Abstract: Gaga in the Dominican Republic

In Haiti, as many Catholics exchange the exuberant song and dance of Carnival for the somber silence of the Lentil season, a new sound of handmade bamboo or metal trumpets, called vaccine, and lively percussion emits from the streets: Rara. The festival, dance, music and ritual practice, all of the same name, provide the opportunity for practitioners of Vodou to celebrate and praise Afro-Haitian deities, or lwa. Some songs may feature sexually-provocative lyrics, while others metaphorically mock government officials. Nevertheless, the percussive rhythms are undoubtedly infectious. Rara processions can be seen and heard for miles as they chant, sing and dance. They are accompanied by instruments such as two-head and single-head drums fashioned from animal skins, trumpets, whistles, metal scrappers, shakers, percussive sticks and various others. The sound characteristic to rara is a layered-drone heard from the vaccine players created by a hocketing pattern, where one player plays one note in sequence with other players playing different notes. The combination sounds like one multi-pitched, blown instrument but is in fact created by the whole group. In Haitian Creole, gaga is the “word applied to someone not considered to be in his ‘normal’ mind.”[1] Often seen as the Spanish rendition of the term rara, gaga is the name given to the festival and music performed by Haitian immigrants (and their Dominican-born descendants) to sugar cane plantations, ingenios, in the Dominican Republic. While rara is popular in Haiti, because of the two countries tumultuous history the celebration is outlawed in most parts of the Dominican Republic. For that reason, most gaga celebrations take place solely on bateys, or communal grounds close to the sugar cane fields where most of the migrant workers live. These bateys are under strict supervision from the Dominican government yet their inhabitants are not considered citizens and receive no assistance.

As a result of my personal experience in bateyes in the Dominican Republic, I plan to ask and hopefully answer some pertinent questions about gagá as a tool for spiritual transcendence versus/and/or as a piece of debated culture capital that can and has been commodified. By juxtaposing audio and images from early research on gagá (circa 1970s) to those of my experience in a batey, I intend to ask how could the same sounds and images be effective for an outsider and why? Batey Cero is a popular rock fusion band in the Dominican Republic that utilizes traditional Dominican rhythms and instruments (namely gagá) and incorporates them into their new sound. According to their website, "their songs reflect the magical and religious beliefs [as well as] street culture and the social problems of [the Dominican Republic]." By comparing audio and lyrics from Batey Cero to recordings of traditional gagá bands, I'll ask what purpose does Batey Cero serve within gagá and how is this new sound managed within the tradition? The purpose of this project is to give examples and samples of the magnitude of variance within gagá, and with respect to rará as an antecedent, hopefully explain gagá as an unique cultural phenomenon. The following is not meant to be a "picture-book" of gagá, but rather a collection of images, audio and video that serve to elucidate the connections between the concepts and provoke thought.

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[1] Gillis, Verna. From liner notes of Rara in Haiti, Gaga in the Dominican Republic. Compact Disc. New York: Folkway Records, 1978. Haitians also use the term to refer to older people experiencing dementia or delusion. For example, “I might be old, but I’ve still got it. I’m not gaga yet,” (Personal Communication with Daphne Elivert, 7 December 2006).

Thoughts and Conclusions

I know trying to decipher some semblance of continuity of this project might seem like a daunting task, I will try to focus the lens:

Gagá is a religious ritual, music and dance that has strong roots in similar rites practiced in Haiti: rará. Because of the socio-political situation of Haitian immigrants in the Dominican Republic, gagá developed almost exclusively on bateyes. Gagá ceremonies at bateyes highlight several important events--births, deaths, etc.--as well as important dates during the Christian holy year--for example, Carnival, Lent, and Easter. Gagá music itself serves two main purposes, 1) as ceremonial music used to guide practitioners through rites and rituals for aforementioned events, by helping induce trance and at times ward off evil spirits--in conjunction, with the whistle and whip--and 2) to "help/assist" neighbors in the community through the "sad time" of Lent, by parading happy, joyful music.
I visited a batey in 2005 and witnessed a Vodou ceremony. As an outsider to the tradition, I was still affected by the sounds of gagá music. I had the urge to bob my head, slap my leg and tap my feet to the percussive, infectious beat. Irrespective of the cultural history of Haitians in DR, I was still entertained by the sounds. While the ceremony I viewed was conducted as a show/performance and not considered "real" or having the ability to induce trance (in public, per se), and because the rites, rhythms and songs were exactly the same, the questions remain: to whom/for whom is this music/ceremony? What kept the spirits from possessing the initiates? Our presence? Just because they chose not to? and if so, how effective is the music in inducing trance, if in said circumstance it is exactly the same but ineffective?
Batey Cero uses similar instruments and sings about similar topics as do traditional gagá bands. What makes them effective? Like I mentioned, in gagá one of the purposes of the music is to entertain and inform "neighbors" during certain points in the holy seasons. Batey Cero, in their own way, does that. An for this outsider, that makes them equally as effective and as authentic.

