Voicing Ethnicity: Traditional Referentiality,

the Ullalim, and Kalinga Ethnopop

SCOTT MAGKACHI SABOY

ABSTRACT

An emerging musical form in the Cordillera region of northern Philippines may be seen in the work of a Kalinga ethnopop band called The Living Anitos (TLA) whose hybrid works are marked by the fusion of indigenous and foreign instrumentation and melodic patterns, as well as the remixing of Kalinga oral traditions. This paper first proposes a broad understanding of the Kalinga ullalim tradition, taking into consideration its inherent potential for remixing. The paper then deploys the concept of traditional referentiality (TR) from Oral Theory and applies it to three ethnopop songs produced by the TLA. It attempts to show how TR can enrich not only a textual analysis of these compositions but also the extra-textual inferences that can be drawn from them. In so doing, it contributes to our current understanding of indigenous traditions as they are apparently exorcized of the ghosts of their past, recontextualized for today’s generation, and implicated in contemporary community issues.

Keywords: ethnopop, ethnic music, Kalinga, ullalim, oral tradition, ethnicity

Philippine ethnopop music

Teresita Gimenez-Maceda (2007) puts the full bloom of pop music1 in the Philippines in the early 1970s when the explosion of nationalism against the increasingly repressive Marcos regime found popular and diverse expressions in “Pinoy pop music” in which Filipino lyrics were melded with EuroAmerican pop, rock and folk music (391, f.). The protest-pop productions were sustained well up to the 1986 EDSA Revolution which saw the end of the Marcos regime. The early 1980s also saw the use of ethnic instrumentation in the creative industry. Among the pioneers of this trend was Joey Ayala who used “indigenous instruments... not as embellishments to the songs but as integral elements in capturing the rhythm of life in Mindanao” (403).

It was also during the period of Marcos-imposed martial law that enterprising Igorot ethnopop artists began producing their own records (Fong 2011). Fong documents the remixing projects of Igorot composers and singers in Benguet as they “recycled, re-produced and re-released” American folk, rock and country music (iii). These musicians borrowed foreign tunes and translated the lyrics into the local language, or wrote entirely new lyrics for the appropriated melodies. Fong points out that while they were partly motivated by the prospects of commercial success, they were also driven by a subversive drive: carving out their personal and ethnic identity to counter stereotypes made of them by mainstream media. Fong credits the development of Ibaloy pop music to the American colonial experience, the various Christian missiological projects, and the global creative industry with its attendant cyber-electronic technology:

The production of the Ibaloy songs emerged from the people’s experience of American colonialism, the global distribution of American folk, rock and country music, the circulation of gospel music through Western organized religion, formal education patterned after the American system, the establishment of AM and FM radio stations in the American-made city of Baguio, access to sound and video recording technologies first in Manila and then eventually in Baguio and Benguet. (243)

Fong’s findings find resonance in a study of Yoneno-Reyes (2010) on the popular Kalinga song genre, salidummay, which she conjectures to have come out about the time of World War II and whose melodies are taken from EuroAmerican songs, which are then combined with local tunes and lyrics to articulate ethnic pride and unity. She maintains that salidummay “represents the sociocultural hybridity of premodernity and modernity” and the constant rural/highland and urban/lowland cultural interchange (40, 50).

Figure 1. Covers of the CD recordings Lin-awa and Uggayam by Arnel Banasan.

Figure 2. Covers of two CD recordings by The Living Anitos.

In an earlier paper, “Mass Media Technology and Indigenous Musical Practices in the Philippines,” Yoneno-Reyes (2002) looked into the upside and downside of media technology that brought popular music from the US to Igorot communities in the Philippines in the 1960s. She notes that even as this outside influence meant the decline of “spontaneous chanting/singing” among the Northern Kankanaey and other Igorots, it also led to the burgeoning of new hybrid music formats that localized foreign tunes and the rise of native music artists like Arnel Banasan (see Fig. 1) of Kalinga who began producing their own albums that harmonized foreign and ethnic tunes and themes. Hence, she says, “[w]hile technologies and imported musical forms have clearly changed the musical culture of the region, they have not silenced it” (56).

Aside from Banasan, another well-known ethnopop artist in Kalinga is Edison Balansi, founder and songwriter of a band that calls itself The Living Anitos (TLA) (see Fig. 2). TLA music generally fuses ethnic and foreign instrumentation and melodic patterns, a hybridized music format which forms part of a larger, though disparate, trend among local performing groups in the Cordillera.

To date, TLA has three albums with 45 tracks, 4 of which are instrumental pieces, 29 are songs in Kalinga or Ilokano, 10 in English, and 2 in Filipino. Themes border on the political—the bodong (Kalinga peace pact system) and crime resolution, local leadership and the people’s demand for accountability; ecological (human responsibility, environmental degradation, and nature’s backlash); cultural (pride in one’s indigenous roots, retelling of local lores, personal choice and filial/communal duty); religious (Divine Providence, moral sensitivity and community relations); and romantic (local marriage customs and conflicted lovers, youthful passion and unrequited love).

This paper examines the deployment of “traditional referents” in three TLA songs that draw inspiration from the ullalim—“Kalinga Tale,” “Kanta Ji Aanak,” and “Kullilipan.” It critically analyzes the three musical texts, taking into consideration their immediate and remote cultural contexts gathered from archival research and interviews with a few contemporary Kalinga chanters or music artists. I first discuss two concepts that form the theoretical underpinning of this work, “Traditional Referentiality” and “Remix,” explain a Kalinga traditional music that informs the texts under scrutiny, and finally unpack the traditional referents in the said texts.

