venues fearful of losing their reputation and licences, and promoters less likely to host MCs and DJs who have been written up on 696s for cancelled events.

While it is disappointing that the Police themselves do not offer comment, The Police vs Grime Music remains a faithful illustration of the relationship between crime, media and culture. It exemplifies how, when a perception of threat is connected to ‘street’ music, that fear can severely damage the discourse between authorities and the social sub-groups it is identified with.


Barron, L. (2013). The sound of street corner society: UK grime music as ethnography. European Journal of Cultural Studies, 16(5), 531-547.

Hiscox, D. (2009). Public enemy no 696. The Guardian.

Ilan, J. (2012). ‘The industry’s the new road’: Crime, commodification and street cultural tropes in UK urban music. Crime, Media, Culture, 8(1), 39-55.

Metropolitan Police Service (2009). Promotion Event Risk Assessment Form 696.

Thornton, S. (1995) Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.

Blood and Echoes: The Story of ‘Come Out’, Steve Reich’s Civil Rights Era Masterpiece

Pitchfork have written an illuminating article about ‘Come Out’, the tape loop experiment by minimalist composer Steve Reich, which debuted in 1965.

I am a massive fan of Steve Reich’s loop-based pieces. I hear his ethos running through much of my music collection, connecting styles/artists as diverse as dub reggae, Maalem Mahmoud Guinia, Orbital and Zimbabwean mbira music. What I didn’t know was that this poignant piece was written in response to the case of the Harlem Six (1964), a tragic episode of systematic police brutality against six black people imprisoned for murder (five of whom were innocent). Even the origins of the song title show the savagery and incredulity of the events that spawned Reich’s powerful 13-minute deconstruction.

Read the article here.


Baldwin, J. (1966). A Report from Occupied Territory. The Nation.

The Loudness War: Sound and Control in Civil Protests

Turn the volume down very low before playing any of these video clips.
You are advised not to wear headphones.

The use of sound as a weapon, whether physical or psychological, is by no means a novel concept. In World War II, German scientists experimented with a ‘sonic cannon’ that emitted a sub-bass frequency believed powerful enough to cause nausea, organ compression and death within a minute. During the Vietnam War, American helicopters were fitted with a loudspeaker dubbed ‘The Curdler’, which unleashed the sonic equivalent of a premonition of ceaseless purgatory on enemy troops below:

Long Range Acoustic Devices (LRADs) are arguably the latest in this line of sonic technology. Originally marketed as long distance communication carriers by their manufacturers American Technology Corporation, they are capable of delivering a shrill 145dB tone over hundreds of metres. They most often serve as deterrents, defending coastlines and cargo ships against pirates or repelling birds from commercial and military airfields.

LRADs are also being adopted for other, more confrontational purposes, such as the ongoing military conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Perhaps more troublingly, recent years have seen a greater use of LRADs in instances of civil unrest.

While LRADs were part of the NYPD’s policing strategy for the 2004 Republican National Convention, the first operational deployment on US soil was at the G20 summit in Pittsburgh in September 2009 to disperse crowds of protesters (see below). They have since been used in the Occupy Wall Street movement (2011), the NATO summit in Chicago (2012) and during the racially charged unrest that followed the killings of Michael Brown (Ferguson, Missouri) and Eric Garner (New York) by police officers in 2014.

These events and others like them appear to signify a marked shift in tone and emphasis in the discourse relating to maintaining public order. What does the rise in the use of sound as a means of control say about attitudes to political dissent, public spaces and sound itself?

In the case of Pittsburgh, government-allocated protest permits and free speech zones – ideally used to strike a balance between freedom and public safety – were strategically issued (or refused outright) so that protests were confined to areas well away from the summit itself. These sites were then policed in an at times hostile manner that meant demonstrators stood a far greater chance of criminalisation (Sery 2013). By the time the LRAD was activated, the very act of protest had already been constructed as a menace to the public.

De Bartolo (2008) argues that this reframing of social spaces as ‘sites of danger’ began in the post 9/11 discourse of police knowledge (i.e. knowledge acquired through experiences of similar events), where invocations of threat and terror increasingly informed the way in which non-violent protest movements were viewed and handled. As this internally circulated NYPD Situation & Threat Assessment from the aforementioned Republican National Convention illustrates, these perceptions are constructed as reality through the advice and profiles issued to the police force:

Currently there are no specific threats against the RNC. However, political conventions and elections are potential terrorist targets. The vehicle borne improvised explosive device remains one of the most readily available and frequently used tactics by terrorists worldwide. The use of hazardous materials, including chemical and biological weapons, poses a significant threat as well.

Additionally, it is anticipated that New York City will see a volume of protest activity not seen in decades. Organizers from United for Peace and Justice predict that 250,000 people will participate in their march and rally scheduled for August 29th.

