It's Friday, March 8, 2024, International Women's Day and a memorable evening for two men in Madagascar. My colleague Morgan Greenstreet and I are sweating in front of the stage of the Glacier, a bar/hotel/ice cream parlor in the lively Analakely district of the capital, Antananarivo. After twenty minutes of instrumental music played at a gallop by her band, the "princess of salegy" Vaiavy Chila storms the stage, flanked by her backing singers and dancers.
We make our way through the audience, between the spellbound fans and a few old vazaha ("foreigners") who have come to seek companionship in this mecca of women of the night. On each side of the stage, two male singers hype up the crowd and encourage the dancers with bursts of onomatopoeia. The heat becomes stifling, skin sticks to clothes, hips become elastic and phones are raised towards the singer who delivers her hits in this electric atmosphere. During the six-hour concert, she will allow herself only a few breaks to change outfits and redo her makeup; during these breaks, the band continues playing, mostly covers, slowing the tempo below the usual 150 bpm of local salegy.
Vaiavy Chila (“Chila woman” in Malagasy) explained to us the day before that this March 8 show was close to her heart: “It is especially women who like my songs because I give them moral support. I am on their side. I convey to them through my songs that we must be psychologically and physically strong, that we should no longer accept being housewives and staying idle. This does not mean that we are going to fight men, but we must impose on them the fact that we do not always depend on them. What men do, we can do too!”
It is to listen to the voices and share the stories of female Malagasy musicians like Chila that we turned on our microphones in Madagascar for a month in March 2024. The immense "red island" floats in the Indian Ocean 400 kilometers from Mozambique. It is one of those islands that suffer from remoteness, geography playing cruelly against history by relegating it in the minds of the vazaha to the list of exotic places about which we ultimately know very little. However, a few mental images may arise when it is mentioned: the face of a lemur, an avenue of baobab trees, a postcard beach. Not to mention the famous animated film with talking animals. Fortunately, the Malagasy like to "move it, move it" to songs that are much more exciting than the film's soundtrack.
As a cultural crossroads, Madagascar vibrates with infinitely rich and diverse music, drawing on the Austronesian, Arab, East African and European heritages that have formed the country we find today. Music is omnipresent in the social and cultural life of the population: "In Madagascar, we can say that life and music are one," writes ethnomusicologist Mireille Mialy Rakotomalala. "We can observe a coexistence, sometimes subtle, sometimes obvious, of a traditional culture and a modernized culture of Western influence, depending on the styles and regions." Some of this deeply local music has been exported thanks to a few influential figures who left their mark on the market for what was called "world music" in the 1990s and 2000s, such as the zither player Mama Sana, the sisters Lala and Monika Njava, the virtuoso guitarist D'Gary, the valiha (tubular bamboo zither) player Rajery, the tsapiky guitarist Teta, the accordionist Régis Gizavo and the "king of salegy" Jaojoby, whose smile can be seen lighting up the posters for spaghetti and soap ads in Tana today.
Since then, these mostly male musicians with impressive repertoires have occupied a small niche of "Madagascar music" internationally, while YouTube and Facebook have become the platforms for a more modern, varied and, above all, much more female-led scene for the past 15 years. Our remote intuition was verified on site: many female artists inject tradition in their own ways into pop, rock and hip-hop. We met a total of 20 women in the cities of Antananarivo, Tuléar and surroundings. The genres they associate with are called salegy or tsapiky, among others, and hardly leave the country's borders. Their tempos float around the feverish zones between 150 and 180 bpm.
In recent years, Western music lovers have become interested in fast music from Africa, from South African electronic Shangaan to Tanzanian Singeli and Cabo Verdean Funanà, making crowds of insiders sweat from Paris to New York. However, the frenetic rhythmics of Malagasy music continue to evolve in the shadow of that hype, although there's plenty of depth to these music scenes. The use of ternary rhythms might be one reason for this, as Eusébia, salegy singer and manager of Jao's Pub in Tana explains to us: "Ternary music is much more difficult for the ears and legs of Westerners, because they are much more used to binary music. They simply can't dance to it (laughs). The African music that exports well is binary because it resembles what they are used to hearing."