Intro

Much could be said about the globalization of religious traditions, especially in the context of colonialism and imperialism that produced subsidiary institutions like slavery and caste systems. Many times religious conversion was used as a tool to aide these processes. If so afforded, these diverse forms of divine adoration take on distinct variations across the globe.
So is true of Gaga, a variation of Haitian Rara yet practiced in the Dominican Republic: While they are similar in music, dance and function, Gaga was borne out of a different set of historical and social circumstances that have given it a distinct flavor. The salient features that make Gaga unique are quite similar to Rara—for sake of redundancy, I won’t repeat them here. However, in the course of my project I will examine those qualities that make Gaga effective, sonically and theologically. In a quasi ethno-musicological fashion, I propose to present Gaga as a sonic practice that highlights the most important elements of the tradition. By doing so, I hope to explain Gaga in terms of a theological convention supported by sacred sounds.

Using the sounds of Gaga as a basis for comparison, I plan to juxtapose Catholicism with them in order to substantiate the claim Aidan Kavanagh makes on theologia prima, or primary theology versus theologia secunda, or secondary theology.[1] According to Kavanagh, primary theology is the dynamic response “suffered” in liturgical events while secondary theology is the didactic, systematic approach to thinking about liturgical events. I contend that Gaga could be considered a “dynamic response” to the umbrella catechism proliferated throughout the Caribbean. What’s more, this eccentric responsiveness that Gaga practitioners have to these sounds help to legitimize its authenticity and effectiveness. In accordance with her book Deep Listeners, Judith Becker might agree with this delineation.[2] I argue that Gaga practitioners are naturally acting out physically and aurally to the sounds, while at the same giving credit to the Catholic and African religions that give said rituals context. It all returns to the cyclical process of sacred sounds’ efficacy we talked about in class and that I touched on in my statement paper: “it works because it’s sacred; it’s sacred because it works.”

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[1] Kavanagh, Aidan. On Liturgical Theology. New York: Pueblo Publishing Co., 1984.

[2] Becker, Judith. Deep Listeners: Music, Emotion and Trancing. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004.

Gagá instruments: Horns and Whistles

Click images to view them larger

Batey Cero (authenticity)

Batey Cero - De Na'

From the band's website: "Since 2003 the musical group, Batey 0, has been mixing popular rhythms from the Dominican Republic and their neighboring country, Haiti while also combining this with other worldwide musical styles. Their songs reflect the magical and religious beliefs, street culture, and the social problems encountered daily in their native country. Listening to the sound of this band one feels the musical influences formed by their ancestors linked with their contemporary and experimental music."

The following/preceding videos are of Batey Cero performing live and recording live their single "De Na' (Of Nothing)." During the introduction of this song, the lead singer and members of the chorus play vaccines in the hocketing-style of gagá. Then, the guitar enters, strumming chords, while the rhythm section maintains the characteristic gagá sound. As the chorus begins, the guitar begins to imitate the sound of the vaccines while the group chants, "Señor, yo soy de na' (Lord, I'm nothing)." However, "señor" sounds similar to the phrase "Sin yo (Without me/myself)." So the phrase could be interpreted as "Without me, I'm nothing." Nevertheless, religious imagery (conquering mountains, escaping death, eternal health, etc.) pervades throughout the song. Yet, the fusion with rock is undoubtedly unique and questions the authenticity of the music. Is this gagá? They use gagá instruments and sing about similar topics. Some are even initiates into the tradition. However, the majority are musicians/scholars on Afro-latino culture and the sounds of gagá (utilized in the song and others by the group) are no more than representations of Dominican culture. That, in itself, re-addresses the debate on the Dominican-Haitian culture border between gagá and rará. Sure, gagá is of Haitian origin, but when does something become part of another culture? And at what point does ownership matter to an initiate? Gagá reached that at its inception; because of the peculiarities of life on bateyes, gagá evolved independently and under very different auspices than rará. That independence seen in the instrumentation (palos, guiros, etc.) and its offspring (i.e. rock fusion via Batey Cero). I argue that Batey Cero's music is equally as effective as a tradition gagá band for the same reason June Rosenberg uses to describe gagá's purpose in El Gaga:

