I thought of this work on Tikopia songs many years ago, as a study of poetry, that is, as an examination of the modes of arrangement of words in the Tikopia language in conventional verse form, leaving aside reference to music and to bodily movement such as dance, except as general descriptive background. This is still the main tenor of the work, which in some ways is an extension of the semantic aspect of my Tikopia-English Dictionary (Auckland University Press, 1985). But as research into Tikopia and other Polynesian cultures has developed, it has seemed to me that some rather more systematic contextualization of the songs is now feasible. My own textual record of poetic composition is fairly ample, being based upon collection of examples from Tikopia people at five periods over fifty years. I have also had much discussion of the meaning of many poems with many Tikopia, and have taken part in many events in which such poems were being sung. So a reasonably detailed account of the form and nature of these songs, their imagery and the social setting which helped to inspire and shape them can now be given.

The musical record is not as ample. In 19281 had no recording apparatus with which to capture Tikopia speech and singing. But thanks to the enterprise of my colleague James Spillius in 1952 and 1953, supplemented by my own recordings in 1966 and 1973, by very helpful contribution from Ishmael Tuki in Auckland in 1978, and by a few other sources, a small but fairly representative set of Tikopia musical examples, mainly of secular songs, has now been secured on tape.

Introduction

The analysis undertaken here is of recordings which may loosely be described as the Firth collection: i.e. recordings from disparate sources in the possession of Raymond Firth and made available by him for analysis. In accordance with Firth's own choice of songs elsewhere in the book no account is taken of modern songs (mostly with guitar or ukulele accompaniment). These are discussed by Firth in Chapter 1.

The starting point for analysis was to transcribe into music notation all transcribable items on tape. Over 60 songs were transcribed in full and some in part. Because of space limitations few of these transcriptions can be published here. In the interests of the general reader the analysis is likewise severely curtailed.

Manner of singing

Distinctive vocal quality in a singing style is easy to recognise but notoriously difficult to describe. Firth's description of Tikopia singing (p. 30) as tending towards harshness may be accepted but is applicable mainly to group rather than solo singing. Soloists such as Ishmael Tuki who recorded at Auckland in 1978 and the Ariki Taumako, who recorded for Firth in 1966, sang in a relatively relaxed manner though with some rasp in the latter case. Group singing has moderate nasality and tension, especially in dance-songs. As the latter approach their climax, shouts and cries are interspersed, the song gets faster and louder, and a shouted quality of voice becomes more prevalent in the singing itself, adding to the impression of harshness.

For Tikopia a death generates much musical activity. In terms sometimes used in anthropology, Tikopia attitudes to death may be described as ceremonial rather than ritual, in that the emphasis is on formal behaviour patterns rather than on observances governed primarily by mystical beliefs (cf. Firth, 1956: 46). A person who has died is given respect as the centre of funeral activities, in proportion to his or her rank or status. But unlike much western or Muslim practice, for instance, Tikopia custom is not to observe any special silence or quiet behaviour in the presence of the dead. Solemnity of demeanour is common, and a smile rather than laughter is regarded as seemly, while often real sorrow is apparent. But conversation around the corpse may be carried on in normal tones. Indeed, noise may be obligatory, as in the gunfire or more traditional percussion that signalised the death of a chief, and the continued wailing and singing of dirges that goes on in the period before the corpse is buried, and at intervals for some time thereafter.

In strong contrast to Maori and some other Oceanic peoples, though the spirit of the dead person is believed to be around for several days after the death and must be treated with precaution, the Tikopia show no fear of a corpse as such. They express no idea that a corpse may be polluting and have no taboos about the dead. Hence there are no rites of purification after handling a corpse or taking part in a funeral.

It can hardly be claimed for Tikopia poetry, as it has often been claimed for some European poetic treasuries, that it is among the deepest expressions and purest creations of mankind. Unlike French poetry, for example, that of Tikopia is not marked by oratorical beauty, power of incantation, profundity of thought - though perhaps it may be allowed the qualities of novelty and force of sentiment which mark effective poetic effort. Neither can it be awarded without question the distinction of possessing inspiration, natural grace and pure lyrical eloquence - qualities held to be characteristic of a poet such as Ronsard (Arland, 1947: 13, 17, 27). Yet one may say with Frangois Villon that poetry isn't just a correct assembly of sounds and images; it is the profound song of a man (or a woman), with its roots deep down in the human heart. By such criteria, any serious study of Tikopia poetry shows that while varying in quality, many of these songs do reveal expression of deep emotion and deal with universal human situations and problems - of struggle with nature, adjustment in personal relations, care for reputation, respect for authority, love for close kin, anguish at loss. Moreover, the songs convey such sentiments in formal language which clearly has had aesthetic value for the Tikopia. So these songs have served as a kind of treasury for them, a stock of memories of a stylised order which can be drawn upon by successive generations of Tikopia to remind them of past pains and pleasures, events in their community history, concepts of cultural individuality, in a nostalgic idiom which is highly meaningful to them.