While other artists try to surf the trend of successful genres such as American trap, Ghanaian-Nigerian Afrobeats or South African amapiano, the Malagasy honor their roots while twisting them, growing an endemic music on the fertile soil of their studios and stages, just like the fauna and flora found only on the island. "Making music shouldn't be too safe, you have to push the limits! When I work on my music, I stay close to the source... but I open the door." confides the extravagant pop star Tence Mena.
To examine this phenomenon, we will focus on the lyrics they write and sing, giving voice to the story of their lives and their country.
"The history of music throughout mankind is about making revolution, getting messages across, not just having fun. In a country like Madagascar, music has a role to play in education, not just entertainment" - Caylah, spoken word artist
Once they've broken through various barriers and made their way to a microphone, women start writing and composing. Beyond the expected songs about love and partying, the themes they tackle draw directly on their experiences. Some of them even have a clearly feminist slant, although they don't claim to be feminists because the Western feminist activist seen as "against men" seems to be somewhat of a scarecrow-figure. From a linguistic point of view, singers use Malagasy or dialects from their region of origin, while inserting expressions that symbolize their belonging to a "globalized black universe", as ethnomusicologist Julien Mallet puts it
Black Nadia, self-proclaimed "queen of Malagasy coupé-décalé"--a title adopted after she discovered the work of Ivorian DJ Arafat--sang ten years ago in Le système about the pride of women who are increasingly financially independent from men. She proudly confides that women still thank her for having written this song, which remains relevant today. In the same spirit, Tence Mena, in Samy Mahery's frenzied salegy from her first album, urges women to be independent: "I wanted to tell women to find work and stop waiting for men all the time at home, to be submissive. Being at the mercy of men does a lot of damage. The real solution is independence. That's what I've been fighting for until now, and it's a message I often convey." Her pop hit Aleko Célibat, which we heard everywhere during our stay, digs in the same direction: "It tells the story of a woman who catches her boyfriend with another woman. The message is that it's better to live alone than with a guy who cheats on you, and that you shouldn't force yourself to be in a relationship with a man when it's not working out."
In the song Mangina ("Shut up"), metalhead Mahalia of LohArano evokes the taboo subject of sexual assault: "The guys in the band had reservations about the theme of the song, but I was able to impose it in the end. It's important to talk about it, not to hide this scourge. A lot of women are victims of sexual violence, but they keep quiet because rape is seen as shameful. It exposes them to rejection because they think no one will ever want to marry them." The fear of becoming an old maid is real, epitomized by the Malagasy metaphor of the "suspended drum," a drum that is not played.
According to Audrey of the Malagasy Women Empowerment association, women are subject to social pressure regarding their marital status from the age of 25 onward. Yet marriage is not necessarily synonymous with happiness, as Tsatsiky reminds us with Tolonan Draty: "It's a song about domestic violence. I implore men not to hit their wives, because they sacrifice everything by leaving their families to look after them, their children and their home. Men must behave better and respect their wives."
Bonita from the Mahapoteke group has also written "Lehilahy Mangango Valy," a song about men who mistreat women, in the hope that it will raise awareness.
In Ampiakaro Grade from 2024, Black Nadia calls on husbands to give their wives the military rank they deserve: "Men need to recognize and value women's contribution to home life, to empathize with what women endure on a daily basis." Mahalia is also keen to protect the value of women with the song Andriambavitany: "There are too many women who devalue themselves to satisfy the ego of others. In this song, I want to tell women who are "camgirls," or prostitutes against their will, that they don't have to reach that point to be looked at and valued. The title of the song is a play on words that symbolizes the inversion of powers, with heaven becoming earth and vice-versa."
Black Nadia set social networks alight with her hit Mama Denja from early 2024, declaiming "Mon corps est mon entreprise" ("My body is my business"), a statement that shocked the prudish who saw it as the degradation of a commercialized female body, or worse, an apology for prostitution. With this song, Black Nadia simply celebrates her comeback following the birth of her third child, staging her return in a video clip with her body clad in tight leather on a shiny bike, a symbol of power: "Other women don't want to have children because of the repercussions on their bodies and their careers. But I love having children, and I wanted to show that it's possible to be an artist and a mother. "Mama Denja" is to tell my fans that I'm still here, ready to sing and dance for them."
Mama Denja” is to tell my fans that I'm still here, ready to sing and dance for them.”