"Gaga give satisfaction and pleasure to the members of the group and its spectators. It has been said that one of the functions of religion is to give the "luck of recreation" to whoever practices it...Religious music and dance have been an important part in the inspiration of many cultures....To its participants, Gagá offers an essential means of expression of themselves and at the same time entertains its spectators. During the marches and parades, Gagá brings joy and happiness--even if its temporary--to a very sad time: Lent," (204-205).

Look at the video. Those fans are obviously enjoying the music. If not for the gagá elements, but for the rock. Nevertheless, the group is serving its purpose: entertainment AND self-reflection. Batey Cero is gagá music.

Why Gagá works (efficacy)

Gagá instruments: Drums

Click on the pictures to view them larger

The main instruments that accompany gagá ceremonies are "palos" or drums. The largest of the drums is the "congo," a single-headed, animal--usually goat--skin drum. The frame is bored out of various types of hardwood and the head is stretched over the top and tightened/tuned with pegs and/or strings. It is played with both hands and secured between the legs. The second drum usually heard in gagá ceremonies is of the two-headed variety and is called the "catalié." The heads are tightened by rope as well. It is played with either one or two sticks and is placed across the lap of the drummer.

a gag'g drummer with two congó drums.
a gagá drummer shown with metal guiro. Native to the Dominican Republic, the guiro is the fundamental scraper found in other genres such as bachata and merengue. Scrapers and other like metallophones are also characteristic of rará ceremonies, however only in the Dominican Republic do we find such usage of the guiro.
a gagá drummer marching.
Congó drums shown with pegs.

What is Gagá?: Sounds

This example is from a gaga celebration on a batey near Elias Piña, a small town on the Domino-Haitian border. It was originally recorded by Verna Gillis in 1977 and appeared on her compilation Caribbean Revels: Rara in Haiti and Gaga in the Dominican Republic. "This gagá song is not played with the traditional instruments [that Gillis had witnessed used in Haiti. However, these instruments are in fact "traditional" gagá instrumentation.] The drums used here are Dominican palos [catalié]...This group represents both Haitian and Dominican musical traditions."

This song is in praise of Simbi, the lwa of water.
Creole Lyrics English Translation
Simbi minan, minan, minan Simbi
Ayi bobo
Sa m’fè la’a
Pou lwa vlé manjé mouin Simbi mina*, mina, mina Simbi
Ayi bobo
What did I do
That the lwa wants to eat me.
*Mina is a word in langaj, coded words of significance to some initiates of Vodou.


This example is from the town, Haina, home to a rich gagá tradition in the bateyes that surround it. This too comes from Verna Gillis Caribbean Revels. Recorded April 16, 1977.

Works Cited

Becker, Judith. Deep Listeners: Music, Emotion and Trancing. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004.

McAllister, Elizabeth. Rara! Vodou, Power, and Performance in Haiti and Its Diaspora. Berkley: University of California Press, 2002.

Alegría-Pons, José Fransisco. Gagá y Vudú en la República Dominicana. Santo Domingo: Ediciones El Chango Prieto, 1993.

Rosenberg, June. El Gaga. Santo Domingo: Editora de la Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo, 1979.

Tejada Ortiz, Dagoberto. Cultura Popular e Identidad Nacional (Tomo II). Santo Domingo: Consejo Presidencial de Cultura Instituto Dominicano de Folklore, 1998.

Tejada Ortiz, Dagoberto, et al. Religiosidad Popular y Psiquiatría. Santo Domingo: Editora Corripio C. por A., 1995.

Andújar, Carlos. Identidad Cultural y Religiosidad Popular. Santo Domingo: Editora Cole, 1999.

