Locating a sense of place: the representation of landscape and culture in a selection of New Zealand music videos.

By Sharon McIver

Electronic reproduction makes it possible to fix and move images or sounds across the barriers of physical time or space. Each new medium finds different ways of moving images or sounds into the social spaces of its users, and so places and displaces its listeners differently. The deployment of modern technologies has absorbed music's role in the ritual evocation of place and has thus effected huge changes in musical cultures and in the social location of the bodies which comprise those cultures. . . With music video, the now more heavily integrated music/film/television industry reasserts its global and domestic powers, above all the power to enter a space, anyone's space, and to separate them from it.
(Jody Berland, 'Sound, Image and Social Space: Music Video and Media Reconstruction') [1]

Everyday life is itself organized by the rhythms of places and spaces, and by the specific configurations of places. This is merely to say that music, or more specifically, rock culture organizes the mattering maps by which everyday life becomes navigable and hence, liveable.
(Lawrence Grossberg, 'Rock, Territorialization, and Power') [2]

As an extension of sound, music is a means through which we establish a sense of place. Acting at once as both a territorializing and deterritorializing force, music allows us to map the ambivalent factors of everyday life into a manageable form, and as such produces a sense of security in the listener. A powerful affective agent, it can cause us to feel a wide range of emotions that are not always fixed within genres or style. Music can be used to isolate or to incubate, and it is often the means through which we resist politically or unite culturally. Music is a way in which to anchor ourselves in the world.

In the past, New Zealand music has often been criticised for bearing no distinctive sense of locality [3], but in recent years this 'myth' is becoming increasingly eroded. As a visual indicator of what music can not show, the music video has enabled New Zealand musicians to connect their music to a range of cultural signifiers present within the music, the industry, and society or culture as a whole. Often filmed on shoe-string budgets, innovative filmmakers have turned to the landscape to help capture the mood or atmosphere of the song, and in doing so have raised further questions of how New Zealanders find their place within the land and its culture.

By examining the ways in which a video, rather than supersede the meaning of the music, enables the listener to make further connections between the landscape and music, this selection of New Zealand music videos shows how the 'sense of place' connected to the videos is beginning to insert itself into the music of Aotearoa.

'Hine e Hine': The video clip as promo.

Featuring a wealth of cultural and landscape images that are exclusive to Aotearoa/New Zealand, the video clip for Kiri Te Kanawa's 'Hine e Hine' serves as a useful starting point from which to establish a theoretical position that includes elements of film, music and cultural theory. Taken from the album Maori Songs, the track features Kiri Te Kanawa singing the traditional Maori lullaby to the accompaniment of the combined voices of the 'Maori Group' [4], members of which also feature in the video. If a good video begins with what Robert Krey refers to in 'Music Promos Thinking Visually', as a "framework which assumes that promos are commercials and that 'the best way they can be commercials is to reflect the sensibility of the band and their song'" [5], then what does the video for 'Hine e Hine' say about the sensibility of Kiri Te Kanawa, the song, and New Zealand culture? Featuring the kind of sweeping landscape images of New Zealand usually reserved for promotional videos or documentaries, alongside shots of Te Kanawa singing in a traditional Maori meeting house, the video gives an impression of New Zealand culture that is vastly different from that shown by the other videos discussed here, which raises further questions of cultural practice and authenticity.

Kiri Te Kanawa - 'Hine e Hine' (Song)

Featuring a "supporting fragment in the ancient waiata style [which] underscores the lyrical harmonies of the song itself" (liner notes to Maori Songs ), 'Hine e Hine', as the entry point of the album, is structured to draw the listener in. The emotive vocal of the male speaker gives way to Te Kanawa singing the central melody softly to the accompaniment of a solo piano. The volume rises as the strings are brought in, and the male vocal returns again before Te Kanawa is joined by the low harmonising vocals of the Maori group for the second verse. A drum crescendo marks a burst of full-voiced harmony from the choir, and then Te Kanawa's vocal returns for the solo line that marks the end of the song's peak. The song drops away quickly then with Te Kanawa demonstrating the full range of her soprano abilities to the accompaniment of the group who repeat the line in a call and response style, before they sing in unison with Te Kanawa again for the final "Hine e Hine, Hine e Hine".

The song itself is a prime example of what Lawrence Grossberg describes as music's ability to "move" people [6]. "Hine e Hine" is familiar to most New Zealanders over the age of twenty as the 'Goodnight Kiwi' song played at the end of Television New Zealand's daily transmission from 1975 to 1994 [7]. However, many viewers may not have been familiar with the instrumental version's origins. A traditional Maori lullaby, the tune was arranged as an 'elevator music' style soundtrack to a short cartoon featuring a weary-looking kiwi climbing up a television transmitter and putting out the cat, before settling into the bed neatly made up in one of the satellite dishes. In the time before twenty-four hour television the 'Goodnight Kiwi' clip signified 'bedtime' for viewers left watching at the end of transmission, and the lilting tones of the lullaby reaffirmed the sense of security that the television network sought to recreate. The music therefore became an example of what Grossberg describes as music's ability to promote a sense of security. Quoting Jacques Attali's belief that music has invaded our world and daily life, he writes that: "'Today, it is unavoidable, as if, in a world now devoid of meaning, a background noise were increasingly necessary to give people a sense of security'. We need only think of the image of the mother singing to her child!" [8].

The sense of security already attached to the meaning of 'Hine e Hine' is further enhanced by the emotive structure of the arrangement. Hymn-like in its arrangement, the recording is what is known in Western terms as "tonal":

Simply stated, this means that a given piece centers around a particular single tone or note that exists as both a point of departure and a point of return. Even here, there are various non-Western ways in which music can be tonal. In the performance of a raga in Indian music, for instance, an instrument called the tambura drones on continually with a single note throughout the entire performance, which can last an hour or more. One of the gimmicks of Western tonality . . . is to constantly move away from its tonal center in ways that cause the listener to anticipate the return, sooner or later, of that tonal centre. Psychologically and aesthetically speaking, tonality sets up a certain order, creates a sense of loss and anxiety in its various departures from that order, and then reassures the listener by periodically returning to that order. [9]

With the fading in and out of the choir, the soaring string arrangements contrasting with the simple piano melody, and the dynamic vocal range of Te Kanawa herself, the song's central melody is amplified, underscored, harmonised, subdued and simplified; each point of departure or return is carefully structured so as to produce balanced measures of loss and reassurance, whilst the final return to the tonic gives a strong sense of closure, resolution, and hence, authority.

The traditional classical arrangement - whilst promoting a sense of place in the listener - somewhat problemetizes the authenticity of 'Hine e Hine' as a Maori song. Grossberg writes that "it is music that affectively locates us in the world" [10], and the location of the song as an exclusively New Zealand one is demonstrated by its being sung entirely in Maori: "[the] conscious reflection of indigenous Maori and Polynesian music provides a distinctive sense of place." [11] However, whilst Te Kanawa's position as a world-famous Maori locates the song and the album in what Mitchell refers to as a Maori Renaissance [12], her diva status also locates the album in the classical genre. Maori Songs is designed to appeal to fans of both classical music and world music, and the Maori waiata (songs) are set to string and vocal arrangements that are more in line with the European classical tradition than traditional arrangements. In this sense, 'Hine e Hine', with its hymn-like phrasing, harmonies and dynamics (crescendo and diminuendo), is an example of what Michel Butor refers to in 'Music, a Realistic Art' as the absorbing of geographical 'color' [13] into Western music:

to such a point of systematization and elaboration that it could be put on the same level as Western music, instituting in this "color" an authentic harmony, thus achieving, outside of classical harmony, works of a comparable richness and harmonic complexity, thus showing to the West that its classical musical system must be considered simply as a particular case among other organizations capable of being used for the same ends. [14]

As a hybrid of classical and Maori techniques and traditions, the song, which can be regarded as what Mitchell refers to as "part of a bicultural project of interracial harmony, tolerance and respect" [15], is also an indication of the "complicated" nature of the globalisation of local music:

Anglo-American dominance has also led to an often idealized, romanticized and nostalgic view of local musics as important oppositional practices which subvert the homogenized mass cultural imperialism represented by the global music market. This view sees local music as representative of an authentic heritage culture and the global as imposing an unauthentic, artificial culture on local markets. The reality . . . is far more complicated, with local musical forms combining with predominant Anglo-American genres to produce what Negus describes as 'a tension between progress and restoration; between the eclectic, syncretic forms of acculturated expression brought about by the meeting of various musical techniques, technologies and traditions'. [16]

Sung by a New Zealand icon, Maori Songs is designed [17] to fit into the various genres that Kiri Te Kanawa represents - namely opera, classical, and Maori, which is becoming increasingly popular as part of the world music movement [18] - without advantaging one over the other. The tension between progress and restoration is present in the liner notes. Small notes list the origins of each song, but, instead of Maori lyrics being printed out in full beside them, only a short italicised English translation of each is offered: "Why are you weeping, dear little one? Are you tired? Disillusioned? Disenheartened? Let the love of the Almighty support you" ("Hine e Hine"). In his conclusion to Popular Music and Local Identity, Mitchell writes that:

the impossibility of defining any real sense of 'global identity' in popular music means that local practices and musical idiosyncrasies are increasingly important, not just in terms in providing expression for often problematic notions of national musical identity . . . but as agents of what Appadurai has called 'repatriation of difference' which adapt homogenized global musical forms into heterogeneous dialogues of national sovereignty'. [19]

In the case of 'Hine e Hine' however, it is not so much a case of the classical form being adapted into a Maori dialogue, as the traditional waiata being appropriated to fit into the (increasingly homogenised) classical and world music forms. Designed to appeal to a global market, both 'Hine e Hine' and Maori Songs (the title of the album itself stands as a metaphor for the favouring of song over waiata) do little to subvert cultural imperialism and instead promote an image of New Zealand that is Westernised for global consumption.

Kiri te Kanawa - 'Hine e Hine' - Video

By interspersing sanitised Maori images with the kind of sweeping aerial views of the landscape that one might glimpse from the seat of an aeroplane were it to fly low enough, the video for 'Hine e Hine' further promotes a sense of place to New Zealanders. Jody Berland, in 'Music Video and Media Reconstruction' writes that "music videos are, at one and the same time, the most innovative mode of visual language available on television; the most popularly accessible inheritance of twentieth-century visual art; and mere TV commercials for purchasable products". [21] The clip for 'Hine e Hine', which promotes a nostalgic and idealised version of New Zealand, has most in common with the last of these criteria. As sponsors of Maori Songs [22], the Air New Zealand emblem features prominently on the liner notes to the album , and the stylised K of the 'Kiri' script that appears on the cover is an inversion of the company's familiar koru logo. The presence of Air New Zealand on the project means that the promo is responsible for selling more than just the song and Te Kanawa's album. It must also sell New Zealand as a destination (to both domestic and international customers), and the ideology of the airline itself. The video is therefore carefully designed to appeal to fans of classical music, world music, and travel, and at the same time support the emotive 'bicultural' structure of the song itself to instil a sense of pride in the hearts of New Zealanders.

Featuring sweeping aerial shots of the landscape, alongside extensive footage of Te Kanawa singing in an empty, but beautifully carved meeting house, the video has much in common with glossy tourist promotional videos and Air New Zealand's own advertisements which featured Te Kanawa singing 'Po Karekare ana' (which also appears as the closing track to the album). The evocative images of Maori culture associated with the meeting house and its carvings, along with the epic nature of the landscape shots expresses what Appadurai has called:

the French idea of the imaginary (imaginaire), as a constructed landscape of collective aspirations . . . mediated through the complex prism of modern media . . . The locality (both in the sense of the local factory or site of production and in the extended sense of the nation-state) becomes a fetish which disguises the globally dispersed forces that actually drive the production process. [23]

Mitchell goes on to write that "this fetishizing of localities . . . is endemic to the concept of world music" [24], but the presence of Air New Zealand as a sponsor of the project suggests that the fetishizing of both Aotearoa and Maori culture is a device used specifically to inspire pride in the inhabitants of New Zealand, at the same time that it promotes the country as a tourist destination.

The slippage between the primitive or natural (waiata) growing into culture (orchestral music) shown in 'Hine e Hine' is paralleled in the contrast between Te Kanawa's fashionable, cosmeticised image and that of the carving on the video. Dressed simply in loose black trousers and a long cream jersey, Te Kanawa, with her frosted blond hair, stands in contrast to the traditional intricate patterns covering the interior of the meeting house and the large ancestral carving next to her. She wears a simple silver and white circular pendant on a long chain that blends in with the colour of her jersey, and pearl studs in her ears. In Performing Rites Simon Frith writes that:

Clothes offer the body its most intimate traffic with the outside world . . . and there is by now a well-established literature that treats clothes (or fashion) as a language too. The implication here is that it is the clothes themselves that do the talking; beneath them is a kind of universal (if aged and gendered and racialized) body. [25]

Te Kanawa although dressed casually is well groomed, and with her simple jewellery and make-up, and the clothes' neutral tones, she stands in stark contrast to the colourful personas she usually inhabits. Gone are the elaborate costuming and bright colours [26] of the diva, and the Maori motifs that were incorporated into her dress for some of her New Zealand performances. [27] In their place is a simple ensemble of trousers and jersey, similar to that worn by many hard-working middle aged New Zealand women. This is Kiri Te Kanawa, the New Zealander, who, like the CD, appears in neutral wrapping. [28] The clothes and setting however, also serve to form a neutral backdrop for the other Te Kanawa, the one who has earned herself the right to a title [29].

Te Kanawa's simple clothing may associate her with other New Zealand women of her age and class, but neutrality of the outfit accentuates the language of the body over that of the clothing. Frith argues that as important as clothes are in performance, "social signs, that is, are written on the body itself, on its shape, its size, its texture, its curves and bones and flesh and hair". [30] Te Kanawa's body is her instrument and her fixed position in the meeting house, and the way in which the camera moves around her and closes in on her face and neck as she sings the most strenuous parts of the song, show the physicality of her performance. Frith writes that:

the use of the body as an instrument involves, in fact, two components. On the one hand, the material we work on determines our movements (when writing, cuddling, driving, sewing) - in musical terms the instrument we play thus determines the instrument our body must be (standing up, sitting down, bowing or blowing, sitting or pulling). On the other hand, our movements are also determined by our purpose. [31]

Swaying slightly on her feet, but with her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her, Te Kanawa's frame rises as she performs the necessary breathing structure; her purpose is to deliver the song. In contrast to the movement that accompanies traditional waiata (which incorporates elements of dance, poi and haka), Te Kanawa is very much the opera singer, saving her body movement for the production of the vocal. She may be singing the songs of her people, but every breath and sway of her body is a reminder of her combined status as a trained classical singer, an opera star, and a cultural icon.