Political activism is also present in the texts of women who increasingly dare to put into words their anger and that of their fellow citizens. The political situation in Madagascar has indeed been worrying since the controversial Andry Rajoelina was re-elected President of the Republic of Madagascar at the end of 2023 under conditions disputed by the opposition. Throughout our trip, we saw the effective orange merchandising with his effigy disseminated throughout the country: t-shirts for men, wrap-clothes for women and parasols for street vendors. Known locally for his past as a DJ and owner of discotheques in the capital, as well as internationally for his quack capsules supposed to protect against Covid, according to his detractors, Rajoelina continues his authoritarian drift, repressing his opponents and corseting a press that is free only in name.
"In Madagascar, there is no real freedom of expression," says Caylah. "As I've been labeled an activist, I'm sometimes asked not to declaim angry texts at certain events, especially institutional ones. Those at the top of the ladder talk to those who program you and manage to impose that you don't talk about politics or abortion." She talks about the difficulty of resisting this censorship: "When you need money to live and those who put money on the table ask you to keep certain things quiet, what can you do?
In the song Bae Nosy, Mahalia of LohArano depicts the reality of a disillusioned and depoliticized youth faced with a worsening social situation: “It's such a mess that Malagasy people prefer to drink and party. People who are stressed and oppressed take refuge in alcohol.” A veteran of the chanson and jazz scene, Fanja Andriamanantena observes that the new generation of artists is expressing its political commitment more directly, without cautious detours through metaphors, proverbs and innuendo: “It's with the advent of modern rap that language has been liberated.” A case in point is the courage of LohArano, who in the song Velirano denounces the powers that be: “Those who dare to contradict me will be imprisoned or executed / I'm going to force-feed you a democratic dictatorship.”
“We don't carry the weight of taboos like our elders, we're more direct in our lyrics,” singer Mahalia told us. As metal is a micro-niche concentrated in the capital, Mahalia is aware that her band is not targeted by those in power: “The song is a caricature of the kind of discourse the government has. In Madagascar, where everything is difficult, we see the selfishness of certain people in power who don't see that the people are in dire straits. We were furious on the eve of the last elections because people felt oppressed and manipulated. I try to be careful about what I say, I admit. We haven't had any negative feedback from people in high places, but we're lucky because normally when you speak out, you get caught and... “shut up.” Maybe we're not bothered because politicians know that our music doesn't impact a big audience in Madagascar.”
The trio have no intention of stopping there, having signed, like their compatriot Kristel, with a French label and booking agency who took them all the way to Transmusicales in Rennes: "We're very inspired by what's going on in the country. We feel the need to express ourselves like that. It's normal for us to talk about it, because we're living it. We sing only in Malagasy because it's our language and the specific way it sounds is the best to convey what we're saying. The Malagasy language already contains something a little aggressive, which has an impact on the rhythm of the music, so it's a good match."
Refusing self-censorship and defying censorship is a risky move for any artist working in an autocratic environment. "I think women can say what a man can say... but they're less free in the way they can express it, and that can be a problem," says Fanja Andriamanantena. The "Queen of Salegy" Ninie Doniah paid a high price for her commitment to fighting corruption, dying at the age of 56 in prison at the end of 2023 after having raised her voice too loudly and for too long against government practices. In 2021, the artist became involved in a political battle against illegal landgrabs and exploitation of natural resources on her native island of Nosy Be. She became the spokesperson for peasants in land disputes with foreign companies and landowners with close ties to the government. She was sentenced to 19 months' imprisonment in 2022 for "disturbing public order and undermining state security" because of her stance and because she organized demonstrations, openly upsetting the economic interests of the government. After falling ill with cancer in prison, she died during a delayed transfer to the hospital where she was to be treated.
Salegy star Wawa knelt on stage in tears at a festival in 2023 to ask President Rajoelina directly to release the singer so that she could access the care she needed to survive, an image that left a lasting impression. Following her tragic death, he released a 9-minute tribute medley, followed by an homage from the collective Ninie Doniah had set up to defend her cause. Tribute concerts are still organized in France for the diaspora to this day, keeping her rich repertoire alive and honoring her memory.