Batey Libertad

Excited about my trip to a batey, I rushed home to tell my host mother (Doña Maritza, as I called her). Not phased by my excitement, she told me to be very cautious on my trip and explained the hygiene problems known to pervade batey life: lack of clean water, unsanitary living conditions, rabid animals running rampant, etc. Though not the staunch Catholic--like most other host mothers and Dominican women in general--Doña Maritza warned me to be care of "brujería," or witchcraft for she perceived bateyes' Haitian inhabitants to all be practitioners of Vodou and suspects in all types of nefarious activities. Haven been a host mother for 4 years, Doña Maritza was well aware that some of the program's group outings were optional and suggested that I not go to the batey, for my own health and safety. Unfortunately for (and unbeknownst to) her, this trip was required for my Afro-Dominican Culture class. First excited, now concerned, I had no idea what to expect from my trip.

Friday, April 8th, 2005 (Batey Libertad, near Esperanza, Dominican Republic):

As our two gúa-gúas (mini-buses) rolled to a stop at the center of Batey Libertad, I no longer felt like I was in the Dominican Republic. True, a well-appointed home life in Santiago sure spoiled me to the actual conditions of life in the country, however this did not even feel like the campo (countryside) I had visited on previous outings. This was different. Third world different. The entire town of about 1000 people lived in what seemed to be no more than 50 to 60 homes. The houses (if they can be called such) looked dilapidated, made of either concrete blocks or tin roofing pieced together as make-shift walls. They were arranged in a mishmash; anywhere there was level ground, there was a building. However, at the center of the community was a gazebo-type structure with open walls and a single pole supporting it. Immediately next to it was rectangular building. Throughout our tour of the batey, we weren't allowed to enter this building for community members were busy preparing it and practicing for a ceremony for us later in the day. Come to find out, this ceremony was indeed a replica vodou ceremony. Considering all the drumming (see audio sample), banging and clanging we heard coming from the building throughout the day, I was surprised how empty the structure was. Entering timidly, I jumped at the shout of one of my fellow program mates, "Watch out, Justin!" Hardly visible in the windowless, dark, candlelit room, I almost stepped on a pattern on the floor which seemed to be drawn with grain.
My group now seated, several members of the community (who I had seen periodically earlier in the day) arranged themselves in a row on the far end of the building. They were dressed in the same clothing they had on earlier in the day, only this time they all had bandannas or scarves of various colors. We were told that presiding over today's ceremony was a priest who had recently arrived from Haiti. But before he could enter the room and begin the ceremony, the woman who seemed to be leading the procession of individuals claimed that the drums (located in the far corner) had to be "blessed first."

After a short silence and a series of phrases in Haitian Creole, the drummers began. The row of initiates moved to the side as the priest entered the room from the side door. Dressed in a blue shirt, blue shorts and a blue bandanna, he recited lines in Creole accompanied by the drummers playing at moderate tempo and mid volume. In a somewhat rehearsed fashion, the drummers seemed to play more intricate patterns according the the force and ferocity of the priest's voice. At one point in the ceremony, the priest stopped and exited. The group behind him started to dance as if they were battling peaceably. As the rest of the group sang a song, The dancers remained in tempo and in stride as they jumped and lunged towards each other. The drummers mimicked each thrust with an emphatic pattern on the drum. After the "battle" was over, the priest re-entered, this time dressed in a red shirt with matching red shorts. He began to mumble words under his breath while assistant prepared a tray that included several razorblades, matches, a bottle of rum and a bundle of short sticks. Though I predicted what he was going to do next, I still was not prepared for what I witnessed. As the drummers played faster and faster, the priest drank from the bottle of rum and lit the sticks. With a bundle in each hand, he proceeded to dance around holding the sticks to his feet for several seconds. Unlike, stereotypical magic shows where the crowd goes silent before the magician performs his feat, the priest's acts were accompanied by an ever-growing, powerful drum beat. He seemed to be aided by the drums. While it must have took an insane amount of mind and body control to perform such feats, each jump and twist he did around the flames seemed to be matched by an equal hit or slam on the drums. As the priest continue to express his control over the fire, I became more and more interested in the drummers and drums in the background. The incessant beat was mesmerizing and entrancing. A percussionist myself, I was fascinated by the polyrhythmic patterns the lead drummer appeared to play with ease. Requiring great amounts of stamina, they played during the entire ceremony. Everything in the ceremony seemed to be guided by or at least accompanied with drums. To me, the sound of the drums was the center of attention. While I can't recall much of anything that was said in the ceremony (it was all in Haitian Creole anyway), I do remember the complexity of the drum rhythms. As an outsider, I was "moved" by the drum patterns. They were reminiscent of African rhythms I had heard before (which I'm almost positive that is where they were derived), yet had their own interesting spin. They sound is difficult to express in words, but what dominated my thoughts as soon as the ceremony was over was that very idea: despite the drama related to race, racial politics and cultural backlash towards anything African, I was in DR and this was undoubtedly Dominican. At Batey Libertad, the majority of its inhabitants were born there or in the Dominican Republic. Most spoke Spanish, Haitian Creole, French and some English. My first experience at a Vodou ceremony seemed far less "Haitian" than I expected, and as I found out later, was much more related to the Dominican experience than I had first believed. That experience at the ceremony reaffirmed my belief in the prevalence of African roots in the Dominican Republic.

