In Indonesia’s capital city Jakarta, it’s hard to find someone who hasn’t heard of Iwan Fals.

52-year-old Yanwar, who prefers not give his last name, lives on the streets selling discarded plastic bottles to recyclers. He says Fals’ music sings out against political corruption.

“I like Iwan Fals because the music and the lyrics criticize the people who work in the government so those people could be better,” says Yanwar. “So they could do a better job compared to now.”

52-year-old Yanwar lives on the streets of Jakarta. (Photo by Niall Macaulay)

For many Fals is the voice of Indonesia’s discontent — even today, he’s a constant critic of the government.

His sound and subject matter is reminiscent of early Bob Dylan.

Fals, 51, He has produced 30 albums and has a new one on the way. His music covers everything from government corruption to underpaid teachers — as well as pollution and love.

Fals started performing when he was only 13.

“When I was school age,” Iwan Fals explains. “I started playing music in the streets to make a little extra pocket money. I could see a lot of what was happening while on the streets. I would write songs about these things that I found interesting. I would stop by my friend’s stall and read the newspapers he sold. There were so many stories that I would read about, and would inspire me to write songs.”

At a recent show in Bali, Iwan Fals played three hours straight to a mostly young crowd.

“Bento” is a protest song about a greedy man flaunting his wealth. Although his music is often sung during protests, Fals says he likes to sing about things other than politics.

“From the beginning until today, I’ve never wanted to be boxed into doing a certain type of music, whether it was political, social, environmental or love songs,” he says. “I just want to fill my life and my time with music and songs. But I never like to see people treated badly, that is why my songs are the way they are.”

Iwan Fals at a recent concert in Bali, Indonesia (Photo by Niall Macaulay)

“So basically I like the Iwan Fals because it is very promise with the grassroots and government also hate his songs because his songs are very strong to pushing the reforms,” Chandra says. “Talking about the social activities. Many problems with our grassroots, he sings songs are about our reality. He is a nice man. We need many like Iwan Fals. We like it very much. All Indonesia love Iwan Fals. We need more Iwan Fals in Indonesia.”

Fans like Chandra say that Fals gives people like him a voice. Even though Indonesia’s economy is on an upswing, the rift between rich and poor is growing. The lyrics that spoke to people more than a decade ago are still having an impact.

When you listen to Japanese Gagaku, your best bet is just to sit back and enjoy the hypnotic ride into history.

This centuries old music was born from a merging of cultures.

“Well, it started as a combination of various factors,” explains Jiro Okuyama, head of the touring company. “First, there was an import of music from the Chinese continent and the Korean peninsula. And that mixed well with what had already been in Japan as a traditional Japanese music. It had various elements in a good mix in the first place. So it provided a group, orchestral music. A rich soil for Gagaku to grow for centuries.”

Gagaku is the oldest form of classical music in Japan.

It was brought to the islands along with Buddhism – and thrived in the imperial courts from the 700’s.

The musicians wear magnificently detailed costumes, and sit inside an intricate stage set, which adds to Gagaku’s splendor.

The music holds a very specific purpose in the imperial household.

“The principle role of Gagaku is to accompany the rituals and actions of the Emperor and the Imperial family,” says Shogo Anzai, the chief court musician of the ensemble. “Obviously, it has been going on for a very long time. This music has always accompanied the rituals and the actions of the Imperial household. Much of the value is in the fact that we have always served the Imperial family. I think that is the main reasons it has lasted such a long time. Because our primary purpose is and has always been to serve the Imperial family.”

Each orchestra, if you will, is comprised of 16 musicians.

The instruments are ancient designs. The shō, a bamboo mouth organ, provides the harmony, and the hichiriki, a double-reed vertical flute, provides melody.

Imperial Court Music and Dance of Japan performing Gagaku. (Photo: Niall Macaulay)

“It has been with the Imperial family throughout its own history,” says Jiro Okuyama. “Also, the Gagaku also served the needs of the successive rulers of Japan. Basically, it was a music for the aristocrats and highest echelons of Japanese society. It was not really a music for the general public.”

The entire set was flown over from Tokyo for this one UK performance.

The group also performed traditional Japanese Dragon and Phoenix dances known as Bugaku.

All the performers – the dancers and musicians- have always been male.

Shogo Anzai, the chief court musician who has been with the group for 52 years, says there are no plans to change tradition and add women.

But there are some changes: new men are allowed to join the group now.

“So traditionally, there were certain families from which the musicians would come. The descendants of those families would always be performers,” explains Mr. Anzai.

“But after the Meiji revolution in 1868, a lot of things changed and they brought in some innovation and got rid of some old traditions. They started to allow people who weren’t from those traditional musical families to audition to become part of the orchestra. And so today they have both people from families, which have always provided musicians and they also have people who have joined because they’ve auditioned and are good enough to be part of the ensemble.”