Traditionally, Tikopia life has been permeated by the contrast between land and sea. Living on a tiny island less than three kilometres across, more than 150 km. from any larger land and 100 km. from Anuta, an even smaller dot in the ocean, the people of Tikopia were habituated to the constant sight of a horizon without a break all round, and the constant sound of the sea, from the quiet wash of the surf on a windless night to the roaring of breakers in a storm. The sea was a vital economic resource, for daily bathing, and for supply of almost their only flesh food, fish. It was also their sole avenue of communication with the outside world, by outrigger canoe, until in the nineteenth century European vessels made an occasional visit. And while it offered Tikopia men the opportunity to travel to other islands and satisfy their thirst for adventure, it continued to be a grave for large numbers of their most active young men and distinguished elders. Awareness of the sea was built into the Tikopia language. Not only has there been a large vocabulary connected with the sea, canoes and fishing, but also consciousness of the sea has entered into the most elementary directional indicators. In spatial distribution of objects, and orientation of personal activity, the most general sign has been the ascription of ngatai or ngauta - seawards or landwards - terms which can be used even if one is working on an orchard in the centre of the island or wrapped up in a blanket in a house (cf. Firth 1936: 18-21).

This brief chapter is intended to examine some main features of Tikopia songs, as exemplified in the previous chapters, and to focus on some aspects of more general significance to the study of oral poetic material, inherent in this book as a whole. To grasp the significance of Tikopia songs it is essential to realise the unique situation of the island community – remote, isolated in the far southeast of the Solomon Islands. For many generations the people had only slender contact with the world outside, so their traditional music was completely internally generated, created by the people themselves to meet their own needs, and fitted closely to their way of life.

The first point to emphasise is the prime importance of songs and singing in Tikopia life. The Tikopia have not had any highly developed graphic or plastic art – no free-standing wooden sculptured human figures, for example, as made by Maori or Hawaiians. Their energies have gone into the field of the performing arts, to some extent into dance, but especially into the composition of songs. In traditional Tikopia society and even to a considerable degree in their modern communities, songs have been an integral feature of their social life. Solo singing has occurred, but for the most part it is by choral singing that the Tikopia have demonstrated their need to express themselves on occasions of social significance to them. Reception and farewell of visitors, dancing, initiation of boys, sickness, death, removal of mourning have all been marked by songs of an appropriate kind, allowing recognition of social norms and an outlet for personal emotion.

Readers of my other works on Tikopia will be aware that Tikopia society, in its relatively traditional state or in its more modern shape, was not always in a condition of amity and smooth operation. Apart from long-standing clashes of interest, as between clans or districts, there were also turbulent incidents in which individuals took action, sometimes violently, to remedy a grievance or express a sense of outrage or frustration. Weapons might be brandished, house thatch beaten, and though physical injury to an opponent was not common, it was not unknown. The most usual form of expression of complaint or anger, however, was verbal, by cursing or other protest, often punctuated by the high-pitched yell of Iēfu!, which gave public notification of distress or indignation.

Notable among verbal forms of protest or assertion of dissent have been songs. Tikopia songs of complaint, protest or criticism form part of the general body of Tikopia song in that they conform in structure to the normal poetic and musical patterns. But they have been of special interest to the Tikopia in that they constitute a category known as tauangutu - jeering songs - or commonly mako tauangutu - jeering dance songs - since they nearly all have been composed to be accompaniments to dance. Tauangutu is a compound word, and may be loosely translated sectionally as ‘war of the lips’. Mako tauangutu have a great range of content. They may refer to laziness, lying, slander, theft, desertion and analogous breaches of the social code.

Persian musicians commonly consider Bayāt–e Esfahān to be a derivative of dastgāh–e Homāyun. The argument is that if we begin on the 4th degree above the finalis of Homāyun, we shall achieve the mode of Bayāt–e Esfahān. This argument may be, at best, as valid as to say that if we start from the 2nd degree of the Dorian mode we shall have the Phrygian mode, and that, therefore, the Phrygian is a derivative of the Dorian mode.

In fact, we have seen that Persian modes depend on much more than the mere similarities between intervals. When we consider all factors that contribute to the identity of a mode in Persian music, we are compelled to consider Bayāt–e Esfahān as an independent mode.

Aside from the argument stated above, there is one basis for confusing Bayāt–e Esfahān with Homāyun. In the latter dastgāh, those pieces which are in the mode of Čahārgāh do exhibit a marked similarity of characteristics with Bayāt–e Esfahān. It is possible, then, to confuse Bayāt–e Esfahān with the Čahārgāh area of dastgāh–e Homāyun. Of course, this similarity is limited to the modal characteristics; the melodic bases for Bayāt-e Esfahān and Ĉahārgāh are each sufficiently distinct not to be confused with one another.

Bayāt-e Esfahān is also considered to be the Persian counterpart of the harmonic minor mode of western music.

Although I am of Persian birth and have lived my childhood and teenage years in Persia, my early musical outlook was mainly western. I remember some fascination with Persian music in my childhood when, on rare occasions, my father played the tār. He was an amateur musician who, like most nobility of the time, had learned how to play an instrument in his younger days. But from the coming of radio to Persia, I found myself much more drawn to western music. The first radio station was established in Tehran in 1939. Local musical broadcasts included both Persian and western musics. It was the popular western songs and dances (tangos, waltzes, foxtrots, etc.) which were more commonly heard, but there was also a limited broadcasting of classical recordings.

I was first drawn to the likes of ‘La Comparsita’, ‘J'attendrai’ and ‘The Blue Danube’. From there I moved up to the Caucasian Sketches, Scheherazade and the Second Hungarian Rhapsody. The next step was to Grieg, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, and so on. As my interest in western music grew and turned into a passion, what little place Persian music had within me was given up altogether. By the time, in my late teens, that I had decided to devote my life to the study of music, I had no feelings for Persian music other than contempt. As compared with the wealth, variety and range of expression in western music, Persian music seemed limited, frail and monotonous.