By Norse Music – 6 September 2016
Christopher Nosnibor
It was reading Naomi Kline’s Doppelganger recently that I truly came to appreciate the way in which western colonialism has annihilated indigenous cultures. I have no real defence for my ignorance, although it’s most apparent that the version of history we receive from virtually any source you care to name is slanted, skewed, almost to the point of revisionary fabrication. The fact that so many countless indigenous cultures have been erased or so diminished so as to be rendered invisible has become normalised and recounted as a process of ‘civilisation’ or ‘improvement’ renders the wider world oblivious to the brutality of fact.
And so it was that reading the text which accompanies Mari Boine’s latest release struck me with a heightened impact, and it’s worth quoting for context:
‘Like so many people impacted by colonisation which we see throughout the world today and throughout history, the Sámi people of Norway (Sweden, Finland and Russia), have been oppressed and deprived of their distinct indigenous culture and language since the 17th century. Mari’s music aims to convey a sense of oppression and frustration, anger and sorrow, which stems from this history. On Alva specifically, a Northern Sámi word which translates to energy, determination or willpower, Mari’s compelling use of traditional joik singing bores through layers of history, imploring the Sámi people to
‘Bring out, breathe out the stories
that ask to be told
With your light feet
trespass the border of time’
This release, we learn, sees Mari Boine ‘blending ancient traditions and resonating with a message of respect for the earth. Alva is not just an album – it’s a journey into the very soul of Sámi heritage, brought to life by one of the world’s most compelling and visionary artists.’
And indeed it is. The thirteen songs on Alva – which translates as ‘willpower’ – possess a palpable sense of spirit, of – for wont of better words as I fumble around in a weak effort to articulate – heritage, culture. Even where it’s not possible to comprehend the words themselves, the music, and Mari’s voice speak, and do so on an instinctive, human level.
You see, colonialism – and our capitalist society – was / is based on division, a narrative of ‘us’ and ‘them’, with an othering of indigenous peoples as being lesser. The fact the world as is – particularly in the last few years, and particularly on social media, which has increasingly become a cesspit of division and self-centredness – means a lot of us have lost sight of the fact that fundamentally, we have more in common than we have separations, and division is another instrument of control exercised by those who strive to hold power in this capitalist society. When society tells us that the only way becomes dog-eat-dog (and migrant-eat-dog, and cat, becomes a topic in a presidential debate), it’s apparent just how fucked-up things have got, and how far we’ve come from living in harmony with symbiosis with the planet.
Alva doesn’t evoke ‘simpler’ times by any stretch. In fact, I suspect what may prove unexpected for many is just how timeless – and at the same time, contemporary – Alva sounds. ‘Dánsso fal mu váhkaran’ manages to infuse an airy, folksy song with a tinge of funk and a buoyant, almost Eurovision groove, while ‘Várjaliviĉĉet min vuolláneames brings bold, ceremonial beats, and ‘Anárjoh’ gáttis’ is expansive and atmospheric, and again, percussion-driven. But there’s an air of fluidity, of naturalness, of something at once earthy and above the earth which lingers around the delicately-poised melodies.
Alva is graceful, life-affirming, meditative, transportative, and magical.
AA
Aural Aggravation 