In 2009, UNESCO placed Gagaku on the Intangible Cultural Heritage List, which protects traditions, not places, from disappearing.

Life often changes quickly, sometimes dramatically. Zee Avi’s life was altered forever in 2007 after promising a friend that she would share some of her music with him on YouTube.

“I shot just like half of my face so no one would know what I look like,” she said. “So it has my chin and my guitar. The first song was Poppy. And the next day I got 30 views. I thought, wow, where did these people come from. And then I posted another video. And I kept posting more videos and more videos and more people started leaving comments, and I was like ‘far out, this is crazy.’”

She was eventually featured on YouTube’s homepage and the views skyrocketed, reaching the million mark. She became a “YouTube Sensation” and soon found herself obsessed.

“I used to write five songs a day and all the songs on YouTube were fresh out of the oven,” Avi said. “They were written maybe 10 minutes to a half an hour before I posted them. You know, back then, YouTube was just starting out and that was my home for a while.”

Her inbox started to fill with offers from record labels and management agencies.

“And then about 4-5 days after I got featured I got this inbox: ‘Hi my name is so-and-so from Monitor Management, we manage The White Stripes, MIA, The Shins, and all these great bands that I am a fan of and I said, alright. We exchanged information and they called me and said, ‘your English is so good.’ I said, ‘yeah, thanks, it’s Sesame Street,’” she said.

Avi moved to America and away from the shelter of her family’s home to record in a professional studio. Her music is simple and sweet, about young love and nature.

Being in Borneo brings back memories of the simplicity that inspires her.

“Back then, I didn’t grow up in a household where I had video games, or anything like that,” she said. “We played outside, my cousins and I. And I lived five minutes away from the South China Sea and I went there every day. My dad made it a point to take me to the beach every evening. That was my backyard too.”

She also reflects about her own struggle with feeling awkward about leaving Borneo for the big city of Kuala Lumpur, where her life would begin to change quickly.

“A lot of the elements that I write from are based on nature. But it’s really not intentionally at all,” Avi said. “I guess that’s how the songs chose to write themselves. But the fact of the matter is that is where my inspiration is most fertile is when I’m in this sort of climate and when there is stillness and calmness and there is nothing but the sounds of ants crawling, or birds, or crickets or cicadas.”

Avi’s father moved the family to Kuala Lumpur when she was 12. She says living in a “concrete jungle” was quite a shock. Concrete plays a big role in one of her current songs. A song she plays on an instrument called a sape-lele, a cross between a Sape – Borneo’s indigenous lute – and the ukulele.

“‘Concrete Wall’ is about couples qualms. Trouble in paradise moments. And that song is basically about letting it all out, letting it all reel on the table and being hopeful at the same moment because that song it has no conclusion,” Avi explained.

The Malaysian government is promoting Avi as a role model for young people in the country, even as an ambassador of the state of Sarawak. Google Zee Avi’s name, and your search will come up with an endless list of other young Malaysian girls, and even dance troupes, covering and dancing to her songs.

“I know, that is crazy. And it’s great because, you know, covers are your own interpretation of somebody’s art. So to know you are not alone in what you went through is, for me, just very rewarding,” she said.

With two albums out, and a third in the works, Avi gives the YouTube generation of musicians something to aspire to.

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Maria Bakkalapulo introduces us to the punk band Oi Polloi.

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Two decades later, the group can draw the crowds.

The group’s name reflects the member’s deep highland roots. It comes from a period when the bandmates were working for an old woman cutting peat, or slabs of decomposing vegetation left to dry and used for fuel.

“We were staying in the area and because we were doing work for her, she would give us food and whatnot,” says bassist Innes Hutton. “It was just lovely spending some time there and she gave us this name, the Peat Faeries. Faeries of the moor. Just because we were playing tunes at lunchtime and stuff like that. So just sitting way out in the moor and playing and working and we got that moniker from that.”

Originally the band both sang and played tunes. After 20 years of touring, their set became entirely instrumental music. Peter Morrison, bagpipe and whistle player for the group, says it was what the fans wanted more of.

“Obviously, as a band you normally gravitate to the stuff people are enjoying the most. You go by the crowd,” explains Morrison. “We started mixing a bit of reggae and funk with pipe tunes. That was really popular. So we kind of started moving towards that. By the time we released our first album, we almost moved completely away from songs.”

It was the rising popularity of festivals in the UK that really built up their fan numbers.

“The festival scene now is way beyond what I remember when I was young. You know, it is all differently catered for all styles. There are retro festivals, boutique festivals, Celtic festivals, world music festivals, you name it,” says bassist Innes Hutton. “So if you can move between genres, there is a lot of work there. It has definitely burgeoned in the last 10-15 years.”