Traditional referentiality

John Miles Foley defines TR as “the resonance between the singular moment and the traditional context” (1999, xiv). In an earlier work (1991,10), he explains that it “entails the invoking of a context that is enormously larger and more echoic than the text or work itself, that brings the lifeblood of generations of poems and performances to the individual performance or text.” The concept was originally formulated from a reading of Homeric epics whose traditional referents, Foley observes, comprise the “central expressive strategy” (13). He adds that when read in a particular cultural discourse, “these ‘bytes’ of phraseology and narrative pattern serve to index traditional ideas, characters, and situations, standing by prior negotiation for much more than a literary reading alone can decode” (14). Under this concept, linguistic “index markers,” i.e., terms, expressions, and other linguistic patterns (cf. Drout 2006, 280), implicate the socio-cultural milieu in which these were first located.

Building on Foley’s work, Michael Drout extends the application of the concept of the “meme” and melds it with Foley’s TR. What Foley calls “index marker” or “traditional referent” is what Drout refers to as the “triggering or cuing meme” which “invokes the much larger meme complex with which it is associated by the process of metonymy: the part stands for the whole… [it is thus] not only a by-product of the repetition generated by tradition, but also serves to reinforce the tradition itself” (2006, 276-277).

Remix

It is in its invoking of a background tradition that TR finds connection to the concept of “Remix.” Remix Studies theorist Eduardo Navas (2012, 65) defines Remix Culture “as a global activity consisting of the creative and efficient exchange of information made possible by digital technologies.” He notes that from its beginnings in Jamaican music in the ‘60s and ‘70s, remix culture has spread worldwide as individuals and groups borrowed, copied and developed their own models especially in the field of performing arts. With this “free exchange of ideas” mediated by electronic and, eventually, digital technology, cultural products (e.g., song remixes) continue to be made (3). He defines Remix as “the activity of taking samples from pre-existing materials to combine them into new forms according to personal taste.” Applied to music, it refers, “in general, to a reinterpretation of a pre-existing song, meaning that the ‘spectacular aura’ of the original will be dominant in the remixed version” (2012, 65). Some of the TLA remixes do not fall under his three-pronged classification of music remixes (extended, selective, and reflexive) because the “spectacular aura of the original” is not “dominant” although the source(s) of the remix is/are identifiable. Navas maintains that remix has to be “mediated with technology… Remix is a concept that is very specific to our current times.” He adds that “[t]he concept of reusing material in previous periods… [may be properly termed] as recycling, appropriation, etc.” (email of Eduardo Navas to this author, March 9, 2012).

Kirby Ferguson of “Everything is a Remix” video mashup fame also ties the term with technology as he speaks of remix as a “new media created from old media” (2012a). Elsewhere, he refers to remix as the combination or editing of “existing materials to produce something new” (2010). This is done through the tripartite process of copying, combining and transforming—the “basic elements of all creativity.” He declares that “a better way to conceive of creativity is to declare that “Everything is a remix”—from literature to music, and films to other technological inventions (see also Ferguson 2011b, 2012b):

... anybody can remix anything—music, video, photos, whatever and distribute it globally pretty much instantly. You don’t need expensive tools, you don’t need a distributor, you don’t even need skills. Remixing is a folk art. Anybody can do it. Yet these techniques—collecting material, combining and transforming it—are the same ones used at any level of creation. You could even say that everything is a remix. (2010; cf. Knobel and Lankshear 2008, 22, ff.)

He demonstrates how the works of Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Henry Ford, and Steve Jobs can be viewed as remixes. Of Dylan’s early compositions, he reveals that about 70% of the tunes were recycled from older ones. He adds that the technique “is pretty typical of folk singers.” He remarks, “You take existing songs, you chop them up, you transform the pieces, and you combine them back together again, and you’ve got a new song, but that new song is clearly comprised of old songs” (2012b).

Ferguson (2010) demonstrates this three-track act or process of copying, combining and transforming as a tool of hybridity. It is part of a “social evolution” in which “memes—ideas, behaviors, skills” (2012a)—are passed on and developed. The first act cuts into the concept of originality: “Nobody starts out original. We need copying to build a foundation of knowledge and understanding” (2011a). Existing materials may be copied wholly or partly, retaining or losing their meanings in their original contexts. The selection and combination of these disparate materials may appear arbitrary but the resultant transformation can reveal design (or the method behind the madness, if you please).

Creative Commons founder and “free culture” champion Lawrence Lessig (2007, 36-37), takes a broad perspective of remix by placing the concept at the base of cultural development throughout human history:

The idea, first, is that you take a creative work, mix it together and then other people take it and they remix it; they re-express it. In this sense, culture is remix; knowledge is remix; politics is remix. Remix in this sense is the essence of what it is to be human. Companies do it….

We all do it, every day of our life. We go watch a movie by somebody, we whine to our friends about how either it is the dumbest movie we have ever seen or the most profound political insight America has produced in fifty years. Whatever, we are remixing our culture by experiencing it and re-expressing it. In our choices every day, we decide what our culture will be by deciding what we consume and what we comment about…. We are remixing by consuming and we, by consuming, are constructing every single act. Creating and recreating culture is an act produced by reading, by choosing, by criticising, by praising. This is how cultures get made.