The rest of the video also promotes a sense of locality that is anything but everyday. Few ordinary New Zealanders would have experienced first-hand the empty images of isolated landscape and bare, immaculate meeting house that feature in the video. Mitchell writes that:

locality can also be seen as a community which provides 'the receptacle of the shared values and perspectives that shape the artists' and give musics what George Lewis has described as 'symbolic anchors in regions, as signs of community, belonging, and a shared past'. The widespread notion of the scene connotes a more amorphous local network of production and consumption of music, combining institutions and industry with distinctive regional experiences. [32]

The video for 'Hine e Hine' works only on the most commercial of these levels, so it therefore fails to achieve what Mitchell describes as one of the important by-products of world music:

to put remote and often exotically regarded places . . . on the map of popular music as sites where the different aspects of locality defined by Street - industrial base, social experience, aesthetic perspective, political experience, community and scene - come together, as well as interacting with national, transnational and global factors. This has served also to challenge the fixed textual inscriptions of locality and ethnicity which are often involved in notions of authenticity in music, and spurious arguments about the origins of musical forms. [33]

The images and sounds that the video and sound recording of Te Kanawa's 'Hine e Hine' promotes, whilst doubtlessly beautiful and moving, are lacking in the sense of locality that acknowledges the industrial, the social and the political. It interacts with the globalisation of world music, but only in the most commercial of ways, and never at the risk of alienating Te Kanawa's classical fans. The image of the two sides of New Zealand culture merging in the meeting house and on the land is a crude, naively reductive representation of the story - and the ideology - of biculturalism.

Making it local - place consciousness in New Zealand songs and their videos.

So how can representations of the landscape in New Zealand music videos create a sense of place that also reflects the sensibility of the artist? In 'The Discourses of New Zealand National Identity', Stephanie Taylor writes that "academic theorists and politicians have variously defined a nation as a distinctive group of people linked by kinship; or by shared culture, including language and religion; or by common history and occupation of the same piece of territory or by shared interests". [34] As a multi-cultural society, territory is important in defining a sense of shared culture in New Zealand, and physical territory, or landscape is a motif that appears in the work of many New Zealand artists and writers including Colin McCahon, Ralph Hotere, Allan Curnow (and the other Cultural Nationalist poets of 1950's), John Mulgan and Keri Hulme. This sense of physical territory is also present in the various genres that make up New Zealand popular music. In his chapter on 'World Music' Mitchell outlines the findings of John Street who described in an article entitled 'Dislocated? Rhetorick, Politics, Meaning and the Locality' the importance of locality to rock:

rock music writers connect localities with audiences, musicians, industry and infrastructure, and make ideological judgements of places, their politics and the music associated with them. He compares the place-consciousness of rock and rap music to the importance of roots in blues, and indicates how place often provides a source of identity for musicians and audiences. He breaks locality down into six main indicators of musical identity: industrial base, social experience, aesthetic perspective, political experience, community and scene. [35]

Street was referring primarily to rock, but the same principles apply to the ever-expanding genres and cross genres that now make up popular music. [36] That his observations are applicable to much of the popular music made in New Zealand music is shown by the use of landscape in the video images used by contemporary New Zealand artists.

New Zealand's diverse landscape is often fetishised as the cardinal thing about living in or visiting New Zealand, but that it is a far more complex cultural signifier than that shown by tourist brochures and promotional videos is shown by a number of video clips for local popular artists. The video for 'Hine e Hine' demonstrates the landscape's significance to New Zealand national pride, but the pristine shots do not show the reality of postcolonial life in New Zealand. As the work of the above-mentioned artists and writers show, the landscape is also a site scarred by its natural and man-made history. It is a place where the light is sharp and the weather extreme, and where the untamed areas can be as hostile as they are beautiful. And as the demands of globalisation and industrialisation continue to make inroads on the land, it is also a place increasingly at risk from pollution and commodification. This complex and ambivalent view of the New Zealand landscape [37] is present in the video clips for New Zealand musicians who prefer to follow the lead of video producers such as Don Letts [38] who "uses locations to express a concept based on a relevant social phenomenon or to add humor and irony" (Krey, 86). By utilising and displaying the New Zealand landscape in a variety of ways, the videos for 'Ray of Shine' (Jean Paul Sartre Experience), 'Beached' (David Kilgour), 'For the Love of It' (Salmonella Dub), 'Where Are You' (Nomad) and 'Electric Earth' (Pitch Black) form a commentary that represents the many different contexts (including political, historical, social, industrial, and community) of New Zealand culture, at the same time asserting a New Zealandness [39] that strives towards authenticity.

'Ray of Shine': The Beach as a site for postcolonial identity formation and fantasy.

The myth of the New Zealand beach as a site for postcolonial fantasy and identity is challenged in two videos from the early 1990's. Outlining her method of questioning in 'The Discourses of New Zealand National Identity', Taylor quotes Shurmer-Smith and Hannam who suggest that "all places are imaginary, they exist in the mind as well as on the ground", before establishing her own objective: "I am interested in the way we imagine and talk New Zealand, and the possible effects of these depictions". [40] The relative proximity of the coastline to most inhabited areas has meant that the beach has long been established as an imaginary site that shapes our national identity - 'nowhere is far from the sea' [41]. Historically, the beach represents the first point of contact between Maori and Pakeha, but by the first half of the 20 th Century the beach had become a site for recreation and play, as is illustrated in Bruce Mason's one man play, the End of the Golden Weather, which was first published in 1962 and performed around the country by Mason throughout the 1960s. Set in the 1930's at the time of the Karangahape Road riots, the early action takes place at Te Parenga, a fictional idyllic North Auckland beach adjacent to Rangitoto. [42] Preferring to "appeal directly to the audience's imagination" [43], Mason relies on words, rather than scenery or props to set the scene. His audiences had no trouble using their own experiences of the 'beach' to recreate the imaginary Te Parenga [44], and the play's importance to New Zealand culture and identity is shown by the New Zealand Broadcasting Corporation's celebration of its 500th performance in the Looking at New Zealand series in 1969. [45] By then, the idealized image of the 1930's New Zealand beach had long become the thing of myth, and Mason's references to Sergeant Robinson's "deeply Victorian sense of propriety" being offended by the new fashion for beach shorts that "no longer encased [men] from neck to upper thigh" [46] must have raised a few laughs from a generation experiencing the first murmurs of a sexual revolution. Although the play correlates the adolescent narrator's loss of innocence with the end of the pre-depression golden period when life in New Zealand was experienced as "a sunny arrangement of conveniences" [47], for Mason's 1960's audiences, much of the play's imagery would have still had been applicable to contemporary experiences of the beach, as baches were still widely used as weekend retreats and summer havens. However, by the time the play was turned into a film in 1991, the myth of the New Zealand beach was becoming increasingly relegated to the imagination.

By the 1990's the idealized image of the beach as shown in the feature film developed from Mason's play was being eroded by concerns over pollution and the hole in the ozone layer. Once a reality for many New Zealanders, the images of summers spent at the beach bach - thanks to increasing real estate prices, increased poverty, and the demise of 'nine to five' working hours - were largely a thing of the past and many seaside hamlets began to be inhabited all year round. The release of the End of the Golden Weather on film was timely; for audiences unfamiliar with the imaginary landscape of Mason's play, the film depicted in almost surrealistic [48] Technicolour the word pictures created by Mason. That the beach continued to operate as a site of identity and fantasy is shown by one of Taylor's interviewees: "it's still in some ways a fifties country really.it's the barbecues on the beach.the whole thing is really something for another era, sort of innocent". [49] Mune's film coincided with the end of another period of myth-shattering in New Zealand. Still reeling from the cut-throat policies of the fourth Labour Government [50], New Zealand discovered that even the beach was no longer the sanctuary it had once been. In his essay on Jane Campion's Beach, Howard McNaughton writes that the primary semiotic field of The Piano is the shore: " the fundamental contact zone of colonisation, and here showing indigenous peoples defending their coast against invaders. Perhaps the coast also signifies purity". [51] Written about a film set in the 19th Century, the observation is also applicable to the time in which The Piano was made - except that now the purity of the nation's shoreline was under constant threat from the impurities poured into it by businesses and the refuse left behind by a society increasingly gripped by American consumerism. And, in addition to the visible signifiers of the shattering of the myth, the beach was now at risk from an invisible invader - UV rays. The beach became the site where New Zealanders most felt the effects of the increase in the sun's ability to burn, which was a result of the hole in the ozone layer which lay centred over Antarctica. [52] Amidst warnings about skin cancer and campaigns to "slip on a shirt, slop on a sunscreen, and slap on a hat" [53], New Zealanders began to treat their favourite pastime with more caution, and the carefree beach became a thing of the past.

Formed around the time of the snap election called by Prime Minister Robert Muldoon in mid-1984, the Jean Paul Sartre Experience [54] (the name was quickly shortened to the JPS Experience, or JPSE) began their musical career just as the fourth Labour Government were preparing to tear down the security of the welfare state and guide the country into the new 'market economy' [55]. For the generation born to the baby boomers the education, health and employment security that their parents enjoyed in the 1960's was replaced by a bleak future distinguished by increasing unemployment and student debt, and the prospect of having to pay for the imminent superannuation of their parents.

Since its inception in the 1950's each generation has used rock'n'roll (and its many mutations) as a means with which to rebel against the generation before, but by the 1980's the shock value of punk had already been consumed into commodity culture and rebellion was becoming increasingly difficult to achieve. One way to turn the tables on the babyboomers who, in their youth, had taken the 'sex, drugs and rock'n'roll' ethos to extremes, was to expose the hypocrisy of a generation that had swapped kaftans for corporate suits by reinventing the sounds that had emerged from their own youth. Commenting on New Zealand's seminal music label Flying Nun [56], Mitchell writes that:

one of the main ingredients in the development of the music associated with the Flying Nun label in the 1980's is a 'jangling' pop guitar-oriented mode, strongly influenced by the Velvet Underground, which refers back to [the] late 1960's local pop boom with a mixture of nostalgia and pragmatic pastiche. [57]

Whereas the first wave of Flying Nun bands from the label's inception in 1981 were most influenced by the Velvet Underground [58] however, the Flying Nun bands that emerged in the mid-80s (most notably Straitjacket Fits and JPSE) had looked further inwards for their influences, and the swirling guitars and layers of melody had much in common with the New Zealand beat bands [59] that were a part of the 1960's pop boom that Mitchell refers to. JPSE were representative of a generation for whom the New Zealand welfare state myth had been shattered, so it is not surprising that they should set a nostalgic ear on the Liverpool influenced breezy pop songs of the past and reinterpret the sounds for a generation becoming increasing distanced from the state-fed baby-boom generation before them.

JPSE - 'Ray of Shine' - Lyrics

The disillusionment experienced by the generation represented by JPSE is shown by 'Ray of Shine', which laments the loss of the beach as a site for carefree recreation. In Popular Music and Local Identity, Mitchell quotes Street who "argues that place can also provide an aesthetic of escapism or alienation, as in suburban origins of groups such as Blur or Husker Du". [60] The twin themes of escapism and alienation are present in both the song and the video for "Ray of Shine". Released as a single in February 1993, and later included on their album, Bleeding Star, the song was described by Rip It Up as "more like hip new age mood music - the pop equivalent of those tapes of babbling brooks and birdsong you can purchase from spiritualist bookstores." [61] However, although the music contained a positivity associated with that of new age music, the lyrics revealed a contrapuntal underlying current that was negative and accusatory. Contrasting with the bright, breezy melody and the enthusiastic vocal harmonies, the lyrics are an environmental protest that fits in well with the summery, shimmering pop tune to which they are set. 'Ray of Shine' reveals a sense of both fear and disillusionment at what was happening to one of the last hallmarks of Godzone - the sun, and by extension, the beach. That the message contained within the lyrics is important to the song is shown in the way the opening line stands out. Unlike most alternative pop songs at the time, 'Ray of Shine' has no instrumental intro: the band singing in unison the song's title a capella serves as a short 1960's style intro before the guitars come in towards the end of the held out "shine". Interpreted this way, the song thus negates Mitchell's assertion that JPSE lack political or social comment in lyrics [62] - the sky is falling on the myth of the New Zealand beach and answers as to why it has happened were needed.

JPSE - 'Ray of Shine'

From the opening shot of Yetton applying lipstick, JPSE, through the use of clothing, props and theatrical techniques, parody the lost past by combining elements of camp and childhood nostalgia with the need for sun protection. Unlike Te Kanawa, whose bland appearance and stationary pose is designed to detract from any social or political comment, JPSE's use of camp imagery and theatrics signifies dissatisfaction with the status quo. Jack Babuscio describes the way in which camp irony is used to exercise control over one's environment:

As a practical tendency in things or persons, camp emphasizes style as a means of self-projection, a conveyor of meaning, and an expression of emotional tone. Style is a form of consciousness; it is never "natural" always acquired. Camp is also urban; it is, in part, a reaction to the anonymity, boredom, and socializing tendencies of technological society. . . Camp aims to transform the ordinary into something more spectacular. In terms of style, it signifies performance rather than existence. Clothes and décor, for example can be a means of asserting one's identity, as well as a form of justification in a society which denies one's essential validity. . . By such means as these one aims to become what one wills, to exercise some control over one's environment. [63]

In addition to the exaggerated [64] femininity of their dress and props, JPSE play up the inherent campiness of lip-synching on the beach (Babuscio cites theatricality as the third element of camp) by playing up to the camera in a manner that parodies the overtly sexual behaviour displayed by the trophy women who appear in rap videos, and in one shot, David Mulcahy even blows a kiss towards the implied audience behind the camera. A shot of the band running away from incoming waves further reinforces the camp imagery and distances the men from the overtly masculine actions usually displayed by men on the beach. This sending-up of the masculine New Zealand male is a rejection of the nation's "rugby, racing and beer" culture and further affirmation of the politics of camp:

Gayness is seen as a sort of collective denial of the moral and social order of things. Our very lifestyle indicates a rejection of that most cherished cultural assumption which says that masculinity (including sexual dominance over women) is "natural" and appropriate for men, and femininity (including sexual submissiveness towards men) is "natural" and appropriate for women. [65]

The use of this imagery by JPSE is representative of a generation who won the fight for homosexual law reform, but lost the pastoral utopia that they had been led to believe they would inherit. It is at once an affirmation of their right to difference and a rejection of the established moral and social order.

