Nunani: Song (Part three)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

In a song-duel, laughter on the part of listeners indicates approval of the lyrics. Conversely, silence indicates disapproval. The loser is essentially laughed out of the contest.

Song-duelling is an ancient tradition that has dwindled in the face of modernity. Even in the 1950s, I never personally witnessed a song-duel, not even among the Netsilingmiut (among whom it is said to have been popular) with whom my family settled.

The written accounts we have of song-duels seem to indicate that it was primarily a male tradition, perhaps due to the fact that contestants typically liked to drum along with their respective songs. Drumming traditionally lies in the masculine sphere. But this is not to say that women were not participants. In fact, some peoples used a variation in which each contestant would secretly teach his song to his wife, who would sing it for him at the contest.

One way or another, song-duelling was a formal event, carried out in a common area, with allies of either contestant present. Neither contestant enjoyed a “home court” advantage. It was presided over by some neutral authority, generally an elder.

Here is part of a duellist’s song, recorded by Knud Rasmussen in 1931:

What was it? On the sea’s ice
For your daughter-in-law Teriarnaq — yonder
You conceived immoral desires
And yearned for her.
You are one with brief thoughts — and your thoughts never go to
Your poor wife, Akta;

There is only one reason why such a contest involves singing: music is the best way to deliver a message. Musical tones stimulate regions of our brain that are otherwise closed, allowing a message to be absorbed on many levels. The contestants could just stand and hurl insults at one another, but this would simply resemble a talk show, mutual streams of abuse breaking down into incoherent, counter-productive babble.

The power of song, potentially so destructive, also allows it to be applied in a constructive fashion. Inuit (shamans in particular) used to collect short songs or chants, what Rasmussen renders from the Inussuit dialect as “seratit.” According to the lore of Polar Inuit, the original seratit are said to have been dreamt by the earliest humans, from the days when shamans had enormous power. While such shamans are no more, the seratit have nevertheless been passed down by word-of-mouth between elders, who keep them away from the young. Seratit are reminiscent of what Qallunaat would term “spells,” “invocations” or “charms,” and obviously would have been fiercely denounced by early missionaries for this reason. But pre-colonial Inuit once used them in the belief that their music-word combination (i.e., willpower set to rhythm) could influence nature.

Here is an example seratit, intended to add speed to a journey:
Forward, forward
ship, kayak, sledge!
Your large cheeks
You must smooth, to grow light-running!

It is the formulaic nature of the obscure seratit that distinguishes them from common “ayaya” songs (which I will term “folk-ayaya” songs herein, distinguishing them from an ayaya format used for song-duelling or seratit). Folk-ayaya songs nevertheless proceed from the same principle, that of a song’s power. But while folk-ayaya songs are much less thaumaturgical than seratit, they are far more flexible and culturally relevant. The folk-ayaya is fundamental to Inuit culture, a way to tell stories, make jokes, and most important of all: to express one’s individual sentiments — a concept virtually sacred to Inuit.

The cultural beauty of the folk-ayaya lies in its freedom from aesthetics. Intended to express the singer’s individuality, early folk-ayaya songs were most often improvised, or were passed between relations to mark a special bond. They were free of any structure but that of rhythm, and the traditional punctuation of statements with “A-YA-YA-YA, a-ya-ya, a-ya-ya….”

Yet the most important use of the folk-ayaya was as an expression of great emotion, whether of sadness, joy, or sheer wonder. And this brings me back to my original comparison of Inuit song with the folk-traditions of Europe. It seems to me that the greatest power that a song ever had was to allow the singer self-expression, a way of issuing forth the very soul to play upon the air. Whether among traditional Inuit or early Europeans, it was once common to hear reference to “his song” or “her song” or “my song.”

What does it say about us, today, that none of us has a song?

Pijariiqpunga.