the musical scene in solo ones to the progressively more intimate inner ones, and finally reaches the vast, infinitely calm great courtyard—with its black sand brought from the dangerous south coast, the realm of the powerful spirit queen of the South Sea; its tall, octagonal tower at the top of which each successive ruler weds the spirit queen; its three bangsals (rectangular “bandstands”); its rows of slow-growing sawo kecik trees (a variety of sapodilla); its long, weatherworn loggias delimiting the space; and its magnificent, gilded pendhåpå,13 in which the most important rehearsals and ceremonies are held (and in which, formerly, the sunan received his officials)—one then enters another era and leaves behind the worries and commotion of modern living. It is the only place in the city where one does not hear the almost constant revving of combustion engines, and where one feels out of place wearing Western dress. The profound tranquility of the Kraton has a direct effect on the music played there. Sukanto (see footnote 9 and the section on my teachers at the end of this chapter) once told me that it is no longer possible to play calm pieces in a truly calm way: the world is just too ramai (lively, bustling, noisy, crowded). He was born in 1922, and the population of Java had nearly tripled during his lifetime. Along the same lines, Sudarsono of Kentingan once told me that everything at the Kraton is more subdued, including the colors that Kraton people wear, and that this influences the way they play. No wonder, then, that the music heard there, for all its technical faults, was often said to possess a unique råså, or inner feeling. In 2006 I observed many of the ceremonial activities during the week of sekatèn, which celebrates the prophet Mohammed’s birthday. These involve an elaborate procession, complete with gamelans and enormous decorated rice-mountains (all carried on poles), from the inner courtyard out through successive doorways and over to the royal mosque. They also include the almost continual sounding of the two massive sekatèn gamelans in alternation. I am happy to report that as of 2006 the Kraton, to put it crudely, still put on a great show.
other institutional settings The RRI (radio station) musicians, in contrast with the palace musicians, are all civil servants, and so could, around 1990, almost live off their wages. They were probably the most technically competent musicians attached to an institution, 13. A pendhåpå is a large pavilion, open on three sides, with a high-pitched roof supported by many wooden columns, a bit like an enormous, elegant, banister-less front porch. The one in question was reconstructed after the original was destroyed by fire in 1985 (see Pemberton 1994:181–89, Behrend 1985, and Florida 1993:46; for photos of the pendhåpå, see Tirtaamidjaja 1967 and Florida 1992). Another elaborate pendhåpå, the “banquet hall” immediately to the south, had not been rebuilt as of 1992, and only the empty surface of its foundation remained. It has now been reconstructed, and is again being used for official dinners.
7