However, the band's clothing is not there simply as a camp parody of the lost past, it also illustrates the paranoia associated with the knowledge that New Zealand was directly affected by the hole in the ozone layer. The band, dressed 'to kill' in layers of classic kiwi beachwear from past decades are covered enough to meet even Golden Weather's Sergeant Robinson's Victorian standards of moral decency. Once worn as a concession to modesty, the assortment of classic kiwi beachwear now serves an increasingly practical purpose - the straw hats, baggy surfer shorts, stripy towelling cover-ups, and loud shirts are literally a necessity in the notably fiercer New Zealand sun. The fair-skinned and red-headed David Mulcahy drives home this point by extending the zinc (an icon of New Zealand beach culture, but once used only by the fair-skinned) beyond his nose to cover his whole face. The stark white mask is initially alienating, until the logic of protecting his entire face grows on us as the video progresses.

The play imagery used in the video for 'Ray of Shine' is a positioning device that also exposes the frustration and anger felt by the generation whom the band represents. The child-like presence of the band as they mime traditional beach games both references and parodies the element of play associated with the myth of the beach. The band over-emphasise their playful actions: Mulcahy lifts the plastic weights one-handed above his head in what could be interpreted as a parody of End of the Golden Weather's rock-carrying Jesse Cabot, and Yetton performs as a dancing, ukulele-playing, hula doll. Later, in a separate filtered screen, the ukulele is smashed up by Yetton in a scene that parallels a parody of a guitar-smashing rock star with that of a child in the middle of a temper tantrum. The imagery associated with the frustration of being a child in an adult world (one of the themes of Mason's play,) is also present in the appearance of the lyrics appearing as written messages that appear at first glance to be part of the playful beach imagery , but in fact, contain a sense of negativity within the child-like sketchings. The initial appearance of the hand-drawn picture of the sun signifies an important semiotic shift from photographic representation to inscription, so that any illusion of unmediated representation is undermined by the in-your-face mediation. The song's imagery of the once benevolent sun behind a protective sky being gradually replaced by a "burning, grilling" killer is reinforced by the SOS-style and 'burning up' graphics used. Combined with the child-like actions of the band, these angry drawings tend to emphasise the alienation and fear associated with the lyrics.

In contrast to the 'Hine e Hine' clip, which used filmic techniques to promote a nostalgic view of New Zealand, the video for 'Ray of Shine' uses different devices to suggest a negative vision of the future. Whereas the time-lapse photography placed within a 'still' framing technique in Te Kanawa's video suggested that although time changes the fundamental things remain the same, the montage in the JPSE video connotes concern over the perceived acceleration of time [66] and further erosion of the beach myth. The zooming in and out, the yellow filters, and the additional framing add a sense of separation and alienation to the video that increases as the pace of montage progresses. The 'fluorescent screens' that appear in separate frames throughout the second half of the video appear as animated pictures that move around within the main frame and add to the alienating techniques, while the wisps of 'smoke' that are superimposed over the top of these separate framed shots further connote the burning up of the beach and its inhabitants. By the end of the video, shots of the 'natural' main take have given way to these various distorting techniques, and the video ends with what appears to be a magnified, yellow-filtered close-up of sand. The glass-like appearance of the closing shot perhaps suggests that if the ozone layer continues to be depleted at the rate that it has, soon the only contact with sand that New Zealanders will have will be in one of its products - the glass that remains as one of our best protections against the sun.

'Beached': Stranded in an alien landscape.

The themes of alienation and concern over the environment that are present in the "Ray of Shine" video are also present in David Kilgour's "Beached", but instead of camp imagery, Kilgour uses sci-fi and alien imagery to paint a picture of the future that is even bleaker than that of JPSE.

Alienation has long been associated with the New Zealand music industry. Operating on different levels (from cultural cringe to the difficulties of earning a living from such a small population), the "tyranny of distance" [67] that has plagued local artists since the early rock'n'roll days is outlined by John Dix in his book Stranded In Paradise:

few international performers ventured south in the years following World War Two. The country was left to its own devices, with trends and fashions lagging behind the times. To outsiders, New Zealand was . . . well, quaint. The people were friendly and the scenery was stunning, but the country was stuck at the bottom of the globe. It became a cliché: "I went to New Zealand but it was closed." The world sniggered. Ah well, life out in the colonies . . . Entertainment for the nation's teenagers differed little to that on offer to their parents. Country and Western was the pop music of choice, and old-style dance bands catered for New Zealand swingers. [68]

Stranded In Paradise is described by Michael Flint in the opening chapter of North Meets South as "a pioneering work in documenting the history of the rock 'n' roll which was produced in New Zealand up to the end of the 1980's". [69] Beginning with 1955, Dix records the rich history of a genre of music in New Zealand that continues to persevere despite the negative connotations of the book's title. Each phase of styles emerging from various parts of the country, from the chart topping beat bands of the 1960's to the acid-inspired bands of the 1970's to the emergence of the Flying Nun label in 1981 is thoroughly documented. Throughout the book Dix uses anecdotes "freely given by the musicians themselves" [70] to give an insider's account of the events surrounding the rise and fall of each band. However, Stranded in Paradise is more than just a documentary, as Dix uses his own analyses of the music and lyrics to draw conclusions which give a balanced view of the strengths and weaknesses of the New Zealand music industry. Written at a time when local music was "slipping into the mainstream" [71] and was thus attracting radio play and sales, Dix's summation is generally positive, but he nevertheless concedes that "the New Zealand music industry still awaits the breakthrough, the discovery of the South Pacific as the 'Liverpool of the '80's'". [72] Focusing on the international achievements of bands such as Crowded House and Split Enz, Dix ends the book by quoting the lyrics of the song that 'flew the New Zealand flag' [73] around the world, Split Enz' 'Six Months In A Leaky Boat'. [74]

For fans of the bands signed to independent label Flying Nun, the Liverpool of the '80's already had a name - Dunedin, but although the importance of the city was recognised by critics, the artists at the forefront of the city's music industry were unable to break through to the mainstream market. Due to its wealth of Dunedin artists, Flying Nun was the main label associated with what is now referred to as the 'Dunedin Sound': "the 'Dunedin Sound' was generated through a cultural geography of isolation, which produced a 'mythology of a group of musicians working in cold isolation, playing music purely for the pleasure of it'". [75] Dix may have had good cause to be hopeful in 1988 over the future of New Zealand music, but six years later concern over the lack of New Zealand popular music being played on the nation's radio stations was growing. A private member's bill put forward by Graham Kelly, M.P. for Porirua in 1990 and again in 1991 failed in both attempts to legislate for a quota of New Zealand music to be played on radio stations [76], and by 1994 the voluntary quota introduced in 1987 by radio stations in an attempt to "forestall legislation bringing in a mandatory quota" was no longer complied with. The attempt to get more New Zealand music played on commercial radio stations had resulted in the opposite situation. For the Flying Nun bands, who sat outside the mainstream, not even "'pure pop melody' and 'guitar jangle'" [77] could get them commercial radio play [78], and although most of them still continued to play music 'for the pleasure of it', recognition was long overdue.

As the former frontman of The Clean [79], by the time his second solo album Sugar Mouth was recorded in 1993 David Kilgour had fifteen years first-hand experience of the difficulty of trying to make it in a country that was physically and culturally isolated. As a member of The Clean, David Kilgour was one of the writers of 'Tally Ho', the song recorded on an eight-track machine for $50 [80] which was the first release from Flying Nun Records. The single was followed by two EP's, Boodle Boodle Boodle (1981) and Great Sounds Great (1982), but although they were "snapped up by the public" [81] the band decided to disband for the first time in 1982. That the Clean's popularity overseas has always outweighed the recognition received here is evident in their failure to make it onto APRA's recent Top 30 NZ Songs list [82]. In contrast, American magazine Spin's Alternative Record Guide listed the 1988 Compilation album at 95 in their Top 100 Alternative Albums list, with reviewer Rob Sheffield writing that:

Even the most low-budget Clean recordings - and believe me, for these guys budgets got low - capture a rural sense of wide-open space, rich with wonder and mystery . . . Like many punk bands, the Clean took what it liked about the Velvet Underground and built a whole career around it; what's startling is how many other worthy careers have been built by artists who took what they liked about the Clean. [83]

Sheffield's praise for The Clean also extends to David Kilgour's solo albums Here Come The Cars (1992) and Sugar Mouth (1994), which he describes as a "pair of bliss-buttered solo records". [84] However, Kilgour's critical success as a songwriter was not equalled by commercial success and the songs on Sugar Mouth contain a sense of isolation and disillusionment [85] that possibly reflect his position as yet another respected musician stranded in paradise.

David Kilgour - 'Beached' - Lyrics

Released as a single, Beached captures the ambivalence of Sugar Mouth. Recorded using both electric and acoustic guitars, the music is mostly downbeat and the overall sense of the album is of someone "forever floating bound" ('Listen to the Rain'); "it ain't good, it ain't bad" ("Look At It"). On the album's release in 1994, Rip It Up described it as containing many of the ingredients of Kilgour's debut:

Kilgour's distinctive vocals (at once plaintive and uplifting) coalescing over sparkling guitars and measured bass, piano and drums. It works a treat on the opening brace of songs, the album reaching an early highlight on 'Beached', which recalls the melancholy atmospherics of Cars. [86]

With Noel Ward (bass) and Brian Donnelly (drums) providing the rhythm section, and Kilgour playing electric and acoustic guitars, piano, and singing, the songwriter's presence stands out. The song's main piano riff is based around three descending chords that distinguish both the intro and outro and thus set up a tonality [87] that is present throughout the song. Essentially a one-verse song, the lyric is repeated twice with the lines "don't you ever do that" and "where do you come from?" distinguished with repetition and piano emphasis. Unlike "Ray of Shine" which contrasted pure-pop melody with accusatory lyrics, the melancholy of "Beached" is present in both the music and the lyrics. Sung from a personal perspective, the message contained in the lyrics is slightly ambiguous (especially in the use of timber/timbre), and Kilgour could be singing from the point of view of an isolated musician, an alienated lover, or a felled tree.

David Kilgour - 'Beached' - Video

Filmed as a bleached alien landscape with what is presumably Kilgour dressed as an amphibian, a cross between a deep-sea diver and an alien, the video follows the lyrical suggestion of alienation and suggests a post-apocalyptic future. The redness of the pitted sand, contrasted with the blackness of where the sky would normally appear at the beginning of the video suggests that the planet the spaceship lands on could be Mars. In their introduction to Alien Identities, Heidi Kaye and I.Q. Hunter define the word alien:

The earliest reference to the word 'alien' in the Oxford English Dictionary is to its meaning as 'foreign'. The later additional meaning of 'extraterrestrial being' is an obvious extension of this notion of otherness, for the very concept of the alien is grounded in ideas of difference and boundary definitions. It is a commonplace, but still true, that we define ourselves through defining an other: we are what we are not. When our sense of self becomes shaky, we attempt to reconstruct an 'other' from which to distinguish ourselves in a binary opposition. [88]

Throughout the video, the filmmaker is playing with our concept of what is alien. At first, as the amphibian figure explores the orange-hued, empty territory in which he has landed, the landscape and Kilgour himself appear as 'other', but as the video continues signs begin to appear that the planet is in fact Earth, and the 'hole' in the rock through which he steps onto the beach is a familiar 'natural' icon of the New Zealand landscape. The images are futuristic and thus adhere to what Kaye and Hunter refer to as time as a medium of expressing contemporary fears: "In visions of the future, the familiar is made alien, yet . . . the alien is only comprehensible because it is portrayed via familiar conventions, and the familiar is made strange through changing our manner of perception". [89] One of the familiar conventions that the video uses are the superimposing of the three flying saucer shapes which fly Ed Wood style [90] over the landscape, which suggest that the figure is not the only visitor from outer space, and provide uncanny hints that the scene is something we are familiar with.

That the unfamiliar territory that the video presents is more likely to be Earth than an extra-terrestrial landscape and that the alien is, in fact, human is made clearer throughout the video. That the landscape is definitely earth, and probably New Zealand is confirmed by the appearance of a man-made landmark; an industrial looking building that is familiar from the aggressively sequestered military bases that dot the more isolated parts of our landscape (such as that lying next to the tourist route between Lakes Pukaki and Tekapo in South Canterbury). However, the purpose of the building is never made clear in the video, and the confusion as to what it was used for indicates the militarisation of the familiar, at the same time that it re-orients the viewer. It is significant that we do not see Kilgour with the mask removed until the building has identified an unmistakably human presence. The close-up shot of Kilgour's profile as he sings suggests a different interpretation from that made at the beginning of the video. This is neither a spaceman landing on Mars, nor an alien landing on Earth, this is a human returning to an Earth that has become a hostile, extraterrestrial-type landscape. The video thus becomes an example of what Jonathan Bignell describes as one of the effects of George Pal's film adaptation of Wells's short novel The Time Machine (1960):

As well as continuing the precise simulation of a realistic location, the film presents the future by extrapolation from a relatively pessimistic view of humankind's folly . . . this virtual future is necessarily unlike the present the spectator knows, but far from alien because of the use of a bricolage of elements with familiar connotations and resonances. [91]

What is perhaps surprising for those New Zealanders used to thinking of their country as paradise is that this desolate wasteland is recognisably New Zealand.

Unlike the pristine landscape shots present in the video for 'Hine e Hine', in the video for 'Beached', the orange-hued images of arid deserts and bare beaches connote a parched, post-apocalyptic landscape that is constantly burned by a hostile sun. In the post-WWII literature that voiced concern over the threat of nuclear war, New Zealand and Australia were regarded as likely sites of nuclear fallout escape. In John Wyndham's The Chrysalids, the children were rescued by inhabitants from Sealand, a group of Islands in the South Pacific ocean, whilst in Nevil Shute's On the Beach it is the Australian beach that becomes the only site of survival. With the end of the Cold War however, the threat of a nuclear war had greatly diminished, and although most New Zealanders were still concerned over French testing in the Pacific, as an official anti-nuclear country [92], New Zealand had more to fear from pollution than fallout. Hence, the sense of hopelessness contained in the video for 'Beached' seems less tied in with the fear of a nuclear bomb decimating the landscape than the impossibility of changing the habits of a nation seemingly intent on gradually destroying it themselves. As an alien in his own land - which has been reduced to a hostile, extraterrestrial-type landscape - the figure seems unlikely to realise any regenerative effects. Obviously alone, as he disappears into the sun at the end of the video he looks doomed to spend the rest of his time wandering in isolation through the ruins of his land. The sense of ambivalence (the alien seems neither optimistic or pessimistic) contained within the final sequences of the video seems to echo the question as to what the future constitutes for New Zealand. In some ways the video seems to extend the post-apocalyptic sentiments contained within The Quiet Earth, but now it is the once-benevolent sun that has, through the carelessness of humans, turned enemy. Like the JPSE clip, the video for 'Beached' may be read as a warning as to the possible effects of ongoing pollution and the depletion of the ozone layer - the return of the golden weather with a vengeance.

'For the Love of It': The dawn of positivity in the New Zealand music industry.

