WOMAD about you

One good thing about music," Bob Marley once sang, "when it hits you, you feel okay."

Obviously, he wasn’t thinking about death metal, industrial grindcore, or the new Paris Hilton CD when he came up with that line.

But he may have been describing Singapore’s WOMAD, or "World of Music, Art and Dance," a festival held each year amid Fort Canning Park’s sloping, grassy grounds. Now staged in some 20 countries, and on its ninth year in Singapore, WOMAD was spawned in 1992 by Peter Gabriel, who envisioned an international fest to highlight indigenous music from around the world (plus sell a few CDs and T-shirts in the process). We in the media – myself, PULP’s Joey Dizon and the PDI’s Constantino Tejero – were privileged to be invited by the Singapore Tourism Board, an invite that included three days of sightseeing, drinking, listening to music, and, well, more drinking.

Festival founder Gabriel didn’t appear in Singapore, but the three-day concert did feature Grammy-winning Peruvian singer Susana Baca, Brazilian songwriter Chico Cesar and Jamaican reggae legend Jimmy Cliff among its 15-act lineup. From Aug. 25 to 27, four stages presented simultaneous performances, DJ exhibitions, and dance and percussion workshops to what seemed like a melting pot of students, kids, seasoned hippies, media members, curious tourists, musicians and even senior citizens. Attendance grew from about 5,000 the first night to double that on Saturday. Since this was Singapore, the crowd was generally well-behaved (though a few fights did break out stage left, ironically during Cliff’s peace-chanting set on Saturday) and observant of rules and regulations. Fort Canning Park itself is an interesting venue for WOMAD, its idyllic hills and shaded lanes having once served as a British armory and military barracks before becoming the official bungalow of Sir Stamford Raffles.

What has not changed since WOMAD began, according to festival organizer Sarah Martin, is its commitment to celebrating diversity in music. And in this age of downloaded MP3s and prepackaged MTV images, live music is still the best way to explore and discover new sounds. "To see a performance and a performer telling his or her story onstage is completely different from anything you could download or experience from web radio," Martin assured me.

And she was right. We got a preview of WOMAD the night before the festival, at a time when Fort Canning Park was eerily silent and empty, with only the beautiful, elegant voice of Baca and the hypnotic guitar of South Africa’s Sam Tshabalala filling the night air.

There was ample proof the next day as well, as crowds amassed at the various stages, eagerly awaiting musicians, most of whom the audience had probably never heard of before. But once the music hit, it was a different story: bodies swaying, limbs twisting, girls raised up on shoulders and the sweat pouring down. Everywhere, smiles and dancing erupted.

There’s a tendency to get all Grateful Dead-ish in describing what goes on at such outdoor fests. While no drugs were (visibly) present at WOMAD, a similar goopy cosmic melding seems to transfix people when they get together like this. And it’s not all a bad thing.

It sounds really, really trite, but – other than sex and about a half dozen other activities – dancing is one of the few times in life when humans actually seem to momentarily forget their troubles. They experience joy, solace, and release. It’s written all over their faces.

My favorite performer was Chico Cesar, a diminutive but jocular Brazilian who hit the stage with an a cappella piece sung in Portuguese, then proceeded to grab the crowd with his electric guitar and never let go. Starting with a manic number that mixed Zydeco, Latin American rhythms and a little bit of Primus, Cesar leapt about the stage, storming from left to right, even hopping in place at times. The thing about world music seems to be this: throw out the rulebook. Anything can work, as long as its honestly embraced and incorporated into the music. Cesar easily mixed Cajun riffing, Brazilian melodies, stomping reggae beats and even a furiously-strummed Ode to Joy on his acoustic guitar. He’s a Hobbit-like guy with a big talent.

While some were having their mini-Woodstock moments in front of the stage, others were chilling in air-conditioned rooms to catch the Asian Short Film Showcase, featuring award-winning shorts from Thailand, Taiwan, Indonesia and Singapore. One highlight was the Oscar-winning Brazilian feature Black Orpheus on Saturday night, while on Sunday local directors were invited to discuss their work. A few yards away, vendors offered to dreadlock people’s hair, while an Indian gentleman gave public healing sessions (for a fee). At one stall, drums and native percussion instruments were hawked, which led to impromptu jam sessions as various musicians from the fest sat down to beat out talking-drum patterns (I was happy to join in – very cautiously – on one session).

Practically everywhere you went near the crowded Fort Canning Centre had something to offer. For three days, kids and curious passersby were invited to join in creating a large, colorful chalk mural on the pavement outside the Centre. Food vendors offered everything from exotic native dishes to fully-loaded hamburgers. And of course, Heineken and Chivas Regal flowed freely.