In another work, Lessig (2008) also argues that both oral and written cultures past and present have thrived and developed by accretion, building on previous ideas to come up with new concepts, artifacts and institutions. In short, remixing is a basic, common practice among the world’s multihued cultures.

Oral Tradition scholars do not view remix as anchored on modern technology. Morgan Grey (2011, 664), for instance, observes that remixing is at the heart of oral tradition, and cites the case of oral poets who “remix elements within the [oral] tradition at will.”

The foregoing reveals that in the remixing process, a slew of various cultural themes and practices are decontextualized from the source and brought together in a different context. Nevertheless, the components of the remixed form also point back to their respective sources.

The ullalim tradition

The ullalim is arguably the best known representative of Kalinga oral traditions. Among many scholars of Cordillera culture, there seems to be a prevalent opinion about this Kalinga oral tradition as solely an epic. This may have stemmed from the works of Lambrecht and Billiet on the ullalim (1970 and 1975)—the earliest and to date still the most exhaustive scholarly studies on this Kalinga oral tradition. The two scholar-priests define the ullalim as songs of the Kalinga about

the feats of their fictitious culture heroes, thereby proclaiming the bravery of their people and their innate pride of belonging to that ethnic stock whose valor overcomes danger and fear, whose ambuscades display cleverness, and whose headhunts powerfully function as the fulfillment of duty toward kin and clan. (1970, 1)

They classify the ullalim as a ballad, it being sung by bards; an epic, as it is a tale of a fabled hero’s adventures; and a romance, for it also tells a story of love (1970, 1-2). They also reveal the limited plasticity of the epic with the bards’ occasional insertion or replacement of terms or expressions that suit new experiences or historical developments:

What, then, do these innovations—single words and intercalated or additional incidents—positively demonstrate? Most certainly, that the ullalim bards feel free to introduce changes in their stories, just because they know that, in the mind of the Kalinga, the ullalim are not repeated fictitious events of a dead past, but folk epics that live. To the Kalinga mind, therefore, the ullalim are susceptible to improvement and change, to developments that revivify the imaginary past, provided that the main themes of Kalinga bravery and headhunting achievements, which are proper to all ullalim, be not obscured by the changes introduced. (1970, 59, emphasis added)

Their qualifying statement highlighted above naturally issues from their definition of this Kalinga oral tradition as “fabulous compositions and impossible accounts of idealized battles, heroic achievements, and magical performances, all fictitiously attributed to a prehistoric hero” (1970, 7). This further explains their dismissive attitude towards a Kalinga chant which they branded as “’fake’ ullálim”:

Figure 4. The geopolitical territory of Kalinga. Source: NEDA-CAR.

Those… which are occasionally extemporized these days by one or another talented minstrel either to welcome a distinguished Kalinga visitor or to strengthen among the hearers the acceptance of the new political and religious ideas of modern times, or simply

to amuse those who wish to listen. Such ullálim have nothing in common with the genuine ones, except their chant. (61, footnote 68)

This particular ullallim is alternatively called in southern and eastern Kalinga2 (see Figs. 3 and 4) as “sogsogna.” Different in tune from but akin content-wise to the oggayam in western Kalinga, it is an improvisatory entertainment song widely used in every imaginable occasion, except during wakes or burials. It is sung extemporaneously and each performance is characterized by the improvisator’s own “idiosyncracy and style” (Saboy 1997, 219).

From my own study of this chant, however, I have come to realize that bifurcating this Kalinga oral tradition into the “authentic/genuine” and “inauthentic/fake” is actually problematic. This is because doing so fails to appreciate the basic feature and the complexity of the ullalim as understood by Kalinga communities themselves. In support of this claim, I invoke (a) the first Lambrecht-Billiet ullalim book and a recent work on the ullalim, and (b) the actual usage of the term among Kalinga communities in general and among several outstanding contemporary ullalim bards.

In the “Legend of Lubting” (Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 53, 54) we have these passages:

In both stanzas the use of ullalim refers to the melodious way Lubting spoke, not to a vocalization of an epic. Lambrecht and Billiet admit as much, although they conjectured in relation to the first stanza that it was a prototypical tune, “a kind of musical matrix which later developed into the real ullalim melody” (1970, 52). Such a speculation is contestable, of course, there being no solid basis for dogmatically claiming that Lagunnawa’s song-like speech did or did not sound like the “real” ullalim that we now know of. Can it simply be that the two uses of ullalim in the Lambrecht-Billiet texts attest to the fact that the heart of the ullalim is its peculiar melody and not its peculiar message or content?

A non-dichotomized understanding of the oral tradition squares with the Kalinga’s use of the term “ullalim” to refer to either a heroic tale or an extemporaneous speech as long as it is sung in a manner distinctive to this oral form. It is thus acceptable for Stallsmith (2011, 25-44) to refer to an “Ullalim by a Bawak woman” of Upper Kalinga even though it was clearly a welcome song, not a recounting of ancient stories:

The text and the context within which it was sung clearly show that this Southern Kalinga ullalim is a welcome song meant to create an atmosphere of amity in a bodong celebration, and that while toponymical references (e.g., Bayoya) are used and allude to places mentioned in ullalim stories, this particular ullalim is not of the epic form or a recounting of ancient stories (despite Stallsmith’s mistaken description of the song as “a “solo epic story song”). Although Stallsmith failed to document the whole chant (in his July 10, 2012 email to me, his response to my query on the rest of the text confirms he only has the first seven lines), the quoted portion of the chant is sufficient to show that it is actually a sogsogna.