By the end of the decade the sense of alienation and negativity that pervaded the early 1990's videos by JPSE and David Kilgour had generally been replaced with a sense of positivity and community that was being felt by many in the music industry as a whole. Tony Mitchell wrote of the 'Dunedin Sound' that it produced a mythology of a group of musicians playing music purely for the 'pleasure of it', of which the cold isolation of the city where they worked played a great part:

The mythology of place, assembled by fans, artists, critics, promoters and industry personnel, is, McLeay suggests, comparable, albeit on a much smaller scale, to that of 'the Manchester sound', 'the Seattle scene' of grunge music or the hard-core 'gangsta rap' centre of Compton in Los Angeles. But the fact that it arises from one of the most isolated places within New Zealand, 'with a very low population of Maori people relative to the rest of New Zealand and . . . dominated by the descendants of Scottish immigrants' made Dunedin a metonym for Aotearoa/New Zealand music as a whole. [93]

By the mid 1990's most of the bands connected with the 'Dunedin Sound' had ceased to exist but the 'genre' continued to be spoken about in terms of new artists such as Mink, Demarnia Lloyd and HDU (who had shifted there from the North Island to make it their base). However, although these artists were influenced by the music of their Flying Nun forefathers the additional influences of what was happening at the time in New Zealand music as a whole was producing a greater diversity to the sounds emerging from the city [94]. Once the domain of bedroom audio geeks, electronica had finally changed the way New Zealanders thought about music, and emerging bands were taking advantage of the new range of sounds available to produce hybrids of music that were becoming increasingly difficult to categorise. As a new generation, armed with a range of now relatively cheap electronic equipment rose to the traditional DIY, 'recorded in a bedroom' challenge, the New Zealand music industry as a whole gained strength. For the first time bands tailored for mainstream radio [95] were appearing regularly on the charts, whilst those acts that preferred to remain autonomous and affiliate themselves with a record company for distribution and promotional purposes only [96] were benefiting from the marketing clout of a major label without having to compromise artistically.

From this latter group came a community of musicians who found that in the global dance culture (which was enjoying continued growth both globally and in New Zealand) the effects of isolation could work in their favour. Dance culture, or rave culture as it was first known, emerged in Britain during the late '80's and reached a watershed there with 'the second summer of love' in 1989 [97]. As Britain's youth took to the countryside or outer suburbs to attend 'secret' all-night raves where the new designer drug Ecstasy was readily available, the generation who had invented punk finally shook their heads. Documented in the first chapter of Discographies, Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson note that at the time journalists "found it impossible to believe 'that people would want to travel many miles in secret to dance in fields or warehouses'; such acts are 'beyond the grasp of reason'" [98]. Had the journalists been young, 'sorted' [99], and dancing in a field with thousands of 'beautiful' [100] strangers, they may have understood that being 'beyond the grasp of reason' was what was desired. As house music and rave culture filtered through to New Zealand, promoters, DJ's, and the dancers themselves saw the unique possibilities for pleasure in the wealth of natural wonderlands [101] around the country, and, whereas the early U.K dance parties were held in secret because of their tendency to attract complaints from neighbouring villages, the literal isolation of so much of the New Zealand landscape meant that councils and farmers could be negotiated with to hold the parties legally. As young New Zealanders began to follow their UK counterparts and turn to dance as an escape from the realities of increased industrialisation and globalisation [102], they discovered an appreciation both for the landscape and the aspects of a culture founded in self-sufficiency. Parties began to get bigger, and offer a range of dance music styles in specially designed zones so that dancers had a range of options to choose from. Soon artists began to emerge who were ready to challenge dance music's origins as a DJ-based genre and play live to a crowd appreciative of the opportunity to combine the euphoria of a dance party with that of seeing a band up on stage. As artists collaborated, remixed each other's work, and supported each other by working together on events, the output began to be referred to in terms of a new era in New Zealand music. In the cover notes to their CD and magazine package, 'Select Edition', Loop magazine refer to the tracks as representing: "A cross-section of progressive New Zealand sounds and a reflection of 'the Wave': the most energized and inspirational era in Aotearoa's audio culture to date. An era of creative evolution, which has seen a fresh sound emerge. A sound focuses on fun, vision and change. The pied pipers of the globe." [103] The compilation features a range of artists swiftly gaining a fan base along with critical respect [104]. Finally, playing music 'purely for the pleasure of it' [105] was beginning to pay off.

Dance music, and its associated culture, fosters a sense of community. Kitty Hanson, in her 1978 book, Disco Fever wrote of disco dance that it was: "part of modern man's revolt against being a perpetual spectator" (16), and it is an observation that is even more applicable here. Participating in a modern outdoor dance party requires far more effort than queuing at a discotheque, but the difficulties of planning, packing, driving, queuing, and setting up tents before the party even begins is forgotten in the overall experience, an experience from which a number of interesting lateral issues also arise such as those of travel, tourism, getting away from it all, and creating a divorce between music and the industrial metropolis. In New Zealand, nowhere represented the positive sense of community associated with dance culture better than the three day New Year's Eve party, The Gathering. [106] The alcohol-free event, which began in Takaka over the New Year's period of 1996/7, possibly takes its name from a similar weekend festival held in the U.K known as the Tribal Gathering, which is described in Discographies as recognising that:

Dance involves the loss of contact with one's own earthy root (or 'culture') and a ecstatic movement outward towards difference and alterity - or at least community. This is the postmodern condition in its most basic aspect; the orientation toward alterity. . . it is not any final product which is of major concern but the seduction of the dance itself, its ability to seduce one into the loss of one's own identity or self-hood. [107]

This movement towards such alterity is evident in the motto for the 1998/9 Gathering, which encouraged "unity through diversity" [108], and is set out in more explicit terms on the event's website, which even as it establishes that it is the dance that takes precedence, also outlines some of the cultural outcomes that the Gathering hopes to achieve:

We're doing this for the dance, not politics, religion, drugs, or any other agenda. This is pleasure, not business. . . We believe that while doing this, we are teaching ourselves to make a society of and for the future, a non 'school' school where we can evolve our potential as a community, and as unashamed individuals. . . In an age of anxiety, when the old world contests of power and wealth continue to divide the old world, when mutual survival still rates second to cold profit, it can be easy for many to surrender to the 'realpolitik' of cynicism and fear. Mass alienation and depression afflict a generation which does not fit the outmoded values of the Cold War culture. If there is any single answer to the question "why?" we do this, it is that we must, to provide an alternative to the same old same old. Holding faith in our future, we deny despair. We look at the world perpetually through the unjaded eyes of the child. Aspiring to the infinite playtime; in the dance we embody the ecstasy of unfiltered communion. [109]

When you are dancing in unison with thousands of other people in an environment chosen especially for its beauty and perceived energy, and where alcohol is usually banned, but the use of illicit drugs - although officially discouraged - is overlooked, it is not difficult to understand how an ideology such as this can take effect. Whether dance music will achieve its underlying political, social, and cultural aims is not as important as keeping faith in the future; at the very least such a positive, supportive environment ensures that those who would make change are given the opportunity to do so. "Unity through diversity" is a powerful message at a time when increasingly more people were turning to dance culture as an antidote to modern life. [110]

Fostered by a community that embraces aspects of hybridity and heterogeneity at the same time, the aesthetics of the actual music likewise use a diverse range of sounds to create a separate genre, as is shown by Salmonella Dub. [111] Referring to the work of Simon Reynolds, Gilbert and Pearson write that: "Reynolds is positive: he sees dance music changing, prolifigating, renewing itself - creatively in no danger of stagnating or ossifying." [112] This ability to renew itself is shown in the history of Salmonella Dub, who formed in Christchurch in the early 1990's, to play live dub at a time when Jamaican music style [113] was enjoying a comeback as one of the main influences of modern dance music, and in particular drum and bass. [114] Once the domain of the studio boffins filling in the extra space on the flipside of the reggae A-side played by a live band, today dub has its own stage, and there are many bands around the world who, like Salmonella Dub, play live dub to an increasingly avid fanbase. As Salmonella Dub continued to hone their live shows, they began to introduce elements borrowed from other electronic genres, such as techno and drum and bass, with the result that their usual sound engineer Tiki Taane was incorporated into the band as a member. Although the music contained a mixture of elements rooted in both dub and the more electronic dance genres with Killervision [115] the band were described as having "evolved their sound into a purer, more organic groove" ( Real Groove, May 1999). The album and its accompanying tour was to put Salmonella Dub at the forefront of a new sub-genre in New Zealand - live dance bands. [116]

Salmonella Dub - 'For the Love of It' - Lyrics

Musically and lyrically, the first single from Killervision , 'For the Love of It' promotes the ideology associated with the Gathering and New Zealand dance culture in general. Released as a single [118], the CD contained several dub 'versions' by associated producers, including one by U.K. dub engineer Mad Professor, who remixed the song in his hotel room during a summer tour. The music follows the lyrical suggestions of working in unity and stripping it back to the roots. The arrangement includes several roots reggae [119] motifs, including a ska-style horn intro (which is slightly reverbed), heavily boosted bass [120], and the signature reggae beat: "Reggae is Jamaican soul music, a sort of tropic rock and roll with accents on the second and fourth beats, a metric system so flamboyant that . . . many of the finest rock and jazz drummers in the world have been unable to master reggae time, and not for lack of trying". [121] The regular return of the horns throughout the song emphasises the line "we move to the music, the pushing and pulling of skank", and sets up an element of tonality that is also present in a short, repeating keyboard riff that forms the main instrumental track at the end. The simple vocal track is mostly double or multi-tracked with two tracks of Tiki singing during the verses and others coming in for the chorus. The multi-layered track continues all the way through the song until just before the end when the other voices fade out to leave space for Tiki to repeat "version, we do it for the love of it" while the instrumental track drops away. When the music is reduced to a minimal accompaniment the other vocals are dubbed in so that the line is reiterated in unison again before the instruments disappear completely and the final "version, we do it for the love of it"s are left reverberating in a capella. In addition to Salmonella Dub paying their dues to their reggae forefathers by borrowing the language of the music, the Jamaican-inspired lyrics have a connotative meaning for the culture and politics associated with dance. The 'doing it for the love of it' refers to the seduction of the dance itself, whilst the images of music's ability to take you like "nothing else" captures the essence of dance as a "mode of behaviour in which people put themselves rhythmically into motion in a way that transforms their sense of their own existence in a way that is at once characteristic and strongly qualified according to the dance performed" [122]. The hope that dance can also become the means by which society itself is transformed (as shown by the ideology of the Gathering) is also present in the lines "unite the people we are the land / we light the fires that burn again". Once again, it is a powerful message for those who want change, but feel that individually they lack the power to effect any.

Salmonella Dub - 'For the Love of It' - Video

The sense of unity and positivity associated with the song's message is also present in the video clip of 'For the Love of It', which was filmed at the 1998/9 Gathering and around Takaka during the band's downtime afterwards. [123] Unlike the other videos from Killervision which followed a set storyline (both 'Johnny' and 'Drifting' feature the band in a parody of a gangster film), the montage creates an impression of the images speaking for themselves through the shots of the band and fellow gatherers simply soaking up the atmosphere of the event. The sense of linear time being replaced by an overall impression of a number of separate occurrences that add up to a whole (due to the carnivalesque, 24-hour nature of the Gathering it can be difficult in hindsight to pinpoint when exactly separate events occurred) is represented by fast-moving, quick-cut images, and flash-frame images (the sequences change every 1-3 seconds) of the crowd and the band with their family and friends. [124] Just as the song pays its respects to the Jamaican recording industry that inspired it, the video pays its respects to all those who helped get the band to that point. There are shots of David Harrow and other Salmonella Dub collaborators such as Nomad, Mad Professor, and VJ Helm. The sense of family created by the video is emphasised by the scenes of the group swimming and on the beach, and of a kitchen where a sizeable meal is being prepared, and represents an antidote to industrialisation. The footage of the Gathering, which shows hundreds of people all dancing and playing at the three-day event is a visual representation of the cultural landscape of Aotearoa's dance scene. The sense of community shown, of which Salmonella Dub are a part, also suggests that, unlike the references to alienation and isolation present in the earlier videos, the music industry in New Zealand is in a healthier state than it was when JPSE and David Kilgour released 'Ray of Shine' and 'Beaches'. [125]

As the song's frontman, the figure of Tiki shows the complexities involved in the art of performance. Unlike Te Kanawa, who is presented in neutral dress and adornment designed to focus on the body as instrument, the figure of Tiki focuses on the body in performance. Although dressed casually in singlet and shorts, he is distinguished by the large close-ups of his tattoos and bone carving as a Maori right from the beginning of the video. The footage suggests a natural, unrehearsed performance (unlike David Kilgour and JPSE who use performance to suggest elements of alienation and camp, the focus is on Tiki simply performing the song), but the audience is made aware that the performance is more deliberate by the poses that Tiki inhabits throughout, such as that of him standing on the edge of a bluff, arm raised in the universally acknowledged sign for solidarity, or those of him playing up to the camera in the crowd shots. It thus becomes and example of what Frith refers to as the "act" of performing:

I think it can be argued that the "act" of singing is always contextualized by the "act" of performing; and if the latter, like any other stage role, is put together behind the scenes, the former takes place in public: we see and hear the movement in and out of character; we watch this aspect of the performance as a performance . . . all methods (irony, earnestness, virtuosity, craft pride, humor) draw attention to the singer's knowledge of what is going on, to their knowledge of our knowledge of what is happening. [126]

Throughout the video the blurring between unrehearsed behaviour and acted performance is played with, so that even the footage of Tiki, standing eyes closed, in front of the microphone in the studio as he 'records' the song reveals the complex nature of performance. Is the footage that of the actual recording session, or is it being re-enacted purely for the video? Even if it is footage of the original recording session, Tiki is still engaged in the act of performance because he is performing the song. That Tiki is aware of the layers of performance that occur in the filming of the video is shown by the inclusion of those shots where he sings the song (without a microphone) in the crowd at the Gathering, and self-consciously performs for the camera, even as his actions are mimicked by a member of the audience.

Unlike the other videos, which feature the landscape prominently, in the video of 'For the Love of It', the landscape has a less active role. Whereas sweeping shots of pristine landscape are used in the 'Hine e Hine' clip to promote an outdated myth of New Zealand identity and fantasy, which is challenged by the way in which the landscape is presented in the clips by JPSE and David Kilgour, in the video of 'For the Love of It' the landscape appears as part of the cultural landscape that makes up the video. In the opening sequences the camera pans across a river bed surrounded by hills, and there is a shot of the view from a moving car, but these are neither the images of an untouched paradise (as suggested in 'Hine e Hine') or a land under threat of pollution. Throughout the video the performers' engagement with the landscape is less complex; at the Gathering it appears merely as the backdrop to the party, and in the scenes that show the band relaxing, or Tiki performing (such as that where he stands with his back to a waterfall), it appears as a striking, but non-alienating playground. The video's portrayal of the scenery around Takaka is neither overtly mythologising nor alienating. Although undoubtedly awe-inspiring in places, it is exhibited, along with the footage of the Gathering, as one of the aspects associated with dance culture in New Zealand. Overall, the video shows New Zealand culture is made up of a far more complex set of signifiers than that suggested by the video for 'Hine e Hine'.