One real treat at WOMAD was the availability of free workshops, which drew overflowing crowds before the Gallery Stage and elsewhere. The curious could learn basic percussion and dance moves from South African musician Risenga Makondo (it’s always fun to watch a roomful of strangers try to undulate their backs like South African dancers); Thailand’s 10-piece ska band T-Bone demonstrated reggae beats and ska riffs to big crowds; Australia’s Stevie and Jamie Goldsmith showcased the native didgeridoo and explained its role in Aboriginal culture; South African’s Sam Tshabalala led the room in call-and-response singing in Zulu, Tswana, Shangaan and English, and shared the "click" style of speech; while Korean percussion group Dulsori demonstrated the unique style of drumming that began among farmers working in fields.

One little problem was the long queues outside toilets. While the Fort Canning Centre had several bathrooms, these were quickly turned into unisex venues, so lines instantly tripled in length. The upper stages, meanwhile, had exactly four porta-toilets, so approaching the lines in front of the blue plastic stalls, I was tempted to hie off into the bushes instead and just get it over with. I think it was the thought of being arrested and the resulting headlines ("MANILA LIFESTYLE JOURNALIST ARRESTED FOR PUBLIC URINATION") that compelled me to wait instead. At least the average waiting time was only three minutes.

‘Girls And Cars And Superstars’

The biggest name on WOMAD’s bill was Jimmy Cliff, the reggae star who, even at 58, still has a big, big voice that can carry a crowd. During his nearly two-hour set on Saturday night, he used the platform to praise Singapore for being clean, green and drug-free, and to shout down "Mr. Bush and Mr. Blair’s war in Iraq," among other world evils. Reggae has always been a vehicle for social commentary, ever since it first grew and spread among Jamaican DJs in the 1960s. It’s no secret that most of WOMAD’s most authentic voices come from backgrounds of poverty, strife and difficult lives. (In contrast, New York’s Radio Mundial, which played Friday night, sounded slick, Latin-friendly, and, as Joey Dizon put it, "like a Santana boy band.")

Cliff was able to keep the shoulder-to-shoulder lawn crowd gyrating by playing his greatest hits (Many Rivers To Cross, covers of Cat Stevens’ Wild World and Bill Withers’ I Can See Clearly Now, and of course, the inevitable The Harder They Come as an encore), but it was his political side that came out the strongest. Songs like Vietnam prove he’s one reggae lion who’s not ready to curl up and snore away his twilight years.

At a press conference prior to Saturday’s performance, Cliff greeted the media in a red T-shirt and plastic Winnie the Pooh sunglasses, exuding a laidback, seasoned-performer vibe. There’s nothing plastic about Cliff, though. He’s a survivor, the guy who sang and starred in the cult movie classic The Harder They Come, and has collaborated with everyone from Mick Jagger to Joe Strummer.

He recalled the atmosphere of struggle that gave birth to Jamaican reggae, as young, angry men sought to break free from poverty by securing a record deal, or through a life of crime. Cliff was lucky, as well as talented: he got signed to Island Records and enjoyed crossover success. Others were not so lucky.

The Jamaican music scene has changed, too, Cliff points out. "Nowadays, the dream of the character in The Harder They Come – to make his own music, produce his records – has largely come true. With technology, it’s much easier for musicians to get their music out." He likens the ‘60s DJ scene in Jamaica to the (d)evolution of rap and hip-hop music from angry music, full of political purpose, to bling-wearing and posturing. "So the system had to find a way to defuse that anger and they found performers who would sing about girls and cars and superstars," Cliff notes. He didn’t tag any specific rappers, but was happy to mention Sean Paul and Shaggy as two performers who have diluted what was once a potent political music.

But Cliff, with his enduring success, and his near lionization in world music sectors, cannot dismiss commercial success so easily. "The music business, by its nature, is manipulation," he concedes. Dozens of artists initially get signed, but only those who seem to shift a lot of units will get tender, loving care from a record label. "I don’t knock the commercial aspect, because it helps expose more music to the world. But I have always tried to maintain my personal integrity." Allowing for some "regrettable" recording choices (was he thinking of his Reggae Nights hook-up with Kool and the Gang?), Cliff considers all his collaborations to be "kind of sacred."

At a festival like WOMAD, there are always questions flying about which music is authentic, which is adulterated or bastardized. But Cliff points out that reggae itself owes its life to a large influx of outside musical sources: African music, ‘60s Motown and rhythm and blues, "even, funnily enough, country and western music." The ports of Jamaica allowed wide access to imported records (much as the Beatles had Liverpool ports to school them in Elvis and American R&B), which led DJs to become mini scholars and audiophiles. All goes into the melting pot, and, as long as it’s true and from the heart, the hybrid can often be something new and exciting. WOMAD reminded me that world music didn’t stop with Peter Gabriel’s earnest interest, or with the boutique selectiveness of Paul Simon and Sting: it continues to grow, to thrive and to spread throughout the world, always looking for new ears, new hearts to conquer. And when it hits you, you feel okay.