Gamelan music is a type of traditional music practiced in Indonesia. A group of musicians (at least four, but there really is no upper limit) each play one of roughly six instruments (the specific ones used change from piece to piece). The texture of a full ensemble is like nothing else heard in Western music; the wood and cloth on metal creates ringing, clanging, incredibly long-lasting tones. They hang in the air like a cathedral of sound, every note flying up like a bat flying into the church's steeple.
I came into Swarthmore with a lot of experience from my past, a lot of expectations for my future, and a certain amount of reticence to try new things. Though I had most of my classes tactically planned, I decided to try and be at least a little spontaneous. I am not entirely sure why I signed up to play in our Gamelan ensemble; it sounded interesting, and I suppose that that was reason enough for me.
Fig. 1: The author engaging in some personal practice.
When I entered the first rehearsal, alone and knowing no one, I was instructed to sit down at an instrument and play. I was given a very brief overview of how each of the instruments worked and were to be played, and it was then that I realized something very important: all music is played by memory. There is no sheet music. I did not know this at all, and I am, to put it lightly, extremely reliant on sheet music while I am playing music in other contexts. The music is instead taught by rote, as it was everywhere in times before printing. The leader of the ensemble (in this case the incomparable Tom Whitman) knows every single part of the song (usually 5-6 entirely different instrumental lines!) and teaches it to the players part by part. It will be taught slowly, methodically, and as many times as it needs to be taught, until it comes together into a cohesive whole. A sense of dread crept up my mallet-holding hand as I learned this, and briefly considered fleeing before realizing the exits were all blocked by gongs and traditional outfits.
That "as many times as it needs to" part was crucial for me. Tom was kind enough to play the parts as many times as I needed, and the mantra of "fake it 'til you make it" was immensely comforting. Desperately staring at both the instructor and people beside me who seemed much more competent was my strategy for the first dozen hours of playing.
Fig. 2: The author enjoying the dulcet tones of the Jegogan.
There was no moment where everything clicked. It was an uphill battle, but it did go from being "incomprehensible" to being "possible." Learning is hard and slow, especially when you have no experience beforehand. One might think from the way I've written it that it was a brutal process, but it was so, so fun. New people, new instruments, new ideas, and an atmosphere of casual artistry made every two-hour rehearsal something I looked forward to. I went from scared to uneasy to somewhat prepared to confident, and loved every step of it. The concert was a blowout; guest artists, dancers, incense, flowers, and massive instruments lining the stage with gold. The afterparty had both foods for those with sensitive palettes (pizza) and some foods for those more willing to try new things (literal chicken feet.)
Fig. 3.1: Action shot, introduction.
Fig. 3.2: Action shot, finale.
Try new things. People are kind; they want so desperately to share what they love with you. Every single person I know who has joined a club or group at Swarthmore, whether they stayed with it or not, can attest to this. Fencing, orchestra, D&D, social justice, theater, badminton, knitting, swing dancing–nobody who cares enough to run one of these clubs will want to push people away. Even if you hate it, you will be glad you have done it, and no one will ever judge you.
I hope to see you at the next concert of the Swarthmore Gamelan Samsara Santi ensemble!
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