'Where Are You?': Looking in a new time

Gilbert and Pearson begin Discographies with a description of Britpop band Pulp's 1995 song, 'Sorted for E's and Wizz' which they describe as reflecting wryly on the comedowns of the second 'summer of love'. Released with information on how to create a drug 'wrap' (the paper container used for powdered drugs), the single created controversy on its release, but that it "pointedly evoked the bewilderment and sense of disorientation that accompanied ecstasy comedown" [127] is shown by the inlay to the single which asserted that "IT DIDN'T MEAN NOTHING" [128]:

The ambiguity found here in the double negative - 'It didn't mean nothing' - encapsulates the kernel of doubt at the centre of many responses to instrumental dance and music cultures; where a culturally-inherited insistence that value inheres in attributable meaning collides desperately with a sense that dance and dance music have traditionally resisted or negated familiar modes of communicating either value or meaning. [129]

By 1999, when Discographies was published, Gilbert and Pearson had several years' perspective on the 'comedown' of dance culture in the U.K., but for the ever-growing dance community in New Zealand the doubt had yet to creep in, and positivity was maintained by the dance community despite the difficulties presented by the landscape and industry at the 2000 Gathering. Plagued by pre-millennium rumours, counterfeit tickets and days of steady rain, [130] the 2000 Gathering was possibly the closest thing to beginning of a comedown that New Zealand dance culture had faced, but despite the over-crowded, cold, wet conditions at Canaan Downs that year people continued to dance. Many chose to leave the day after the millennium celebrations, but for seasoned Gatherers equipped with camping equipment and wet weather gear the rain just added to the sense of counter-culture defiance. [131] The irony was not lost however, that what should have been the best Gathering yet was almost ruined by conditions outside anyone's control; due to New Zealand's position as the first country to see the millennium sunrise and the Gathering's growing reputation, the 2000 event was hyped internationally as one of the best places to see in the millennium. In the cold, miserable early hours of New Year's day the event hyped as the dawning of the new millennium was invisible, suddenly the notion of the sunrise representing a great moment in time seemed irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. [132]

Meaning in dance music arises out of its resistance to traditional, industrial modes of value, one of which is an adherence to a man-made, mechanised time system. That there is a growing awareness within the dance community that the world is 'out of time' is shown by an article by Hannah Cornwell and Mikee in Loop 13 (which also features a remixed version of 'Where Are You?' on the accompanying CD) that describes how our sense of timing is dominated by the Gregorian Calendar, which is deemed to be scientifically incorrect [133]:

Imbalance is prevalent. By continuing to abide by a calendar constructed for business, our own flow with natural rhythms remains disjointed and random. The big beat we have been searching for since we left the womb is being played in an abstract concept of time. It's time to let go of existing preconceptions, reassess our origins and ideals, and start again with nothing but open minds. . . It's time to reflect cultures back on themselves. Time to create a set of universal symbols and sounds that will break down the language barriers and navigate the world (wide web) to the 'third place'. Time for a paradigm shift! . . . Sound is the dimension almost everyone can comprehend. Dance can unite us to all cultures - energy in its purest form. [134]

This ideology of time as an abstract concept suggests that in addition to dance culture promoting a sense of community, it can also help to reinstate a natural rhythm that has become lost in the adherence to a time system that is out of synch with the universe.

The Nomad - 'Where Are You?' - Video

Just as the video of 'For the Love of It' represented the sense of community associated with dance music, the video for The Nomad's [135] 'Where Are You?' can be read as a metaphor for the idea of time as a non-linear, abstract concept. A musical hybrid of dub, hiphop and breakbeat forms, the main vocal (sung by Lotus, although others appear at the beginning as a distorted background) features one line which is repeated and manipulated in places throughout the song: "All you have to do / is be you / and you'll find me". [136] Filmed partly at the 1999/2000 Gathering, and partly in various urban areas, the lyrical suggestion of allowing things to happen in their own time is emphasised by the video, which shows images of people standing still while the rest of the world moves around them. In Overtones and Undertones Brown describes the way in which sound and visuals together create an:

iconic sense of time. The object, no longer frozen in the, say, 1/60 th of a second it took to expose the film for a still photograph, appears in the cinema to have an existence within "real" time. . . The acquisition of sound further enhanced the iconic status of the cinematic image. Not only did an object look like a "real" object, and not only did the cinema appear to create an event in "real" time, that object-event now sounded like a "real" object-event surrounded by a "real" sonic ambience. [137]

In the video for 'Where Are You?' various 'timing' devices [138] are used throughout, so that the complex montage effects create a sense of 'real time' being manipulated to keep time with the music. Real time then is replaced by rhythm, and the video thus becomes a visual representation of what Grossberg refers to as:

the very function of rhythm: to regulate the relations of place and space, of territorializing and deterritorializing[.] Meaghan Morris (1992) has pointed to a different image of everyday life as travel. In this image, contrary to Western common sense (in which one leaves a home already established to travel to some other home), mobility precedes and is more basic than stability. Space then takes precedence over place. [139]

The video both territorializes and deterritorializes, and a similar sense of place as that shown by the video of 'For the Love of It' is established in the content of the sequences themselves. Once again, the landscape is present as the background to the action, but this time it features as part of the rural and urban representations of New Zealand dance culture, which include images of The Gathering, breakdancing [140], and various city scenes. Deterritorialization however, is present in a variety of scenes connected with travel and movement that are also edited in such a way that suggests further mobility, along with brief moments of individual stability. Overall, the clip represents the complex nature of time in terms of both the music and the wider dance culture as a whole, and as such rejects standard modes of industrialised time. [141] Regardless of the perceived 'comedowns' that follow a high point, rhythm is shown to be the important concept; follow the beat and everything else will fall into place.

'Electric Earth' - The fusion of Space and Place

For Auckland electronica act Pitch Black, the connection of audio and visual is an integral part of their act. A live electronic duo, Pitch Black recreate the sounds from their recordings in a live, multi-media environment, that uses Mideo, a video sampler developed by Michael Hodgson and Ross George that "enables real-time triggering of full-motion video from a synthesizer keyboard" [142], so that each visual shown has a direct connection to what is happening in the music. Pitch Black tend to develop many of their songs in the live environment, so it is not difficult to establish how the atmosphere or mood created by the visual is 'amplified' in the music itself. [143]

The concept of using rhythm as a visual regulator in music video is also used in the video for Pitch Black's 'Electric Earth', but whereas the pace of 'Where Are You?' dictated a relatively leisurely sense of movement, here the complex rhythms of the song are matched by those of the visuals.By establishing a rhythm that recreates visually the motion of the audio track, the video for 'Electric Earth' also attempts to integrate the audio with the visual. In 'Music Video and Media Reconstruction', Berland establishes the differences between the audio and visual aspects of a music video:

While music fills a space and surrounds you in it, functioning as an extension of your body into the social, and vice versa, television attempts to surround itself with you, to draw your eyes to a single spot and to fix the rest of you before it. In the sense that its images transport you (via your eyes) out of the space you are actually in, it does extend your reach in space, as McLuhan (1964) claims all electronic media do. [144]

This description of television's purpose as being to draw your eyes towards a single spot is problemetized in the video for 'Electric Earth'. In this video, your eyes may be drawn to the single spot of the screen, but once there, it is difficult to focus on any one spot within that frame, as the multitude of separate images attempt to fill a space and surround you in it within the confines of the television screen. In addition the images are multi-exposed, flashed, and multiplied at a pace that could be alienating were it not for the fusion of the audio with the visual. The video therefore achieves what Berland refers to as synchronization between the two forms:

the images' rhythm adheres to physical rhythm in the most empirical sense: faster and faster, now the image moves fast enough. The audience moves less and less. It is not only the social/spatial dimension of music so transformed: so too is time, real time, collapsed to the time it takes to sing a song, the once again unilateral 3½ minutes of time, whose imagination spirals in an escalating rapidity of moving images.

Because the image subsumes the music, in most instances, the rhythm of visual editing subsumes the larger rhythm of the song. This enables the visual language of the rock video to surpass, in complexity, subtlety and technical sophistication, the language of any other programming available on contemporary commercial television . . . On the other hand, this visual-semantic complexity rarely extends to new types of synchronization between music and visual form, or allows the song to challenge the video's seduction of the viewer. [145]

'Electric Earth' achieves much of what Berland believes of music video's ability to be the most "innovative mode of visual language available on television" [146]; by recreating a visual sense of the complex rhythms within the song the video attempts to map the relationship between place and space.

Because the visual language in the video for 'Electric Earth' is rhythmic, rather than 'realistic', it thus regulates the relations between territorializaton and deterritorialization, which Grossberg describes as the function of rhythm. Commenting on Deleuze and Guattari's assertion that music is the most "deterritorializing" of all practices, that it "destroys the codes that guarantee the repeatability necessary to both power and everyday life" [147], Grossberg writes that:

music is a primary agency of both territorializing and deterritorializing forces . . . We begin with a necessary contradiction: territorializing and deterritorializing. And yet somehow the story we tell always seems to put the former into the service of the latter: place in the service of space, stability in the service of mobility". [148]

As has already been shown, the video clip accompanying a piece of music can further break down the established order between territorializing and deterritorializing, but whereas the video for 'Hine e Hine' is shown as favouring the former over the latter (a position which the other clips challenge), here the visual introduces a new complexity. Stability has almost entirely given way to mobility, and space takes precedence over place, thus achieving much of what Grossberg describes as disciplined mobilization:

A disciplined mobilization is a particular dynamic structuring of places and spaces, a closed circuit of everyday life. Once you have entered into its spaces, there are no longer any frontiers or boundaries to cross, for any such line would mark the possibility of a place. Instead everyday life becomes a transit compulsion in which sites of investment are transformed into epidemics that appear everywhere, and ultimately into pure mobilities. There is no longer an outside or an inside, only the constant movement within the frontier itself. [149]

The description applies to the 'Electric Earth' video on a number of metaphorical levels, from the images of separate television screens appearing in a similar fashion to those used in closed-circuit surveillance to the constant movement of the visuals which denies boundaries. For all its deterritorializing practices, however, various modes of territorialization are still present in the video.

Pitch Black - 'Electric Earth' - Video

The video for 'Electric Earth' establishes a sense of place that is founded in the 'rhythm of 'everyday life' that the visual itself represents. By presenting a range of images associated with the production of the music, such as those relating to production techniques, performance, recording, and the music community [150] as a whole, it attempts to embrace what Street describes as the main indicators of musical identity ("industrial base, social experience, aesthetic perspective, political experience, community and scene" [151]) without excluding the importance of rhythm in regulating the fragmented, unstable, and transitory nature of postmodern life. Grossberg writes that:

it is music that founds place . . . When we stop, when the music enables us to stop, we ourselves are positioned not by an already existing stable identity, but by the wall that our music (our affect) constructs around a bit of space. . . Everyday life is itself organized by the rhythms of places and spaces, and by the specific configurations of places. This is merely to say that music, or more specifically, rock culture organizes the mattering maps by which everyday life becomes navigable, and hence, liveable. [152]

Although the visual aspects of 'Electric Earth' have the least amount of investment in 'real' time of the videos looked at here, they can be seen to be navigating life in more 'realistic' terms than the other videos. The visual language does not deny the advances of modern technology in favour of nostalgia, nor does it promote an extreme vision of the future. It is neither hostile and alienating, nor benign and all-embracing; rather it attempts to show contemporary life as it is, a series of relationships between nature and industry.

As the essential link between nature and technology, the human element of production is represented in the video in a number of ways. A direct relationship between man and technology is present in the soundbite at the beginning of the song, which features a cyborg-type voice intoning what can be interpreted as a formula for production (and therefore life): "matter / and energy / and thought / rhythms / and mutations". However, although the voice could be read in a similar manner to that of the alien in 'Beached', as a case of industry and technology surviving in a world drained of the natural, its significance to the track is more likely to be found within the context of the music itself. In their chapter on 'Metal Machine Musics', Gilbert and Pearson describe how contemporary music production "allows bodies and machines to combine in previously unheard fashion . . . the externally-generated electronic pulse that one may consider to have made the drummer cyborg, as her cardiovascular system - her heartbeat and pulse-rate - becomes externally calibrated, digitally clocked." [153] The ambiguous relationship between the technological and musical aspects of electronic music is shown by the shot of a human drummer at the point of the song that features real drums along with sequences that feature both Free and Hodgson in performance, which (although edited in places to suggest an element of mechanation), like those of Te Kanawa in full voice, Salmonella Dub on stage, and Nomad on the decks, show the physicality of the performance. It thus attempts to dispel the negative discourses relating to dance music and technology:

many discourses around music consider the presence of certain technologies in negative terms; as a marker of the elimination of human agency from the production of music, the 'murder' of music as living creature. Such musics, its critics argue, omit feeling, they are cold, mechanical, repetitive, lifeless. [154]

The meaning attached to the song's soundbites indicates the necessity of human agency to dance music, but whilst the first one breaks up the words in a lifeless, mechanical way, the soundbite at the end of the song suggests a return to the natural: "He was sensitive to every undulation of nature's moods, rhythms and mutations". Although spoken by the same voice as that used for the earlier vocal, this time the cadence of the phrase follows that of a human voice, suggesting that the earlier 'cyborg' may have been an invention of editing, and that the 'technology' was human afterall.

As important as humans are to the production of technology however, the video makes it clear that 'matter', or nature, is also an essential ingredient. In addition to the semiotic messages relating to the words that appear on both the audio and visual tracks, nature's importance in the greater scheme of things is emphasized by the images of the landscape that come the closest to any of the sequences to appearing in 'real time'. Near the middle of the video, several landscape scenes appear as single and double framed shots that stand out from the other sequences because they are projected for several seconds as a single exposure. Unlike the pristine shots used in 'Hine e Hine', which deny the presence of technology in the landscape and thus support an erroneous image of New Zealand as being 'frozen in the past' [155], here the scenic landscape shots promote a sense of place, at the same time as they acknowledge that identity is experienced as a more complex set of territorializing and deterritorializing signifiers. In addition to the iconic symbols of electricity such as windmills, powerlines, and power stations that appear as part of the 'real' landscape, additional effects such as the water/static shot at the beginning, the animated windmills, and the appearance of the mountains and their reflections as an 'electrical current' further emphasize that the electricity powering both the video and the music is generated by the earth. In the closing sequence, the scene shifts to a West Coast beach, and in one of the longest single framed sequences in the video, two nikau palms are 'electrified' so that their fronds spin as windmills, while the words of the final soundbite are multi-exposed over the top at the point in the music where the words appear. Combining elements of the natural, with that of technology, the image is an evocative reminder of the relationship between landscape and industry, place and space.