This is not at all surprising, for Kalingas—even those chanters who trace their familial roots to the time and places where and when the Lambrecht and Billiet ullalim texts were recorded—regard the ullalim tradition as having an epic and a non-epic form: an ullalim may either be a heroic tale or an extemporaneous speech as long as it is sung in a manner distinctive to this oral form. This explains why, in all the occasions I have attended where ullalim performances were made, when someone is asked or volunteers to man-ullalim (sing the ullalim), s/he is free to chant a variant of ancient tales of Kalinga culture heroes or to simply chant a message that suits the occasion.

No singular testimony attesting to the foregoing claim could be more compelling than that of Judge Francis Buliyat of the village of Lubo, municipality of Tanudan, Kalinga. He is a well-known ullalim chanter who, at 25 (see a section of the Buliyat genealogy in Lambrecht and Billiet, 1970, 69), was Billiet’s companion during the latter’s fieldwork in Lubo for the Ullalim I. Buliyat also helped Billiet translate the epics. In my October 17, 2011 interview with the judge in La Trinidad, Benguet, I referred him to his copy of Ullalim I where Lambrecht and Billiet mentioned the “fake ullalim.” He was surprised at the footnote, saying, “I was not consulted about this,” adding that the sogsogna could be viewed as a “version” of the ullalim. Indeed, in all his ullalim performances I witnessed, he would chant the non-epic version of this oral tradition. The only time he sang the epic version was when I requested him to sing out the “Myth of Lubting” portion of the Ullalim I text.

Another widely acknowledged man-uullalim, Joseph Dupali, from Mangali, Tanudan sings the non-epic ullalim. He recalls growing up with his grandfather singing the ullalim epics, but says he has always understood that the sogsogna is an ullalim as well (interview by the author, Baguio City, February 21, 2012).

That sogsogna and ullalim are interchangeable can also be seen in the album of a Kalinga chanter from the Majukayong tribe3 (located in Natonin, Mountain Province), Sr. Beata Marina Balaso. Sister Balaso’s Ullalim: Se Ugud Kabuniyan Narpuan Biag (Ullalim: God’s Word, Source of Life) reveals that the ullalim she speaks of is not the epic form. In fact, the distinction between a sogsogna and an ullalim is blurred because all the chants are hortatory in nature, even when a text is in narrative form (i.e., “The Call of the Disciples”). And if Lambrecht and Billiet were to be followed, Balaso’s chants will not qualify as “real” ullalim for these do not tell stories about Kalinga’s culture heroes, although the two prologues in the album mention place-names (Magubya, Minanga, Kayyakaya, and Dulawon) and a personal name (Lagunnawa) which are drawn straight from familiar ullalim tales. Elderly Kalingas, both ullalim chanters and non-chanters alike, who have listened to Balaso’s album have not objected to her use of the term ullalim to refer to her songs.

I must hasten to add, though, that three other respected i-Majukayong man-uullalim I have talked to (Fred Pangsiw, Jose Pangsiw, and Pablo Manaar) continue to maintain that ullalim refers solely to the epic (ullalim being essentially a “story”) and the sogsogna is not technically an ullalim.When pressed about them not objecting when some other Kalingas refer to the sogsogna as “ullalim,” they said their silence was simply prudential. Nevertheless, it remains a fact that while some Kalingas stick to the ullalim-as-epic position, many others understand the chant as referring to both the epic and the more generic type.

It seems to me then, based on both textualized formats and actual oral performances of the ullalim, that the heart of this oral tradition is in its peculiar melody and that the ullalim cannot be boxed in a literary genre (i.e., epic), theme (i.e., exploits of culture heroes), or chronological moment (i.e., premodern or myth-shrouded headhunting past). By not limiting it to the epic form—that crowning glory of poetry with which the ullalim has been identified especially in the academe—do we then cheapen this oral tradition? I think not. On the contrary, we actually enrich it by acknowledging its complexity and recognizing its variety in actual practice. For me, neither is superior to the other for both speak of the creativity of the Kalinga mind, and each has its peculiarity worthy of academic exploration. They are both voices of the past speaking to the audience of today, the epic form narrating in an archaic yet lofty language the concerns and values of an older generation some of which may still be relevant today and the non-epic form giving a pep talk in contemporary language about the concerns and values of a new generation.

A fuller appreciation of this oral tradition requires bringing together both its epic form and its extemporaneously-composed form, as well as its contemporary recasting by Kalinga musicians. In this way, it can be demonstrated how an oral tradition born and nurtured in hamlets where the performance of quaint-sounding strains was a prime time show and gongs or bamboo instruments and torches of pine flitches served as synthesizers and spotlights has levelled up to the demands of a culture gone electronic, digital, virtual, and global.

The ullalim remixed

This leads us to the three TLA songs that remix the ullalim—“Kanta Ji Aanak,” “Kalinga Tale” and “Kullilipan.” I shall attempt to present the songs as a “musicultural phenomenon,” i.e., one in which “music as sound” is intertwined with “music as culture” (Bakan 2012, 10). With this considerable focus on the cultural context of the songs, I thus follow Cross (2003, 24) who wrote:

Musics only make sense as musics if we can resonate with the histories, values, conventions, institutions, and technologies that enfold them; musics can only be approached through culturally situated acts of interpretation.

