The lead singer of one of Myanmar’s most popular bands has spent his life songwriting in code. Having formed indie/post-punk group Side Effect with three friends in 2004, under a military dictatorship, Darko C had to be scrupulously careful not to offend the generals.
Every form of popular culture was vetted and controlled at the time, and dissident artists of all kinds featured among the pariah state’s vast cohort of political prisoners.
Taboo subjects included sex, politics and any expression of disdain for life in general. The nation’s strict censorship program meant all songs destined for the recording studio first had to be checked and approved by officials, a process Darko, 37, describes bluntly as a “pain in the arse.”
Illustration: Kevin Sheu
This oppressive protocol officially ended in 2012, when the Burmese Ministry of Information relaxed Myanmar’s censorship program following the establishment of a semi-civilian government the previous year.
However, the fear is so ingrained in musicians like Darko that it is taking time for the effect to filter through — an obvious irony, given that the forefathers of punk built an enduring sub-culture on anti-establishment principles.
“For a long time we were an underground band and we didn’t push ourselves to release any songs because we didn’t want to deal with the authorities,” said Darko, who now lives in up-and-coming Yangon.
“But a good thing came out of this — it pushed me as a songwriter to think of ways to express my thoughts and feelings in an indirect way, so I would use a lot of metaphors and symbolism. This made our songs more interesting and thought-provoking. We found freedom this way,” he said.
In 2015, the National League for Democracy (NDL), with Aung San Suu Kyi as leader, won the elections with enough seats to form a government, ending 54 years of military rule.
Darko’s answer is “yes and no” when pressed on whether things became any better for musicians under Aung San Suu Kyi, whose inaction over the persecution of Rohingya Muslims has made her a controversial figure.
“There’s a song by the British punk band the Notsensibles which goes: ‘I’m in love with Margaret Thatcher… She’s so sexy,’” Darko said. “Do you think you could joke about Aung San Suu Kyi? No. You would definitely be put in jail. So can I say I’m free? No.”
“Freedom is something you have to fight for in Myanmar and now is the time to question how democratic the government really is. We need to keep pushing for our rights. Our job as musicians is to point out the problems and make them listen to us,” he said.
Darko taught himself how to play guitar by borrowing his father’s “hollow” (acoustic) guitar and watching his older friends play, while the band’s drummer, Tser Htoo, learned how to play drums on stacks of books.
“I started writing songs, not giving a shit about what people would think,” said Darko, who is the Myanmar director for Turning Tables, a global not-for-profit organization that works to empower marginalized youth in the developing world through music and film. “It wasn’t until I was a teenager when I realized how fucked up things were in my country compared to the rest of the world.”
In 2011, the band attracted the attention of the international press when US$2,800 raised through the US crowdfunding site Indiegogo for the release of their debut album was frozen by the US due to its economic sanctions against Myanmar.
A year after that demoralizing setback, the group played in Berlin, their first gig outside Asia. In 2014, they became the first band from Myanmar to play at the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas.
Their high-energy songs are catchy, positive and embody the resilience of Myanmar’s youth while challenging widespread public perception formed by decades of oppression.
Underpinning most are rousing political, albeit codified, messages: Meikhtila decries violence against the Rohingya Muslims, New Outfit speaks out about the new government making no significant difference and Rejection is about Darko C’s meeting with a young Rohingya man in northern Rakhine who told him: “I wish I wasn’t born in this place. I just want to die.”
“Growing up, there were a few bars and clubs which were expensive to hire, but no music venues as such,” Darko said. “You could organize your own gig in a public place, but for a fee, which we couldn’t afford at first, so our gigs were very DIY.”
“When we played concerts, it was always a risk; there would be many plain-clothed policemen around and military informers who might not like something you did. So I was scared, because I didn’t want to go to prison,” he said.
“Fear was everywhere under the military government,” he said. “But we were born into that. Everyone was scared of getting in trouble with the authorities. If someone knocked on your door in the middle of the night and wanted to take you away for interrogation, then they could just grab you, do what they wanted to you and give no reason.”
“Whenever you spoke about Aung San Suu Kyi you had to make sure no one was listening; you didn’t want to say the word ‘democracy’ out loud,” he added.
Musicians still require permission to perform publicly from six different authorities, including the police department — a process that takes at least two weeks.
However, in recent years there has been an influx of new bars, although for many people karaoke takes precedence over live bands.
“We appreciate our freedom now,” Darko said. “But I think a lot of people want to push things and get more rights and more freedom, and fix the problems we have in our country.”
“But the NDL is still a very young government. So far, I’m not impressed by the Aung San Suu Kyi government when it comes to how they deal with freedom of expression and ethnic minorities, especially the Rohingya. I expect them to stand up for all citizens — for all minorities,” he said.
While Western punk rockers continue to challenge the authorities with the sort of blatant confidence only possible in the free world, their counterparts in Myanmar have to embody a far more subtle version of the sub-culture — albeit a more authentic one. Maybe that is the real irony.
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