While the vast majority of the participants will be peaceful, the sheer size of this event will place a tremendous strain on the department’s resources and severely impact vehicular and pedestrian flow in midtown.

Open source information indicates that there will be some individuals and groups, who advocate violence in opposition to the government, seeking to engage in criminal conduct that could significantly endanger public safety.

NYPD Executive Summary in De Bartolo (2008) (emphasis added)

By shrouding neutral information in redolent terrorist discourse, the document de-legitimises and vilifies protesters and paves the way for more extreme ‘command and control’ policing including devices such as the LRAD. Incidentally, no dangerous devices were found during the event and despite over 1800 arrests of activists and bystanders less than 10% were charged, mostly for minor offences.

This categorisation of protestors doesn’t simply entail making allusions to terrorism. Looking at the instances where LRADs were used against demonstrators, it is not difficult to see how bodies charged with maintaining social control can typecast those involved: the poor or disadvantaged, ethnic minorities, other races or nationalities (outsiders), the morally aberrant, political agitators.

Whether any of these labels are grounded is immaterial. Firstly, the authority and autonomy afforded to the police force creates an imbalanced power dynamic that is self-sustaining; it defines itself and shapes the roles and identities of the social actors around it. Secondly, language – that of danger, deviance and the unknown – is a powerful means of generating consensus for solving social problems (Maneri and ter Wal 2005).

The use of LRADs continues to draw criticism from human rights organisations who deem them ‘less lethal’ rather than ‘non lethal’ weapons (Lewer and Davison 2005). Unlike with tear gas and bullets, the immediate effects of sound are largely invisible, but they can still be irreversible. Journalists and activists exposed to LRAD at an Eric Garner protest in New York recently sued the police for civil rights violations, citing the use of excessive force. The City of Pittsburgh paid a $72,000 settlement to a professor who suffered permanent hearing damage at the G20 summit protest.

Though there is still an ambivalent attitude towards the weaponisation of sound to maintain public order, there are some important reasons why LRADs have gained such rapid acceptance among law enforcement agencies. Under the constant gaze of international media, the use of LRADs is rendered exceptional: it gains legitimacy by existing outside of society’s conventional understanding of policing and violence.

Zuazu (2015) sees the ready adoption by authorities as a cynical attempt to ‘humanise and distinguish’ these powerful acoustic devices from the most extreme forms of sound torture*, even though they both appear to operate outside of any accountability. Consider that the initial definition of LRADs as loudhailers exempted them from the same rigorous legal and governmental scrutiny faced by manufacturers of state-endorsed lethal weapons. In addition, over a decade since their introduction there is still no official police policy for their use.

Driven by a one-sided, fear-based discourse, the movement away from democratic forms of policing towards paramilitary ones is having a discernible effect on the way protests and activists are being assessed, enabled/disabled and portrayed. LRADs occupy an ambiguous position, both in the arsenal of police strategies and in the public consciousness. However, what is clear is how the aggressive use of sound to control public spaces and secure compliance with authorities is indicative of a decreasingly interpersonal approach to policing and public relations. Perhaps this aspect of the ideological shift is the most worrying of all: that LRADs may be part of a wider erosion of public safety, the right to assemble and to exercise free speech.

* Note: For the purposes of this article, the use of LRADs in mass protest is viewed as distinct from other forms of sound torture, such as those used on individual prisoners in the detention camps at Guantanamo Bay after the 9/11 terrorist attacks.


De Bartolo Jr., P. J. (2008). NYPD Protest Policing: An Analysis of Discourse, Dissent, and Redefinition. (Doctoral dissertation, Central European University).

Goodman, S. (2009). Sonic warfare: Sound, affect, and the ecology of fear. MIT Press.

Hill, S., & Beger, R. (2009). A Paramilitary Policing Juggernaut. Social Justice, 36(1), 25-40.

Lewer, N., & Davison, N. (2005). Non-lethal technologies—an overview. Disarmament forum, 1, 37-51.

Maneri, M., & Ter Wal, J. (2005). The Criminalisation of Ethnic Groups: An Issue for Media Analysis. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung / Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 6(3).

Moynihan, C. (2014). Concerns Raised Over Shrill Device New York Police Used During Garner Protests. New York Times.

Radovac, L. (2014). Mic Check: Occupy Wall Street and the Space of Audition. Communication and Critical/Cultural Studies, 11(1), 34-41.

Sery, J. (2013). Reframing Dissent: The Pittsburgh G20 and the Growing Challenges for Protest. In C. Rountree (Ed.), Venomous Speech: Problems with American Political Discourse on the Right and Left (pp. 391-440). Westport, CT: Praeger.

Shank, G. (2009). Overview: Policing Protest and Youth. Social Justice, 36(1), 1–6.

Vinokur, R. (2004). Acoustic Noise as a Non-Lethal Weapon. Journal of Sound and Vibration, 10), 19-24.