Poverty reached a record level in Madagascar in 2023 according to the World Bank, with more than 80% of the population of 30-million souls living below the threshold of $2.15 per day. Inflation caused by the war in Ukraine and the difficulties in transporting food due to the deterioration of roads are causing the prices of basic necessities such as rice to soar. Poverty and wealth are therefore logically the topics of many songs. Bodida, a tsapiky singer in the group Mamehy, speaks in Mijale Fe Bohaboha “of the daily life of poor people and encourages them to celebrate and enjoy life despite everything.” In her hit, Bleu-Bleu, Mirasoa criticizes jealous people who criticize those who are rich and “shine blue,” evoking the color of the local 20,000 Ariary note (equivalent to 5 dollars). The group Milalaza often deals in its songs with “selfish and arrogant rich people who do not care about the poor.”
Nina from Mahafaly Mihisa learned to sing while herding animals at the age of 12; In her song Soa Ty Mianatse she speaks to the young people of her rural region of Betioky: “I want to tell children that it’s good to study, it’s like an inheritance that lasts for your whole life. Because if you don’t study, even if you inherit material goods, you’ll end up selling them to live. Knowledge lasts until death.”
With Zaza Mahay Raha, Mirasoa wanted to write an anthem to encourage young people to finish their baccalaureate and BEPC diplomas and to congratulate them: “We needed a special song for young graduates, to celebrate their academic achievements during the end-of-year school celebrations. We need to motivate students, it’s our future.”
In a country where 66% of the population lives in rural areas and where agriculture represents 26% of the GDP, rurality is an important subject that finds its way into many song lyrics.In her ternary tsapiky hit Valala, Mirasoa sings about the anatomy of the cricket, (“a belly like an accordion, feet like saws”) and, in Aomby, she sings a hymn to the glory of the zebu, the emblematic humped ox of the island and an outward sign of wealth for its owners. We will long remember the two zebu heads adorning the stage of a Black Nadia show as part of a fundraiser for her native city of Fort-Dauphin, the blood slowly dripping on the speakers during the show.
For those who have left the village for the city, it is important to show their attachment to tradition. With Ambanivolo d'origine, Black Nadia reminds us in traditional dress that people must never forget where they come from: "We Malagasy all have our "ambanivolo" [bush], but when we arrive in the city to work, we quickly forget the countryside. This song is here to show that I am aware of my roots." Vaiavy Chila also has a song in her repertoire, Zahay Tsy Laninareo, in which she celebrates traditional music and her origins in Port-Berger, "I wanted to have an authentic melody and wear in the videoclip the clothes and hair like we do in the village."
They are far away, but they exist. Everywhere in Madagascar, female musicians shape words and sounds in their image, making their personalities shine through, sensitive to their roots and artisans of modernity. The archives of the national radio may have gone up in smoke in 2009 following riots, but the music of the future can be found on Madagascar's Facebook walls. The country still faces countless challenges, but if its music could be exported as well as its cobalt, vanilla and pepper, it would give musicians prospects for artistic development and new sources of income. Gany Gany sums it up bluntly: "As soon as you leave here, you earn a better living."
Singer Fanja Andriamanantena rejoices in the immense potential of the new generation: "We exist now, and we will always exist. We also exist because of what the future promises us musically. We are ready, we are already good for the future! Music can play an important role in the economic development of the country. We just lack enough organizations to make it known, here and abroad. There are plenty of talented artists who want to have a career, but we have no one to take care of them. We lack visibility, no one out there knows what we do, Malagasy people are listened to... by Malagasy people. Talent scouts need to come and hear us. They will be amazed!"
Mahalia does not lose hope: "I see young people in the underground scene who make conscious art and who try to make things happen by passing on messages. Poverty sometimes makes us lose our way, but I think there are many female artists who are increasingly managing to free themselves." Sergino from Radio des Jeunes shares this optimism: "Even if men are generally better known, there is always at least one woman who has emerged and left her mark in each era of our musical history."
Female role models of strong and independent women have an impact on the new generation, as Audrey from Malagasy Women Empowerment, now based in Paris, told us: "When I grew up in Madagascar, I was not happy to be a woman, there were a lot of injunctions and too little support. Singers like Hanitra from Tarika or Bodo, who was committed to fighting corruption at the time, showed me the way." She tells us about the importance of a song by the Malagasy Niu Raza who lives in the United States -- Mamay -- released "at a time when Malagasy women needed it," which has become a rallying anthem for the diaspora who can sing about their pride of being Malagasy despite the problems at home: "I come from far: my home called Madagascar / My people sing when they work hard / We low on cash but we got heart..".