When I returned home, my excitement was quelled by superstition and fear once again. My host mother order me to remove all my clothing to be washed (this was not unusual, she washed my clothes weekly), however this time she separated everything I had worn from the normal load and sat them outside--overnight, I might add. Shocked by her response but equally concerned myself, she directed me to the shower and made sure that I washed my hair thoroughly. When I asked her the reasoning behind her increased "hygiene security," she claimed that "those people" where very unsanitary. This sentiment was shared by many Dominicans: Haitians were unclean, smelly, and dirty. Pacifist Dominicans tended to claim that Haitians' odor came from the fact that they worked in the fields (sugar, rice, etc.) for so long. Nevertheless, her uneasiness was precipitated by the fact I spent extended time around Haitians, no matter what the conditions where--Batey Libertad, despite its shortcomings was amazing clean compared to areas in the city Santiago.

Introducción al Folklore Dominicano

Tuesday, March 8th, 2005 (PUCMM, Santiago, Dominican Republic):

It's 10AM and I'm in my first class of the day: Introducción al Folklore Dominicano (Introduction to Dominican Folklore); I'm slouched in my desk, leaning against the wall, trying to decide on whom to concentrate: My professor--whom I've determined cares less about actually presenting the material and more about telling elicit stories (read: anecdotes) about el sexo anál--or the class next door--trying to brush-up on my Spanish anyway I can. Not so subtly, my professor pauses his story and begins to tell us about the impending Carnival celebrations happening all over the Dominican Republic. The word "carnival" gets everyone's attention, most of them excited about visiting La Vega next week--the site of the largest Carnival celebration on the island. Yet to most of our surprise, his story is not of La Vega, but of San Pedro de Macorís (a small town outside of the capital, Santo Domingo). It's also the site of a very special celebration/ceremony, but begins at the end of Carnival. Annually near San Pedro de Macorís, hordes of workers from the sugar cane refineries march through the town (batey) dressed in bright garb, singing, dancing and playing instruments not in the Christian tradition of recognition of the upcoming Lentil season, but rather in celebration of African spirits and deities. See http://www.melassa.org/gallery-gaga.htm. My professor tells us that these people are practitioners of Vodu dominicano, most are either migrants or descendants from Haiti, and this celebration is called gagá. Gagá. Gagá. That word stuck in my head. I was fascinated by this tradition, which seemed undoubtedly African, being practiced in a country notorious for suppressing its African roots. Disappointed that I wouldn't be able to visit San Pedro de Macorís anytime soon, I asked my professor about this mysterious celebration. He reminded me that next month, my study abroad program would be visiting a batey similar to the one in San Pedro de Macorís. While our trip would not coincide with the dates when gagá is traditionally celebrated, I would be able to see what life was like on a batey.
Interestingly enough, the class next door that almost stole my attention was another section of Relaciones Dominico-Haitiano (Dominican-Haitian Relations). Equally interested in that class, it became my habit throughout the semester to ask my fellow study abroad program participants about topics addressed in the class. That day, the topic of discussion was bateyes, the multitude of Haitian immigrants living there and myths Dominicans hold about Haitians. Nevertheless, I was excited to get the opportunity to visit a batey.