“Kanta Chi Aanak” and “Kalinga Tale”

Kanta Chi Aanak (Your Children’s Song)

Words and music by Edison Balansi4

Kalinga Tale

Words and music by Edison L. Balansi

“Kanta Ji Aanak” (KJA) calls to task Kalinga leaders and elders for perpetuating a culture of violence and misguiding the young with their repeated calls for revenge. It pleads for mutual respect and social harmony, anchoring these on common ethnicity and (Christian) faith and pinning two important elements of the epic to the core of the issue on local peace, the papangat (chiefs or elders), and the bodong (Kalinga peace pact system).

On the other hand, “Kalinga Tale” (KT) tells of a conflicted diasporic Filipino pouring out his homesickness, pining both for his hometown and his ladylove. The speaker identifies himself as “Banna”—the primary cultural hero in the epic, and his ladylove as “Lagunnawa”—the object of the hero’s love in the same epic. Following a familiar trope, the author has the persona working as an apple-picker in America who had to leave Kalinga because of its unresolved conflicts. While he deplores the sporadic violence in his ili (province/hometown) and even urges his lover to forsake Kalinga and live with him overseas, he also intimates that he sorely misses Kalinga and its tajok ya gangsa (dances and gongs), and that they should wear their faár (g-string) and káin (native skirt) with pride. He ends with a wish for a better Kalinga which, with its natural allure and cultural richness, he hopes will occupy a lead position in regional politics.

Both pieces not only appropriate the musical and narrative features of the ullalim but also real-life situations of perceived injustice done in the name of tradition and of real people leaving Kalinga reeling from isolated but far-reaching clan conflicts and personal vendetta. According to Balansi (interview by the author, Bulanao, Tabuk City, February 12, 2012), he wrote KT shortly after several incidents of shooting in Bulanao, Tabuk one of which occurred at the White Carabao marker fronting the St. William’s Cathedral in Bulanao, Tabuk. Due to the series of killings, said to be part of a “tribal conflict,” none dared to go outside their houses after dusk. His first album was launched in a concert held at the said marker and, according to his production manager at the time, Gailyn Balbin-Soriano (interview by the author, Bulanao, Tabuk City, February 12, 2012), it was the only time she witnessed people strolling home towards midnight after the concert from Bulanao to Dagupan, seven kilometers away.

Traditional Referents

At least four interweaving traditional referents can be identified in the two songs: a stereotyped chanted introductory line (“Kanan kanu din’ullalim eee…), an indigenous institution (vojon), a culture heroine (Lagunnawa), and a memetic musical style (Salidummay).

Kanan Kanu din’Ullalim eee… KJA opens with the familiar, stereotyped introductory line of the Ullalim, “Kanan kanu din’ullalim eee…” (So says the ullalim) and roughly follows the hepta-octosyllabic line that characterizes the ullalim epics (cf. Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 70 and Coben 2009, 82). In so doing, the speaker/writer brings to the fore an entire oral tradition and its attendant cultural practices that are rooted in precolonial times.

The ullalim epics, along with the palpaliwát or “warrior’s boasting speech” (see detailed discussion on the nature of the boasting chant in Lambrecht and Billiet 1974, 28-33) were major war stimulants among the ancient Kalinga, and notwithstanding their mythical and legendary nature, are “genuine witnesses of the Kalinga’s ancient characteristic spirit, which was motivated by the urge of self-conservation in the midst of a hostile environment, where survival was believed to be safeguarded by victory in war” (Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 6-7). Invoking the ullalim tradition in a song that critiques the perceived culture of violence in Kalinga thus calls attention to the anachronistic lex talionis that drives the belligerence of some contemporary members of this ethnic group, i.e., the kawitan (rooster). At the same time, given the speaker’s profession of love for and pride in his íli and kultúra (cf. KJA, lines 36-37; KT, lines 9,18-20), his remixing of the ullalim’s distinctive melody (KJA) and romantic narrative (KT) hints at the continuing utility and relevance of this head ax-glorifying oral tradition. Further, melding fragments of the ullalim’s tonal feature with synthesized, dominant, and more popular tunes (Salidummay for KJA and pop-rock themes for KT) clues the hearer-reader in on the idea that the ullalim tradition can be harmonized with modern life as long as it is shorn of its larger, discordant parts. At the same time, the harmonization of a musical and thematic fragment of the ullalim epic with the larger ethnopop aura of the song is jarred by the protestation of the young against the violence instigated by the older generation.

Vochon (alternatively, bodong or vojong). The Kalingas, among all the ethnic groups in the Cordillera, have the best developed peace pact system as highlighted by their codification of the págta di bodong (peace pact law or guidelines). Kalinga’s conflict resolution and peace-making efforts were lauded nationally when Tabuk City received from the Department of the Interior and Local Government (DILG) the Galing Pook award for its Matagoan Peace Program lodged with city government’s Matagoan Bodong Consultative Council (MBCC). Despite calls by some sectors in the Kalinga community for its abolition, the bodong remains a viable refuge for those involved in clan conflicts who, according to MBCC Coordinator Alexander Gunaban, see it as “restorative” with both aggrieved and offending parties resuming smooth relations long after the resolution of the case (interview by the author, Dagupan, Tabuk City, Kalinga, December 21, 2013).