Volcler, J. (2013). Extremely Loud: Sound as a Weapon. New York: New Press.

Zadeh, J. (2014). A History of Using Sound as a Weapon. Motherboard.

Zuazu, M. E. (2015). Loud but Non-lethal: Acoustic Stagings and State-Sponsored Violence. Women and Music: A Journal of Gender and Culture, 19(1), 151-159.

Sonically (Re)imagining China: Fatima Al Qadiri’s ‘Asiatisch’

Asiatisch (German for ‘Asia’), the 2014 debut of Senegal-born, Kuwait-raised musician Fatima Al Qadiri, is described on her website as a simulated road trip through an imagined China. I am intrigued by the idea of sonically imagining a country that you’ve never visited using only the cultural, political and social reference points laid down by other cultures which, of themselves, are not necessarily concerned about replicating the place with any degree of faithfulness.

This album appears to be contributing to a discourse that explores Western popular culture’s appropriation of Asia. Consider the status of martial arts movies in post-war American youth culture; the extolling of ‘traditional’ practices and ancient wisdom (as found in fortune cookies?); anime and comic book fetishism; largely negative/Communist screen roles (from Cheng Zhi in 24 and Lau in The Dark Knight to the tropes that litter Disney movies – although this does appear to be changing as China in particular becomes a more lucrative market).

Al Qadiri makes a good point about what for many Western children is their first exposure to East Asian music/culture, the piano piece ‘Chopsticks’:

“I feel like my first engagement with Chinese culture was either through Looney Tunes or a Disney cartoon, one of the two. Musically, I wanna say probably (laughing) ‘Chopsticks’. You know, I feel like ‘Chopsticks’ is like the consummate imagined Chinese piece of music. Even the title!”

Cliff (2015)

Asiatisch’s overarching aesthetic takes familiar symbols of China – flickers of zither, pentatonic scales, ethereal pipes and percussion – and weaves these into a stark, synthetic vision of a country: a vision that’s cold to the touch. I hear it as a sound that simultaneously invites and distances, that professes authenticity and a spiritual connection with its source material, but then coats every surface with an almost plasticated sheen, the equivalent of an ‘ethnic’ craft shop housed in a sleek, ultra-modern chrome-and-glass shopping mall.

The juxtaposition of expression and remoteness can be heard in the twitchy, robotic/not robotic interjections throughout ‘Wudang’, and most notably on the cover of Prince’s ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. A deeply affecting vocal in its most well-known form, Helen Feng delivers it in a Mandarin-flavoured gibberish. It’s worth noting that the title of this version (‘Shanzhai’) literally translates as ‘fake goods‘.

As alien as the music often sounds, it seems natural that the sonic palette for much of the album is derived from sino-grime. A muscular South/East London sub-genre of dance music from the early 2000s, it yielded some great instrumentals by transferring uninformed notions of Eastern mysticism, motifs and instrumentation onto experiments with mutant bass and sparse, glacial synths. On Asiatisch the listener is clearly being ushered into a fantasy-realm of music, but one that asks questions of the West in our handling of China’s cultural assets, our perception of its value.

When I was a music teacher in the UK some years ago, I remember the sharply contrasting attitudes towards the canon of Western classical music – a definitive, sacred, ever-relevant oeuvre – and the facsimiles of Chinese and African music that were all too often presented as the ‘other’: exotic, rudimentary, fossilized. Thompson (2002) expounds on this idea, asserting that:

[the canon represents] a selective and exclusive tradition that embodies certain values, notably Western ideals and standards of truth and beauty. Afforded authority and status over time, it reflects the interests of the dominant groups in society… In contrast, the ‘other’ is a category traditionally associated with limited position and power.

Thompson (2002)

Upon reflection, I now view those experiences of classroom ‘world music’ as an artificial construct, sometimes watered down to the point of near irrelevance. As Al Qadiri puts it, ‘a projection of a dominant culture onto another marginal one’. Yet, even as the music reimagined the countries it represented, to my students perhaps it was unquestionably authentic. This is what draws me to Asiatisch; a place where it’s possible to hear the sound of a cultural and musical identity being appraised and renegotiated from outside of its borders.

Listen to Asiatisch here.


Cliff, A. (2015). Fatima Al Qadiri’s Chinese fantasy. Dazed.

Fritz, B., and Horn, J. (2011). Reel China: Hollywood tries to stay on China’s good side. Los Angeles Times.

Kelly, D. (2014). Fortune Cookies Aren’t Chinese. Knowledge Nuts.

Rose, S. (2014). Repressed Brits, evil Mexicans, Arab villains: why are Hollywood’s animated movies full of racist stereotypes? The Guardian.

Thompson, K. (2002). A Critical Discourse Analysis of World Music as the ‘Other’ in Education. Research Studies in Music Education, 19(1), 14-21.