Although the video for 'Electric Earth' creates a rhythm that in many ways succeeds in mapping the uneasy territory between the visual and audial modes that accompany video production, like all the videos it is still an iconic representation of what the filmmakers believe the music represents. 'Electric Earth' was never released as a single in the traditional sense, but the 'Video Edit' is included in the full-length remix album, Electric Earth and Other Elements, [156] of which the video is the promo. The music for the edit is taken from the original track, which appears as 'Electric Earth Pt1' and 'Electric Earth pt2' [157] on the Electronomicon album. [158] Berland writes that:

a single can exist (technically, at least) without the video, but the reverse is not the case. . . The musical single may seem more 'real' because it came first, in literal terms, and because we think of it as the commodity advertised by video. Many critics have argued that the song's power to connect us with something (even with itself) is diminished by the rhetoric of the video, which by acting as promotion for a song, suggests that the song is nothing but an object to be promoted. . . Music video draws our attention simultaneously to the song and away from it, positing itself in the place of what it represents. [159]

Unlike the examples that Berland refers to, however, there is more to the music of 'Electric Earth' than that which the video represents. At less than half the total length of 'Pt1' and 'Pt2' combined [160], the soundtrack to the video edit concentrates on the more techno aspects of the music, so the effect created is in line with the more frantic, industrial, and deterritorializing aspects of the video. In its complete form, the music reveals a greater balance between the various elements listed both in the title and the 'lyrics' within the song.

Pitch Black - 'Electric Earth' - Music

Electric Earth Pt1" begins gently with a lilting keyboard melody playing over echoing, electronic wave-motion. As the volume increases, more sounds are added: little plopping water noises sound like rain on a babbling brook and high-pitched warbles are layered to build a crescendo of early-morning birdsong. Then, an electronic sound resembling a didgeridoo rises above the earlier strains - its ululation casts the musical equivalent of an undulating, low-horizon light over new rhythms and melodies which are brought in one by one. As the pace quickens, an electric sparking sound can be heard, before the dominant rhythm enters in a rush of sound motion, that replicates in music the busy sound of rush hour traffic as the human (electric) day begins.

A disembodied - but still human - voice comes in with one line: "matter and energy and thought, rhythms and mutations", and the track is away in a motorway rush of driving rhythm and movement. New sounds enter, weave in and out of the existing ones, and then exit. Electrical currents buzz through the speakers and then a percussive keyboard riff is added, gradually increasing in input until it forms a layer of melody. The keyboard eases away, and the space is filled with layers of rhythm, before it rejoins, returning to its earlier percussive role. At the "high" point of 'Pt1' the proliferation of rhythm tracks is symbolic of midday industry. The manipulated voice returns with a reminder that you are listening to "rhythms and mutations", and the track crackles with electricity and motion. Then, the complex rhythm track drops away suddenly, leaving only two or three separate lilting sounds to carry the track through to its new mutation.

'Electric Earth Pt2' begins at the precise moment when a new, mellower rhythm track (played on real drums) takes over, which could suggest a shift from day to night. The eerie keyboard that carried the transition from 'Pt1' to 'Pt2' begins to fade out while another percussionist introduces a new top-end rhythm. The industry of 'Pt1' has been replaced with the softer, more human sound of the drum kit, and the build-up takes its time, with sounds suggesting the movement of water introduced gradually into the mix. Continuing with the metaphor from 'Pt1', it suggests that night-time has a less-industrious, more natural feel. The 'kick-in' takes the form of a low bassline and a top layer of high-pitched insect-like sounds. The keyboard returns with another syncopated melody and then disappears momentarily to make way for a more lilting top-end melody that floats over the other sounds, returning only when the new sound has been established. Gradually all rhythms drop away, until only the bassline and the faintest electric crackling are left. Into this quiet, which suggests the end of night-time industry as dawn approaches, the disembodied voice returns and reminds us that the Earth is never still: "he was sensitive to every undulation of nature's moods, rhythms and mutations".

Meaning can be established in music in various ways. Lyrics offer the most accessible interpretation, but how is meaning created in music that uses language either not at all or in the most minimal of ways? In establishing the importance of film music, Brown writes that "at least one filmmaker, French director Robert Bresson, finds that "sound, because of its greater realism, is infinitely more evocative than an image, which is essentially only a stylization of visual reality" [161]. A similar position is taken by Roland Barthes, who finds that because music belongs to the "order of difference", it is difficult to unite with language, which belongs to the "order of the general." [162] Barthes solution to the problem is to suggest that the adjective should be replaced by metaphor: "the value of music, then [is] to be a good metaphor" (285). As a largely instrumental form, dance music lends itself well to metaphorical descriptions. With the absence of easily identifiable instruments and recognisable personalities (such as Te Kanawa's voice, or David Kilgour's guitar), it becomes not so much a question of what the song says lyrically, or how it is sung or played, but what it connects the listener to, which according to Grossberg is life itself: "music is the most powerful affective agency in human life; music seems, almost independently of our intentions, to produce and orchestrate our moods, both qualitatively and quantitatively." [163] So how does the music for 'Electric Earth Pt1' and 'Electric Earth Pt2' achieve what Grossberg believes is the purpose of music?

As has already been shown by the video, in the case of 'Electric Earth', the most relevant connection to be made is that suggested in the title and the soundbites that appear in three places throughout the track. The driving 'motorway' rhythms of the main track suggest a level of energy and movement that places the music within the context of industry, which is a position that the visual language of the video also supports. [164] However, the structure of the two tracks together, which along with the usual intro, outro and bridging techniques used in dance music [165], includes a greater number of tonal elements than the 'Video Edit', creates a greater sense of the relationship between the earth and the electric, or place and space. Berland writes that: "Electronic reproduction makes it possible to fix and move images or sounds across the barriers of physical time or space. Each new medium finds different ways of moving images or sounds into the social spaces of its users, and so places and displaces its listeners differently." [166] Although the context from which Berland writes is to do with both audio and visual media techniques, that the observation is applicable to the function of electronic music, and in particular, New Zealand electronica is evident in the liner notes to Aileron, an album by Auckland producer Rotor+ [167]. Featuring aerial photographs of various New Zealand landscape shots (including the centre of Auckland, 'patchwork' paddocks, a shoreline, and suburban streets) along with snippets of text relating to the nature of place and space in music, the booklet also includes an introduction written by Charles Douglas [168], who describes the music as "sound that frames space and the landscapes that inspired them". [169] Although the music that Douglas refers to is more ambient than dance, his description is also applicable to 'Electric Earth Pt 1' and 'Pt 2'. Unlike the music for 'Hine e Hine', which represents the culture of Aotearoa in only the most naively reductive terms, here the framing of space and place suggests the convergence of the many different sounds and rhythms that make up everyday life in New Zealand, from the natural ambience of dawn to the heightened sense of industry present in the intricate rhythms of the main 'movement' of 'Pt1' to the mellower, more organic rhythms of 'Pt 2'. As such, it achieves what Attali describes as one of the functions of music, to "make audible the new world that will gradually become visible, that will impose itself and regulate the order of things; it is not only the image of things, but the transcending of the everyday". By representing in music the various sounds connected to both time and space, 'Electric Earth', in its many mutations, can be shown to achieve a sense of New Zealandness that represents New Zealand's place in the new world.

Landscaping the Future: Where to Next?

Whether New Zealand music will continue to represent a distinctive 'New Zealand sound' within the various genres that make up popular music will depend on whether it can break the confines of global isolation that has always held it back. Although the New Zealand music industry is enjoying its strongest market in years, there is still debate as to whether New Zealand music should strive towards heterogeneity or homogenisation in order to become globally (and therefore commercially) viable. Artists such as Salmonella Dub and Pitch Black have been active in building a fanbase for their distinctive sounds in both Australia and Europe, yet neither act is financially profitable [170], and in a recent television show [171] David Kilgour, who was being interviewed as one of the godfathers of the 'Dunedin Sound', admitted that he was now able to make a living out of music. Out of all the artists featured here, Kiri Te Kanawa would seem to be the only one whose talent has been rewarded, yet the musicians continue to produce music for the love of it, and thus continue to insert music's importance to the culture of Aotearoa. Has New Zealand music a distinctive sound within the world market? Perhaps not yet, but increasingly, it can be shown to possess a sound grounded in the local, which like most of our artforms looks for inspiration to the many configurations of place and space that make up our cultural landscape.

[1] Jody Berland, 'Sound, Image and Social Space: Music Video and Media Reconstruction', in Simon Frith et al (eds), Sound & Vision: The Music Video Reader (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 27.

[2] Lawrence Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 97.

[3] That this notion continues to persist is shown by the findings of Roy Shuker, in his 1995 book Understanding Popular Music, Tony Mitchell cites as finding "scarce evidence of any distinctively local features in Aotearoa/New Zealand rock and pop music." Tony Mitchell , Popular Music and Local Identity: Rock, Pop and Rap in Europe and Oceania (London and New York: Leicester University Press, 1996), p. 217.

[4] Referred to only as the Maori Group in the liner notes, the backing group is made up of Dilworth Karaka, Mahinarangi Tocker, Robert Wiremu, Mahiia Blackmore, Taisha, Cathy Reti, Suzanne Lynch, Thom Nepia, Armand Crown, Peter Morgan, Ben Gilgen, with Rebecca Chaplow, Matua Takawe, Rusty Matua, Charles Matua, Hammond Matua and George Henare.

[5] The second part of this sentence is a quote outlining music video maker Delia's solution to solving the auteur video maker's dilemma. Krey described Delia as an "auteur who creates visual concepts and structure usually found in features", and discusses his video for Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio", in which Delia "created two visual worlds: present-day America and pre-industrial Mexico and then contrasted them." Robert Krey, 'Music Promos - Thinking Visually', American Cinematographer, April 1984. p. 82.

[6] Lawrence Grossberg, ' Rock, Territorialization, and Power', in Dancing in Spite of Myself: Essays on Popular Culture, Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1997, p. 95.

[7] In response to my email query regarding the clip, Susan Kendrick from TVNZ writes that: "The goodnight Kiwi theme is an arrangement of the Maori lullaby "Hine E Hine" arranged especially for the then SPTV (South Pacific Television) in 1975 by Bernie Allen of Auckland. The lullaby was composed by Princess Te Rangipai in 1907. The Goodnight Kiwi was used as the station closedown until 20th October 1994 on Channel 2, when 24 hour transmission commenced."

[8] Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 95.

[9] Royal S. Brown. Overtones and Undertones: Reading Film Music (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), p. 3.

[10] Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 96.

[11] Tony Mitchell , Popular Music and Local Identity: Rock, Pop and Rap in Europe and Oceania (London and New York: Leicester University Press, 1996), p. 222.

[12] Mitchell writes that : "Since the 1980's, increasing steps have been taken by Maori towards a renewal of their cultural and social traditions, and to regenerate te reo Maori (the Maori language). This Maori Renaissance, as it is often referred to, has developed alongside the process of biculturalism in Aotearoa/New Zealand, and has generated an increasing number of Maori land claims which were not appeased by the government's offer in 1994 of a non-negotiable $2 billion 'fiscal envelope' as a bulk land-retribution deal." Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 237.

[13] Michel Butor, 'Music, a Realistic Art', Inventory (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1970). Under the heading "Colors", Butor attempts to fill the space between the two extremes of musical meaning - "of the relation between speech and music which is on the one had illustration or onomatopoeia . . . and on the other hand the framework, the syntactical placement, the establishment of a sonorous site having certain properties within which the words will have a place and therefore a particular significance" - by adopting Balzac's word, "color". He asks "if words gradually assume a whole architecture of meanings, how could the same not be true, to a lesser degree, of other sounds?", before setting out the different types of 'colors' to be found in music, making a distinction between Psychological, Functional, Modal, Tonal, Geographical and Historical Colors. pp 288-9.

[14] Butor, 'Music, a Realistic Art', p. 291.

[15] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 239.

[16] Ibid., p. 264.

[17] The CD design itself is representative of the difficulty in marketing to each genre. The cover of the actual CD booklet that fits inside the plastic case features the ornate prow of a waka (Maori canoe) positioned on the beach at dawn, with a simple script spelling out Kiri - Maori Songs, the only ornamentation being the twin koru of the stylised 'K'. The back of the cover features a head and shoulders shot of Te Kanawa, along with the track listing. The CD is sold however, in a cardboard sleeve that transposes the placement of the images with Te Kanawa appearing on the front next to the "Kiri" (the script has been retained), and the waka appearing on the back cover. Adding a cardboard sleeve to a single CD (the device is often used in the packaging of double albums) is a marketing tool that is sometimes used when a CD cover is not attracting sales, but Maori Songs was released initially with the extra cover, so the decision to ensure that the CD was sold with a picture of Te Kanawa clearly visible on the cover must have been made prior to release. Although the original cover may have been designed in order to create an aura of pre-industrial cultural intimacy, the difficulty of marketing a Te Kanawa album without the presence of Te Kanawa herself on the cover probably resulted in the double cover packaging.

[18] World music has become an increasingly lucrative market with many artists from around the world taking advantage of the trend to record the music of their culture. With American and British artists such as Sting, Paul Simon, and Peter Gabriel becoming involved, the genre is becoming more hybridised. In addition, distinctive representations of culture are being used in other music genres, with bands such as Deep Forest and Enigma basing their 'dance' albums around the music of African pygmies and Gregorian chants respectively, whilst others, such as Brazilian metal band Sepultura, incorporate the indigenous sounds of their culture into their sound.

[19] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 264.

[20] A volcanic island in Auckland's Hauraki Gulf, Rangitoto's symmetrical cone-like shape makes it a distinctive iconic landmark.

[21] Jody Berland, 'Sound, Image and Social Space: Music Video and Media Reconstruction', p. 39.

[22] Under the company logo and name, the following is written: "Po Karekare ana and Kiri Te Kanawa have long been closely associated with Air New Zealand through its advertising promotions."

[23] In Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 87.

[24] Ibid., p. 87.

[25] Simon Frith, Performing Rites: On the Value of Popular Music (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1996), p. 218.

[26] One of the most enduring images of Kiri Te Kanawa in New Zealand is of her solo performance at the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer in 1981, where she wore an "extraordinary rainbow-hued dress" which was not so well-received by satirist John Wells, who wrote in his Private Eye column, "'this dusky songstress from Down Under in a multi-coloured tablecloth and air hostess's hat warbles on for hours.'" Garry Jenkins & Stephen D'Antal, Kiri: Her Unsung Story (London: HarperCollins, 1998), p. 248-9.