In KJA (lines 14-21), blame is placed on the bodong which, although sold by elders as the guidepost for peace and justice, the young—or at least the persona—see(s) as ironically licensing the killing of Kalingas by their own kailian. This is a common complaint of those who are for the abolition of the bodong who see the institution as anachronistic to a “Christian, modern” society. To them, the bodong is a reminder and animator of the “kayaw” (headhunting raid) days.

It is worth noting that the writer/speaker uses “mangáyaw” (KJA, line 20) instead of the more commonly used “pumatóy” to express the idea of killing. The root word “káyaw” conjures up images of a Kalinga warrior along a warpath taking the head of the enemy with the swipe of his head ax (cf. Lambrecht and Billiet 1974, 66, ff.). Line 34 calls for the casting off of the gamán, a traditional weapon that connotes a savage past. The speaker thus employs terms that jibe with the imaginings of both insiders and outsiders of Kalinga as a “land of tribal wars.”

Kalinga Province Governor Jocel Baac himself underscored this continued stereotyping in his interface with local media during the 2011 Ullalim Festival. One news item on the interview (Ma. Elena Catajan, “Kalinga sans war image pushed,” Sun.StarBaguio, February 16, 2011) reports:

Baac, during the Ullalim festival, said he wants to scrap the image of the province as a land of tribal wars as it scares away tourists and investors.

Baac said even Kalinga students in Baguio have been reported to have a difficult time finding boarding homes because homeowners are frightened of the province’s supposed notorious image...

The province is perceived by outsiders as a dangerous place to travel and visit by personal impressions and by the media,” he said.

The governor lamented news items often exaggerate tribal wars, adding there is no such happening going on today...

Baac, however, admitted before any change in image can take place, change should also start from the Kalingas.

The news excerpt reveals the internal and external forces that shape ethnic classification (characterization of a group imposed from the outside) and identification (the group’s view of themselves). The native’s real and perceived (mis)conduct or peculiarity conspires, as it were, with media narrative and tourist gaze to create a reified ethnic identity. Illustrative of this process of image construction is the following narration that introduces the Philippine segment of Lars Krutak’s popular television documentary on Discovery Channel, “Tattoo Hunter” (2009):

The Kalingas live in the rugged Cordillera mountain. They are a fierce warrior tribe known for taking human heads. Kalinga means “outlaw” and for hundreds of years they were known to brutally slay their enemies. For every head taken a Kalinga warrior received a tattoo...

But today, headhunting is a lot less common so the Kalinga tattoo tradition is in danger of going extinct... This is a great opportunity for a tattoo anthropologist like me but it’s also dangerous... A little bit nervous... here. You’ll never know what can happen.

During 400 years of occupation in the Philippines first by Spain and then the United States, the Kalinga were one of the only tribes not to come under foreign rule. This was due to their fierce fighting skills and their contempt for strangers. Even today, they are wary of outsiders...

Stereotyping aids in constructing an organized—albeit problematic and disputable—description and explanation of social identities and relationships (McGarty, Yzerbyt and Spears 2002). When the writer/speaker uses “tribal war” (KT, line 16), he builds his protestation on a misnomer, one that is nevertheless casually and popularly accepted in and outside Kalinga; the term thus brings up another area of contestation in the culture. For here is a case where the statistical and the intersubjective representations of culture play.5 Asked about the occurrence of tribal wars in Kalinga, MBBC Coordinator Gunaban, 58 years old at the time of the interview, nonchalantly says, “Awan ti nadanunak nga tribal war” (I have yet to witness a tribal war [in Kalinga]), adding that in the past five decades, the hyped up discords in Kalinga should be properly termed as “clan or family conflicts” (interview by the author, Dagupan, Tabuk City, May 13, 2013). Whether his proposal will eventually capture the popular imagination is something to watch ahead, knowing that the construction of the philistine Kalinga is not the making only of the non-Kalinga: Kalinga themselves are complicit in the mangling of their own image.

Lagunnawa. KT borrows the romantic theme in the ullalim epic and situates Lagunnawa—the heroine and ladylove of the culture hero Banna in the Tanglag version (see Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 147-221)—in the present. Just like in the story, the beauteous lady takes the spotlight in this song, her extraordinary charisma framing the content. She does so, however, even as she is silent, a passive listener to the man’s angst. The speaker does not name himself but the mention of the lady’s name implicates his, at least for those familiar with the story. In the Tanglag narrative, Lagunnawa is the cause of rivalry between Banna and Dungdungan; at the same time, she is also at the heart of the peaceful resolution of the rivalry. This can remind the Kalinga of oft-told stories about women stepping in—naked, it is said—to stop bloodshed between warriors; parenthetically, similar anecdotes color narratives of native resistance to national initiatives, like the shelved Chico River Dam project. The female persona in the song can thus be seen as embodying these narratives and the archetype of the matriarch-mediator of indigenous cultures. But more than that, Lagunnawa here takes on a larger-than-life representation—the ili which, though fraught with tensions and conflicts, never fails to beckon back home her children who had left her.

Salidummay. This is a memetic, multimelodic Kalinga oral tradition that has been appropriated by different ethnic groups across the country for every imaginable use from children’s rhymes and campfire ditties to political jingles and commercial advertisements. As such, it is far better known and creatively deployed musically in different contexts than the ullalim. It would seem that the ullalim often conjures up a brooding past while the salidummay calls up a jovial present. If this is so, then the decidedly minimal use of the ullalim tune and the maximal use of the salidummay melody in KJA can be parsed as an assertion by the writer/speaker that for Kalinga culture to survive and thrive, the excess historical baggage of tradition should be discarded and what remains should dovetail with the consciousness and practice of the present.

“Kullilipan”

Kullilipan

by Edison Balansi

“Kullilipan” is about a mingol (Kalinga warrior) who leaves behind his lover to take part in a battle in Abra (line 23). He heaps praises on her in whom he finds comfort and life (line 3-6) and who is of unsurpassed beauty (line 7). He invokes celestial images (moon, cloud, northern star) to convey ideas of divine guidance and steadfast love (lines 8-18). He expresses his regrets that he has to depart and pledges that if he dies in the fight he would still be with her in spirit (lines 21-36). What is immediately apparent in this song is its remixing of an Ullalim legend often titled as “The Myth of Lubting” (see full text in Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 53-57). The legend tells of sweet-voiced Lubting of Dakalan whose astounding beauty drew the finest youthful gentlemen from everwhere. After spurning the romantic horde, her eye finally fell favorably on Mawangga, warrior-chief from Tinglayan. They soon got married after an elaborate ceremony and the newly wed couple lived in the bride’s residence for around six months. Mawangga then bade his wife goodbye to visit his village, promising to return in five days and agreeing to meet her on Mount Patokan. After the fifth day, Lubting went up to their meeting place. Little did she know that during his absence, the people of Butbut and Tinglayan were engaged in a fierce battle in which Mawangga, at the head of his people, was the first casualty and his enemies took his head as trophy. Some of his tribemates were able to retrieve his head, however, and brought his remains back to Tinglayan. As Mawangga’s promise to meet his wife on Patokan was known to the townsfolk, the villagers sent a messenger to break the news to the anxious Lubting. Grief-stricken at her loss, she refused to go back to Dakalan, and remained on the mountain all the while chanting and weeping. Eventually her tears eroded parts of the mountain and at her death the mountain began to take the shape of a woman lying in quiet repose.

The song revises the tale with an i-Balbalan as warrior-chief, Abra as the site of the battle, and Saltan River as the trysting place. This illustrates the common practice among the world’s folk groups to “retouch” folklore, to borrow from Dundes (2007, 56).6 In this case, it gives the story a different flavor and identifies it with a folk group (Balbalan) other than the originator of the story (Tinglayan). Here, it acquires a more religious sense with its veiled Trinitarian appeal: vitowon manluwaluwan (line16) as a reference to Jesus Christ, Kabunyan to Jehovah and napiyan angin un kajujuwa to the Holy Spirit (lines 25-28; interview with Edison Balansi, Bulanao, Tabuk City, February 12, 2012).7 There seems to be some incongruity, however, in the fact that all these Christian references are set in the same context where practices and symbols that can be associated with paganism are found: head-taking exploit (line 23), the crow both as messenger as message or portent (line 30), and tribal battle implements (line 32). Balansi does not problematize the seeming dissonance in the different voices of religion melded in the song. And so one wonders: Is this harmonization a way of suppressing tension in the belief systems? Is the juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous images a way of acknowledging the conflicted and accretionary nature of culture? Again, like in the songs discussed above, traditional practice (kayaw) is presented as a cleaver of relationships and a bar to happiness.

In sum, the traditional referents in the three songs provide a peek into the complexity of the tensions and conflicts implicated in the articulation of a conflicted sense of Kalinga ethnicity, exemplifying what Anheier and Isar (2007,19) call the “cultural dimensions of conflict” and the “conflictual dimension of culture.” The use of traditional referents serves both as a strategy of subversion and affirmation—ransacking from and deploying traditions of the ili (i.e., verbal arts, festivals, socio-political institutions) to critique one’s own culture, and wittingly or unwittingly reinforcing the continuing value of those traditions. Connel and Gibson (2003, 53) observe:

Music functions as a form of entertainment and aesthetic satisfaction, a sphere of communication and symbolic representation, and both a means of validating social institutions and ritual practices, and a challenge to them. Music may comment upon and reinforce, invert, negate or diffuse social relations of power.

Conclusion

TLA’s attempt to blend native oral tradition and foreign musical styles sounds off a need to mainstream the good that can be salvaged from past into the present, and force the hearer-reader-viewer to see local culture as a wonderful tapestry with a relatively messy underside.

Like the modern-day man’uullálim (ullalim singer) who eschews the gore of his story, expressing it by subverting the formulaic phrase “bálos tágu’n naoná” (revenge of our ancestors) by making it not to mean an approval of a “custom law… but an abrogation” of it (Lambrecht and Billiet 1970, 7), the writer/speaker in the three songs expands the creative act of Kalinga poets who, “[w]hile recontextualizing, and therefore reinterpreting, traditional forms… retain important generic conventions as they create new, hybrid, or blended genres” (Coben 2009, 82). The singer/persona is both an insider-outsider who is forced to look in as he looks out. He thus finds kinship among “[v]erbal artists throughout Kalinga history [who] have maintained their vital role in society by creatively mobilizing tradition to bear upon contemporary issues” (84).