[27] The back cover to Kiri: Her Unsung Story features a picture of Te Kanawa - in performance - wearing a red, black and white gown, with a bodice featuring heavily sequinned Maori designs.

[28] Born to an Irish mother and a Maori father, Te Kanawa was adopted by Tom Te Kanawa and his Pakeha wife, Nell. Jenkins & D'Antal, Kiri: Her Unsung Story, p. 10.

[29] Te Kanawa was created a Dame Commander of the British Empire in 1982.

[30] Frith, Performing Rites, p. 218.

[31] Ibid., p. 219.

[32] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 89.

[33] Ibid., p. 89.

[34] Stephanie Taylor, 'The Discourses of New Zealand National Identity', British Review of New Zealand Studies (BRONZS. Chippeham: Antony Rowe Ltd.) , No. 9, December, 1996, p. 47.

[35] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, pp. 88-9.

[36] Whereas once popular music was referred to in broad terms such as rock'n'roll, rock, country, punk, metal, disco, folk, reggae, hiphop, soul and funk, as music becomes increasingly globalised the different sounds within each main genre have resulted in a number of new genre labels that often refer to the hybridisation of different genres, such as ska-punk, death-metal, new country, gangsta rap, and roots-reggae. Within the relatively new 'dance' genre there are a multitude of sub-genres, and their offspring such as techno, trance, breakbeat, garage, drum and bass, hardcore, house, progressive house, dub house, funk house, hard house, and handbag house.

[37] Taylor, 'The Discourses of New Zealand National Identity', pp. 48-9. In her interviews with New Zealanders living in London, Taylor points to the binary oppositions such as "here and there" and "now and then" (48). The quotes are also full of binarisms: "I still kind of like that rough element in New Zealand. I don't want it to be as cultivated"; "a man-made landscape, whereas in parts of New Zealand sometimes, particularly when you're out walking in the bush, it's primeval". That binarisms have long been a common factor in New Zealand society is indicated by Bill Pearson's 1952 essay 'Fretful Sleepers' ( Landfall 6, No. 3, p. 201-30), where he uses phrases such as "we are the most puritan country in the world, yet we love a dirty story" (p. 341) and "we like to be told we are the Dominion most like England, yet an English educated accent makes us feel we are being imposed on". p. 336.

[38] Krey writes: "Letts, whose credits include all Clash promos, Musical Youth, & Elvis Costello, is an anomaly in his field. His promos are opinionated. They offer a conscious social comment expressed clearly in pictures. Letts is one of the few promo directors who works entirely on location. He sees "too many visually unused things out there" to be cooped inside a studio. His locations provide the means for him to make a social comment through pictures. When shooting Rock the Casbah for The Clash, one of Britain's most popular and outspoken bands, who are preoccupied with both American culture and the underlying chaos of international politics, Letts staged the band to perform in front of a huge oil rig on a Texas oil field." 'Music Videos - Thinking Visually', p. 84-5.

[39] New Zealandness is a term borrowed from G. Stahl, who writes that "the success of New Zealand independent music is organised precisely around its 'New Zealandness', the marginal status being seen as a virtue that perfectly embodies certain aesthetic and subcultural currency". 'Citing The Sound - New Zealand Indie Rock in North America.' Perfect Beat 3 (2). p. 60-76.

[40] Taylor, 'The Discourses of National Identity', p. 47.

[41] Borrowed from Helen M Hogan's (ed.) anthology of New Zealand verse, Nowhere Far From the Sea, Christchurch, Whitcombe & Tombs Limited, 1971 .

[42] Bruce Mason, End of the Golden Weather (Wellington: New Zealand University Press, 1970). In the play's introductory speech, Mason establishes the position of Te Parenga: "Ahead, across a narrow channel, central to vision and imagination, Rangitoto, enormous, majestic, spread-eagled on the sky-line like a sleeping whale, declining from a central cone to the water in two huge flanges, meeting the sea in a haze of blue and green". p. 31.

[43] Ibid., p. 9.

[44] In his original TV script written to celebrate the 500th performance of the play, the author answers the interviewer's (both are characters in the script) question as to what Te Parenga's "real name" is with the following: "It's real name is still Te Parenga. I mention in it several things that you will find on or see from a particular Auckland beach, but others I have changed as it suited me, so that it ceases to be that beach and becomes the one I call Te Parenga". Mason, End of the Golden Weather, p. 14.

[45] Ibid., p. 7.

[46] Ibid., p. 39.

[47] Patrick Evans, 'The Provincial Dilemma (2): The Bit in Between.', Landfall 30 No.3 (September 1976), p. 33.

[48] The surrealism of the film was in total contrast to Mason's nostalgic realism, and the shift in style was the only thing that made it palatable to audiences in the 1990's.

[49] Taylor, 'The Discourses of National Identity', p. 49.

[50] In her 1991 essay 'The Fourth Labour Government 1984-90' (BRONZS, No. 4, November, 1991), Enid Wistrich outlines the effects of the changes on New Zealand society: "The fourth Labour Government which came to power in 1984 is universally acknowledged to mark a watershed in New Zealand political history. This government promoted radical change in almost the complete range of government policies, - from foreign and defence policy to economic and industrial policy, from equal opportunities and immigration policy to the recognition of Maori grievances, from a comprehensive perspective on environmental policy to a restructuring of government machinery at both central and local levels, and a reconsideration of the policy and delivery of social and welfare services. Both radical and comprehensive, the changes were sweeping and profound. Moreover, they came as a surprise, presented by a Labour government which reversed many of its earlier social democratic policies. The unexpectedness of the assault and the pace of change left New Zealand society breathless and in a state of shock". p. 11.

[51] Howard McNaughton, 'Things to Do with Jane Campion's Beach', p. 7.

[52] The hole in the ozone layer is described by the Planet Earth website (www.planetearth.org.nz) as follows: "24 kilometres up into the earth's stratosphere, a layer of ozone particles shields earth dwellers from the sun's harmful cancer-causing rays. Harmful UV B rays are filtered out by the ozone layer, which has been doing its job for millions of years and is one of the most ancient and long-established things on the planet.
During the Antarctic winter, an oval-shaped polar vortex forms over the south pole, bringing ozone-rich air from above and releasing ozone-poor air from below. This vortex, or hole, is growing at an alarming and unnatural rate, mainly due to human use of chloroflourocarbons (CFC's). 75 - 85% of all ozone damage is caused by humans! A chloroflourocarbon molecule has the potential to hang around in the atmosphere, destroying ozone for 20 - 100 years. This is not a pleasant thought for those living in countries close to the ozone hole".

[53] The Slip Slop Slap television campaign featured a cartoon kiwi reminding New Zealanders to be sun safe.

[54] The Jean Paul Sartre Experience were formed in Christchurch in mid-1984 by Dave Yetton (bass and vocals), Gary Sullivan (drums) and Dave Mulcahy (guitar), with Jim Laing (guitar) joining a year later. Allegedly the band's name came about from the group's desire to see the words Jean Paul Sartre printed on a poster. The band continued until early 1994 when "rumours of a split began to circulate which were refuted but the band never played live again" (Tim Davey & Horst Puschmann Kiwi Rock, Kiwi Rock Publications, 1995. p. 46). Dave Mulcahy went on to form Superette, but is now recording as a solo artist and Dave Yetton recorded an album worth of songs with some friends (including Gary Sullivan) as The Stereo Bus and then went on to form a different band with the same name.

[55] Wistrich describes the model followed by the New Zealand 'Rogernomics' as very much in line with other countries: "The idea that the market economy best serves the interests of citizens in political democracies has swept in through right-wing governments in the USA and Britain and replaced, to a lesser extent, the more traditional policies of a Socialist government in France and a Labour government in Australia". 'The Fourth Labour Government 1984-90', p. 13.

[56] Flying Nun was formed in 1981 by Christchurch record shop owner, Roger Sheppard and the label quickly became home to a number of South Island bands who did not meet the criteria of the more commercially driven major labels.

[57] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 216.

[58] This connection continues to be associated with Flying Nun bands with Rob Sheffield beginning his entry on The Clean in Spin Alternative Record Guide (Eric Weisbard with Craig Marks (eds), New York, Vintage Books, 1995) with the observation that "if the Velvets had ever been deported to an island of six million sheep, they might have ended up sounding like The Clean". p. 85.

[59] Mitchell describes the emergence in the 1960's of "a significant body of local pop-oriented performers, who were able to make an impact on the commercial mainstream of local chart-oriented pop music while performing music which appealed to the less commercially oriented tastes of students and rock fans" as relatively short lived". (Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 216). Formed at a time when records from overseas were difficult and expensive to get, the 1960's bands released both cover versions and original songs and bands such as the La de Da's, Larry's Rebel's and the Fourmyula appeared regularly in the singles charts (the later has recently been honoured by an APRA (Australasian Performing Rights Association) initiated panel voting their 1969 number one hit 'Nature' as the best New Zealand song). The hits of this period are recorded on the compilation How Was the Air Up There, which features the La De Das, the Underdogs, Dave Miller and the Byrds, the Pleazers and Chants R & B.

[60] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 89.

[61] In Kiwi Rock, p. 46.

[62] Mitchell writes that "rock groups like the Clean, the Chills, the Bats, Straitjacket Fits, the JPSE and others who emerged on the Flying Nun label in the 1980's share a range of identifiable musical and extra-musical features (melodic guitar 'jangle', often 'low-fi' production, lack of concern with image, lack of political or social comment in lyrics, pop inflections, etc)." Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 218.

[63] Jack Babuscio, 'Camp and the Gay Sensibility', in ed. David Bergman Camp Grounds: Style and Homosexuality, (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1993): p. 23.

[64] Babuscio describes camp style as "often exaggerated". Ibid., p. 24.

[65] Ibid., p. 24.

[66] By the 1990's new technologies were being introduced at a rate that caused much concern to both environmentalists and those resisting change, and the metaphor of time accelerating was used to draw people's attention to what was happening.

[67] A term taken from the Split Enz song "Six Months in a Leaking Boat" that is used by theorists (including Lealand, Mitchell and Dix) to refer to the problems associated with New Zealand's physical isolation.

[68] John Dix, Stranded In Paradise: New Zealand Rock'n'Roll 1955-1988 (Paradise Publications, 1988), p. 11.

[69] Michael Flint, 'What the Air Was Like Up There - Overseas Music and Local Reception in the 1960's' in Philip Hayward et al. (eds), North Meets South: Popular Music In Aotearoa/New Zealand (Umina, Australia: Perfect Beat Publications, 1994), p. 1.

[70] Dix, Stranded In Paradise, p. 4.

[71] Ibid., p. 302.

[72] Ibid., p. 341.

[73] Ibid., p. 341.

[74] The song gained notoriety when it was banned by the BBC during the Falkland's War.

[75] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 224.

[76] The main outline of the bill is set out in Michael Pickering and Roy Shuker, 'Struggling to Make Ourselves Heard - Music, Radio and the Quota Debate' in North Meets South: "The bill proposed that an initial quota of 15 percent of NZ music would be followed a year later by an increase to 17.5 percent, culminating in a quota of 20 percent of locally produced music on radio two years after the passing of the act. . . Failure to comply with the quota system would result in a series of fines, rising after each successive offence. New Zealand music was defined as music in which any two of three coordintates of recording, composition, or performance derived from the input of a New Zealand resident". p. 76.

[77] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 225.

[78] Hayward et al. (eds). North Meets South. In their examples of songs that became chart successes even when the "objects of program directors' snubs", Pickering & Shuker cite the case of Flying Nun and Dunedin band The Chills, whose "Heavenly Pop Hit" (1989) which became a BBC Radio One (the most commercial of the BBC radio stations) record of the week. p. 86.

[79] Formed in Dunedin in early 1978 by brothers Hamish Kilgour (drums) and David Kilgour (guitar) and a range of bass players until they finally settled on Robert Scott, The Clean have disbanded and reformed several times since their first breakup in 1982. Due to their habit of touring and releasing an album each time they reform, these periods of collaboration are now regarded as "phases". (www.flyingnun.com)

[80] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 225.

[81] Davey & Puschmann, Kiwi Rock, p. 31.

[82] This list of the top 30 songs of the past 75 years was compiled by a group of judges connected to the music industry and released publicly in November, 2001. www.apra.com.au

[83] Sheffield in Weisbard & Marks (eds), Spin Alternative Record Guide, p. 86.

[84] Ibid., p. 86.

[85] A quick scan of the lyrics printed in the liner notes reveals lyrics such as: "I watched you fallaway / always watching you fall away / there ain't nothing I can do" ('Fallaway'); "City shines today like there's nothing wrong" ('Nail in my Foot'); "Just when you think spring's here down comes bad weather again / just when you think the world's spinning round down comes bad thinking again / like I'm standing so still but we won't be brought down" ('Look at It').

[86] In Davey & Horst, Kiwi Rock, p. 48.

[87] The concept of tonality has been applied to the music of The Clean by musicologist Graeme Downes (Otago University), who believes that the Clean's popularity and distincitveness is due to "the use of tonal and modal tensions and uncertainties, long-range resolutions and predominantly short songs with a 'failsafe sense of appropriate duration'". He writes that a "Clean song can involve a level of complexity that belies the veneer of simplicity that such unsophisticated production and the sometimes naïve style of lyric writing implies" (Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, pp. 225-6). It is an observation that is also applicable to 'Beached'.

[88] Heidi Kaye and I.Q. Hunter, 'Introduction - Alien Identities: Exploring Difference in Film and Fiction', in Cartmell et al. (eds), Alien Identities (London: Pluto Press, 1999), p. 3.

[89] Ibid., p. 6.

[90] Ed Wood's film Plan Nine from Outer Space is famous for its badly done special effects. A later documentary-style film entitled, Ed Wood shows the director filming the original film using cut-out flying saucer shapes attached to poles to create the effect.

[91] Jonathan Bignell, 'Another Time, Another Space: Modernity, Subjectivity and The Time Machine ', in Cartmell et al. (eds), Alien Identities, pp. 99-100.

[92] In July 1984 the newly-elected Labour government announced that "port access would henceforth be available to those vessels which it could satisfy for itself were neither nuclear-powered nor nuclear-armed" which led to "Washington's announcement on 27 February 1985 of United States withdrawal from all ANZUS exercises and exchanges involving New Zealand, and the suspension of intelligence cooperation". Adrian Smith, 'The Problems of Maintaining a Non-Nuclear Defence Policy: New Zealand in an Election Year', BRONZS, 1987, p. 10. The band From Scratch specifically dealt with New Zealand's stance on their 1986 album, Pacific 3, 2, 1, Zero (Parts 1 and 2).