NOTES

1. I am aware that, as Shuker (2005, xii) puts it, “‘popular music’ defies precise, straightforward definition.” I also agree with Shuker that “all popular music consists of a hybrid of musical traditions, styles, and influences” (xiii). In this study, I use “pop music” to refer to a music marked by a blending of different musical styles from rock to country and world music, mass-produced and marketed to the public through media (most recently in social media networks). Meanwhile, by “ethnopop music” I mean pop music produced by those who belong to the indigenous communities and usually marked by the use or mix of ethnic instrumentation as well as of local languages.
2. Dozier (1966, 10-15) geographically categorized Kalinga into “Southern” (Lubuagan, Pasil, and Tinglayan), “Eastern” (Tanudan), and “Northern” (Balbalan, Pinukpuk, and Tabuk). I think this categorization and the supposed cultural features characterizing each region are outdated, given the changes in Kalinga across the years since Dozier made his study. It is also incomplete because it does not include the municipal territory of Rizal. At least two contemporary Kalinga scholars, Raymund Balbin and Maximo Garming (2003, 6-12; also Garming 2009, 9-11), still use the Dozier scheme, this time with a list of the 44 tribes assigned to each region. I also think that Billiet and Lambrecht’s division of the “Kalinga habitat” (1970, 41-42) is more culturally accurate as it squares more with how Kalingas today divide themselves: Western (Banao tribal territory in Balbalan to the whole of Abra which is referred to as “Day-as”; although the Banao are found in virtually all municipalities in Abra, the so-called “Mother Banao” in Kalinga officially recognizes Daguioman and Malibcong as part of its vugis or tribal territory), Northern (the rest of Balbalan and Pinukpuk), and Southern (Pasil, Lubuagan, Tinglayan and Tanudan—what may be called the “ullalim territories” or areas where the ullalim is chanted and where most of the toponyms in the Ullalim are located; this cultural territory extends to eastern Mountain Province where the Majukayan tribe is located). They, however, excluded “the eastern plains” (i.e., Tabuk and Rizal) because of the numerous presence of immigrants from Cagayan, Isabela and Mountain Province. I prefer the Billiet-Lambrecht classification with the addition of Tabuk and Rizal as “Eastern Kalinga.” For while it is true that migrants are most populous in these two municipalities, large concentrations of Kalingas are also found here, and it was the territory of the Gamonang, Tobog and Kalakkad tribes. Following their own topographical reckoning of location, Kalingas have also divided themselves into “Upper” (Balbalan, Lubuagan, Pasil, Tanudan, and Tinglayan) and “Lower” (Pinukpuk, Rizal, and the Tabuk).
3. In this paper, “tribe” is understood as interchangeable with the terms “ethnolinguistic group” and “ethnic group.” I am aware of the colonial baggage that the word “tribe” bears (see for example Finin 2005, 26-30) and the notion of the philistine attached to it, notwithstanding the claim that contemporary “[a]nthropologists do not associate the term tribal society with anything negative” (Ferraro and Andreatta 2010, 316). I also understand that “tribe” is quite problematic when we take into account the general definition of the term by cultural anthropologists: “a culturally distinct population whose members consider themselves descended from the same ancestor” (Nanda and Warms 2012, 211). Thus, Peralta (2008) argues, there are “technically… no tribes in the Philippines”—only “ethnic groups” or “ethno-linguistic groups”—because traditional communities in the country are characterized by a bilateral, not a unilineal, kinship system. He also maintains that since these cultural groups are, to a large extent, organizationally overshadowed by the state, they cannot qualify as real tribes. However, I have long observed that the Kalingas unproblematically use the term to mean “ethnic community” whether referring to themselves in general or to their specific ili, just as it is used in this sense by other Filipino scholars, e.g., Cariño (2012) and Leo (2011, 381). It seems to me then, as a Kalinga, that the term can be used simply as a descriptive word to refer to an aggrupation of indigenous peoples without necessarily invoking colonial or racial prejudices. Further, while it is true that there are no “pure” tribes today (Ferrarro and Andreatta 2010, 314), the term may not at all be inappropriate in reference to the native communities in Kalinga for they share at least three characteristics of tribes as understood by cultural anthropologists themselves—the presence of pan-tribal structures within each group (e.g., Banao Bodong Association) or across Kalinga (the bodong system), non-centralized/informal leadership, and consensus-based decision-making processes (315). Finally, jettisoning “tribe” and replacing it with “ethnic group” does not make the distinction any clearer since the term is itself problematic, i.e., (a) it continues to be “a slippery and vague concept” (see Eller 2009, 132 ff.) just as it was when Julian Huxley and A.C. Haddon first introduced the term over 80 years ago as a substitute for “race”; and thus, (b) its various definitions can actually also refer to “tribe” as understood by Igorots who comfortably use the term.
4. The English translations of the songs used in this study are by the author.
5. Ching Wan and Chi-Yue Chiu (2009, 79) define “intersubjective norms” as “the assumptions that are widely shared among members of a certain group about the values, beliefs, preferences, and behaviors of most members in the group or in the culture of the group.” “Statistical norms,” on the other hand, “refer to the average or modal values, beliefs, preferences, and behaviors in a group or in the culture of the group.”
6. Folk” here is understood in the sense of modern folkloristics: “any group of people whatsoever who share at least one common linking factor, e.g., religion, occupation, ethnicity, geographical location, etc.” (Dundes 2007, 56)
7. Balansi’s song titled “Vitowon” presents Jesus as a guiding star.

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Figure 3. Old map of Kalinga. The map demonstrates that in the past, Kalinga‘s territorial boundaries extended far into the provincial boundaries of Abra, Mountain Province, Isabela, and Cagayan.Source: Billiet and Lambrecht (1970, 41-49).

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