[93] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 224.

[94] As is shown by the third disc of the ".but I can write songs okay" triple-disc compilation of Dunedin Music (Yellow Eye, 1996) and more recent Arc Café compilations.

[95] In the wake of new Flying Nun 'pop' bands such as Garageland, Superette, Bike, and Breathe (who were later signed by Sony) and Wildside (an independent Auckland label started by Murray Cammick, former editor of Rip It Up ) 'rock' bands such as Shihad, HLAH, and Pumpkinhead gaining more commercial radio exposure, the major companies began to see the advantages in signing New Zealand bands with the result that now the music industry is at its healthiest with bands such as The Feelers (Warner), Bic Runga (Sony), Stellar (Sony), Zed (Universal), Tadpole (Universal) Fur Patrol (Warner), Deep Obsession (Universal) and Dimmer (Sony) all reaching platinum status with album releases.

[96] One of the best known examples of these affiliations is Auckland electronica label Kog Transmissions, which has a distribution deal with Universal who take care of all matters concerning distribution and promotion but do not have input regarding recording processes and A&R.

[97] Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson, Discographies: Dance Music, Culture and the Politics of Sound (London: Routledge, 1999), p. 1.

[98] Ibid., p. 16.

[99] Ibid., p. 2. Gilbert and Pearson refer to the expression 'sorted' as "gaining new meanings beyond its limited scope as a euphemism for being on 'E'. The more widespread slang usage, from which the drug term was derived, abbreviated the phrase 'sorted out', connoting that something had been satisfactorily effected or organized to a state of completion or finality".

[100] E is often referred as the 'love drug' because of its euphoric and beautifying effects.

[101] A term borrowed from the name of a dance event held near Timaru in March, 2001.

[102] According to Gilbert and Pearson, who refer to the work of Paul Spencer, "dance is seen to function as a safety-valve, to relieve participants from such anxieties as feudalism, epidemics, war, industrial capitalism, social marginalization, millennial angst." Discographies. p. 15.

[103] Loop 13 CD 08, 2000/1

[104] Including Salmonella Dub, Pitch Black, The Nomad, Trinity Roots, Max Maxwell, Aspen, Signer and Mark de Clive Lowe.

[105] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, p. 224.

[106] The Gathering originally took place at Canaan Downes in Takaka where it was held from 1997 to 2000. The site has now been shifted to a new site within the Takaka area.

[107] Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies, p. 32.

[108] Sharon McIver, 'Dance 'til you drop - and more.' Christchurch Press, January 9, 1999.

[109] Tim Owen, 'From Our Mind to Yours', www.gathering.co.nz

[110] That youth were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the status quo is demonstrated by the outcome of the 1999 General Election, which saw a political party dedicated to preserving the land and righting the wrongs of the past gaining eight seats in parliament. Painted as losers on election night, The Green Party entered parliament only after the special votes came in - and many of those were young people who registered days after formal registration had closed, who, thanks to the publicity surrounding a National-led smear campaign against Green leader Jeanette McDonald in her Coromandel electorate, had made a last minute decision to vote for the Greens.

[111] Salmonella Dub in their most recent form are: Andrew Penman (Guitar/Samples), Mark Tyler (Bass/Synth), Tiki Taane (Vocal/Engineer), Dave Deakins (Guitar/Vocals), and Conan Wilcox (Percussionist/Sax/Vocals).

[112] Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies, p. 3.

[113] "The word 'dub' today is used to describe a genre of music that consists predominantly of instrumental re-mixes of existing recordings. These re-mixes radically manipulated and reshape the recording (through the use of sound effects). The production and mixing process is not used just to replicate the live performance of the recording artist, but audio effects and studio 'trickery' are seen as an integral part of the music. The roots of 'dub' can be traced back to Jamaica in the late 1960s, where it is widely accepted that Osbourne Ruddock (King Tubby) pioneered the style. Ruddock turned the mixing desk into an instrument, with the Deejay or mixer playing the role of the artist or performer. These early 'Dub' examples can be looked upon as the prelude to many dance and pop music genres" . www.dub.com

[114] The influence of dub on drum and bass is shown by legendary Jamaican reggae rhythm section Sly and Robbie recording an album with U.K. drum and bass producer Howie B in 1999 entitled 'Drum & Bass Strip to the Bone'.

[115] Having gradually built up a solid fanbase through extensive touring and by self-releasing two albums and a number of e.p.'s, for their third album, Killervision Salmonella Dub signed a distribution deal with Virgin/Emi and employed UK drum and bass producer David Harrow as engineer. The album sold almost double platinum (in New Zealand platinum is the sale of 15 000 units) and earned eight awards at the 2000 bNet NZ Music Awards, including Best Album, Award for Best Hip-hop/Reggae/Dub Act, Best Live Act and Best Song with 'For The Love Of It'. www.salmonelladub.co.nz

[116] Although live acts such as Shapeshifter, Concord Dawn, and Pitch Black are now all considered as live dance acts, Salmonella Dub were one of the first bands to play the more dance-oriented styles of dub, drum and bass, and techno live.

[117] Stephen Davis and Peter Simon, in Reggae Bloodlines: In Search of the Music and Culture of Jamaica (New York: Da Capo Press, 1992) describe the origins of Jamaican ska as arising when the slump in American R&B led to the sound-system men turning to Jamaican musicians "to churn out an electric dance music for the brothers and sisters to get down and skank to . . . The music was vibrant and loping; the dancers at the sound systems made up a dance to it and called the dance ska, and in time that became the name for Jamaican R&B. . . ska was mento, Stateside R&B, and Jamaicans coming to terms with electric guitars and amplification". p. 14.

[118] Having been played on student radio in the latter part of 1998, the song created a vibe for the album that pushed it into the charts in the first week of its release. The feelgood nature of the song so caught the attention of an ever-increasing fanbase that "For the Love of It" was also played on several commercial radio stations including the pop-driven 91ZM. The irony was not lost on the musical community that the "breakthrough" song was one that perfectly described the band's long climb from pub band to one of the best-loved live bands in the country. When it was released as a single, "For The Love of It" spent six weeks in the top twenty, and Killervision peaked at number 7 in the National Charts. (www.salmonelladub.co.nz)

[119] Davis and Simon in Reggae Bloodlines describe roots reggae as "like a heartbeat, rhythmically stable and very restrained". p. 7.

[120] The emphasis on the bass came about from sound system men wanting to get a bigger boom outdoors which required that they "turn the bass knobs all the way up to the pain threshold". Davis and Simon, Reggae Bloodlines, p. 14.

[121] Ibid., p. 12.

[122] Frith, Performing Rites, p. 220.

[123] In the summer of 1998, the vibe for The Gathering was at its highest point to date, with 8000 people (double the number of the previous year) from around the county making the long trek to Takaka Downs to spend 48 hours dancing in one of seven dance zones at any time of the day. Salmonella Dub played one of the prime sets at the Gathering - the second night around midnight in the drum and bass tent - and the tent [124] was packed. For many the adrenaline-rush of seeing a band play live combined with the euphoria of hearing real homegrown 'dance' music made the set one of the weekend's highlights.

[124] In a conversation with the songwriter and vocalist Tiki Taane, he said that in the editing process they tried to make sure that they included any footage taken of anyone they knew.

[125] This is backed up by figures from APRA (sent via email) which show the percentage of New Zealand music being played on New Zealand radio as having risen from around 5-6% in 1997 (the earliest date available) to 10.48% in the last quarter of 1999. The figure has continued to sit between 10.5% and 11% in the quarters since that date.

[126] Frith, Performing Rites, p. 211.

[127] Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies, p. 1.

[128] Ibid., p. 3. The full text reads: The summer of '89: "Centreforce FM, Santa Pod, Sunrise 5000, 'Ecstasy Airport', ride the white horse, the strings of life, dancing at motorway service stations, falling asleep at the wheel on the way home. There's so many people - it's got to mean something, it needs to mean something, surely it must mean something. IT DIDN'T MEAN NOTHING".

[129] Ibid., p. 3.

[130] Months before the event rumours began circulating that a group of South Island skinheads were stockpiling weapons near the site for a planned ambush on New Years Eve, and that due to the high demand for tickets counterfeits were being made in record numbers, but that the Gathering crew would know which tickets were counterfeit and would turn holders away at the gate. Fortunately the first set of rumours came to nothing, but due to the traffic jamming around Takaka, the police decided to reduce queuing by letting cars in without the usual rigid ticket and alcohol checks and the actual attendance was estimated to be thousands more than those accounted for. A week of wet weather before the event, and steady rain during it contributed to the discomfort and many attendees were in danger of exposure.

[131] Despite the discomfort experienced, overnight outdoor events continue to flourish in New Zealand and whilst the Gathering continues at a new site that is less difficult to access and has a river running next to the camping ground, there are also new events such as AlpineUnity planned for this New Year's Eve.

[132] This perception is based partly on my own observations at the time (McIver, The Press, 8 January, 2000) and on a number of conversations held with others who also attended the Gathering that year.

[133] The Gregorian calendar is based on a calculation that the Earth took 365.25 days to orbit the sun, when the real figure is 365.2422 days, a calculation that the ancient Mayan calendar came close to at 365.2420. Loop 13, 12.2000 V2.06, Selection 03.

[134] Ibid. Selection 03.

[135] Originally from Christchurch, producer Daimon Schwalgger began as a hiphop DJ in the 1980's before switching to production in the 1990's and forming drum and bass Locust with Pearl Runga in 1996. After the demise of Locust a year later, he formed The Nomad as a solo act and released his debut L.P. Movement in 1998, and Second Selection in 1999. Whereas Movement focussed mainly on drum and bass, the second album, incorporated elements of breakbeat and dub. Both albums have featured a number of collaborators including Peter Wood, Charmed 1 and Antsman and 'Where Are You?' introduces Lotus Hartley, who appears prominently in the video. At the time of the video's release The Nomad had relocated to Wellington, but he has since moved back to Christchurch.

[136] The video track is based on that featured on The Nomad's Second Selection, but the version featured on the CD to Loop 13, remixed by Downtown Brown also includes a line by MC Antsman: "You can run but you can't hide forever".

[137] Brown, Overtones and Undertones, pp. 16-7.

[138] Examples of these devices are: the juxtaposition of stills, slow motion, real time, and sped up film; the timing of the appearance and disappearance of separately framed shots; the widening and narrowing of frames; the movement of each frame across the screen; scenes shown in reverse motion; and the stop/start nature of some shots.

[139] Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 97.

[140] Breakdancing has increasingly gained a following in recent years. Mitchell notes that "break-dancing was a prominent example of a black American import culture being adopted widely by Maori youth in the 1980s . . . 'break-dance provided a very strong and positive identity that did much to raise their self-esteem and realise their capabilities'". Popular Music and Local Identity, pp. 244-5.

[141] The influence of industry on time (and vice versa) was shown in the lead up to the Millennium, when it was feared that the millennium bug would cause mass havoc to computer systems and industry in general worldwide.

[142] www.pitchblack.co.nz.

[143] Here, I am adapting a paraphrase of Wagner's assertion that 'the purpose of music was 'to amplify what can't be shown' and what cannot be shown is regularly called 'atmosphere' or 'mood'. Frith, 'Hearing Secret Harmonies', p. 65.

[144] Berland, 'Music video and Media Reconstruction', p. 36.

[145] Ibid., p. 38.

[146] Berland, 'Music video and Media Reconstruction', p. 39.

[147] Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 97.

[148] Ibid., p. 97.

[149] Ibid., p. 97.

[150] The images of faces that appear throughout the video are made up of a number of 'shots' taken of friends who dropped into the Pitch Black studio and were asked to put their faces to the scanner.

[151] Mitchell, Popular Music and Local Identity, pp. 88-9.

[152] Ibid., p. 97.

[153] Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies, p. 116.

[154] Ibid., p. 112.

[155] Taylor writes that for many New Zealanders living in the U.K. for long periods, "time can be imagined as frozen in the past . . . some people feel that their country lacks culture and civilisation because it's still in the past, behind the centre". 'The Discourses of New Zealand National Identity', pp 50-1.

[156] The album features several remixes of 'Electric Earth', along with other tracks from Electronomicon remixed by a number of local producers including Downtown Brown, Rotor, Cuffy and Leon D. and Pylonz.

[157] Sequenced as tracks two and three on the album, there is no obvious division between "Pt 1" and "Pt 2", and the video edit is a shortened version of both tracks together.

[158] Electronomicon is Pitch Black's second album and was released in 2000. It is described by Ninplant of 'wReck thiS meSS', on Radio Patapoe 97.2 - Amsterdam, as "one of those beautifully flawless dub productions that reminds you of how capable we humans are of transcending the body. There are all sorts of psychic vents that allow us entry into the slip stream... Their seamless combination of organic ambiences + electronicized sonic scapes + the roots skanking beats + acid-derived riffing + bass heavy ballast and a sense of dub that allows their music to never sound contrived or edging into the territory of schlock and glop". (Adventures in UNsound: no. 103, 'Dub This Net & Allies', Maandag, 7 Mei 2001). (Sent via email.)

[159] Berland, 'Music Video and Media Reconstruction', p. 25.

[160] The length of the 'Video Edit' is 3:40 minutes, whilst the total time of the two tracks as they appear on Electronomicon is 9.44 minutes.

[161] Brown, Overtones and Undertones, p. 17.

[162] Roland Barthes, 'Music, Voice, Language' in the Responsibility of Forms, Critical Essays on Music, Art and Representation (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), p. 279.

[163] Grossberg, Rock, Territorialization, and Power, p. 95.

[164] My analysis of the music was made before the appearance of the video, but like all interpretations it is a highly arbitrary reading of the 'meaning' of the song.

[165] In many ways dance music is similar to classical music in the way that it relies on a system of crescendos and diminuendos, highs and lows that cr eates a sense of loss and reassurance over the departure and return of the tonal order.

[166] Berland, 'Music Video and Media Reconstruction', p. 27.

[167] Rotor+ is Auckland musician Leyton, who also produces music using the names Epsilon Blue and Son.sine. Signed to Kog, he has also collaborated with Pitch Black, and produced remix tracks for both remix albums, Dub Obscurer, and Electric Earth and Other Elements.

[168] As Director of The Radiophonics Trading Company of New Zealand, Douglas describes how the first time he heard the music of Rotor+ it was during dinner, whilst attending a conference in Osaka, Japan "regarding the development of super-sensitive three-dimensional microphone configurations and their use in mapping an acoustical representation of space". (Charles Douglas in Aileron, 2001).

[169] Douglas, Aileron.

[170] Neither act is currently fully supported by their profits.

[171] Mercury Lane, Saturday, November 17.