The two leads in the Peatbog Faeries are the group’s composer, bagpipe and whistle player Peter Morrison and the furiously fast fiddler Peter Tickell, also known for his work with Sting.

Guitarist Tom Salter, who has played with the late Malian superstar Ali Farka Toure, binds the rhythm with his own distinctive African High-Life playing. Peter Morrison says the band is a grab-bag of styles.

“You now, there’s the traditional instruments in it, the fiddle and pipes, but the rest of the makeup of the band could be from anywhere in the world,” Morrison says.”There’s keys, bass, drums, electric guitar, brass. So it can be from any genre of music. It identifies strongly with Scotland because of the pipes and fiddle.”

Traditional Scottish music is appealing to audiences young and old more than ever before and moving in whole new directions.

“There are so many young, really well trained talented people out there doing it now because it has this credibility,” explains Hutton, the bass player. “They are taking the music into a whole new bounds. For instance, there are no guitars in traditional music, but all traditional young bands have guitars in them. There wasn’t a guitar in traditional music a 100 years ago. There were no accordions a 100 years ago,” Innes points out. “Now they dominate whole styles. It’s just really a positive thing to be involved with.”

Their latest album Dust, has melodies inspired by idyllic places in Scotland and some tunes have a less noble origin, like Naughty Step.

“Basically, Rick, the trombone player had done something naughty,” Peter Morrison explains, as everybody laughs. “Like, he drank most of the rider. Graham said, ‘look, Rick, that’s you on the naughty step. You’ve done such and such.’ So, basically the name is connected to a bit of music. That is the inspiration behind Naughty Step.”

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Since then, Aceh has been struggling to rebuild – not only economically, but also culturally. Aceh’s rebel struggle for independence ended in the devastation of the tsunami. Indonesia now holds it firmly, but has granted it a special status within the country.

The attachment to certain cultural traditions reflects Aceh’s proud history as one of the earliest kingdoms in South East Asia to convert to Islam. There is a musical form reflecting its rich past known as body percussion.

Muhammad Imam Faudi drops to his knees, joining nine other men in a row on a tile floor. Their bodies sway together as they beat on their chests and snap their fingers. Each slap is accompanied by the rapa’i, a wooden framed Acehnese drum. The percussive sound is coordinated with energetic twists and turns.

Faudi dedicates his performances to the memory of his late brother, who was a senior member of this singing and dancing troupe, called Sanggar Seulaweut. Faudi’s brother drowned in the tsunami seven years ago.

“We make dance to improve our spirit,” says Faudi. “After tsunami, nobody can play this dance. We want play again to make our culture recover after tsunami.”

Members of Sanggar Seulaweut rehearse at the State Institute for Islamic Studies in Banda Aceh. (Photo: Niall Macaulay)

“We want to introduce our culture to people around the world,” explains Rifqi. “Acehnese culture is very unique, very very unique.”

It may seem counter-intuitive, but the music and dance performed by Sanggar Seulaweut is influenced by the region’s Islamic heritage. That is, the brand of Islam long practiced in Aceh, says 24-year-old Hermansyah, who goes by one name.

“Our dance and songs, in ancient times, it’s used to spread Islam in Aceh,” explains Hermansyah. “That is why in our dance or in our songs you can find some Arabic sentences, or even some Islamic thought the pillars of Islam, like some advice or Islamic education.”

Dr. Yusny Saby, a professor at the State Institute of Islamic Studies in Aceh, says, Islam has really helped soothe people after the tsunami to keep their minds off the tragedy. “Islam is a really kind of inclusive religion, I would say, accommodating all kinds of good behavior of human beings, including dancing and beating drums, of course with good purposes,” describes Saby.

Female dancers join in a Genta, or Creation, performance. (Photo: Niall Macaulay)

The performers may soon realize their goal of spreading Acehnese culture. Sanggar Seulaweut performed in Turkey earlier this year, and already has offers to tour elsewhere outside of Aceh in 2012.

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Perhaps one of the most iconic images of the tsunami’s wrath was a 30-foot fishing boat thrown a couple of miles inland and perched on top the ruins of a house.

Fifty-nine people clung to the boat until the surge passed; all of them survived. There’s now a viewing platform above the building, and tsunami-related pictures on display below.

Ponny, who goes by one name as is the custom here in Indonesia, had seen the pictures but still wasn’t prepared for the reality:

“I think this is awesome!” Ponny said. “The people in this ship, nobody die, so this is a miracle.”

Ponny is among the growing numbers of tourists who have come to Aceh some seven years after the tsunami to see the relics of destruction. Around the wreckage, facilities have sprung up, with viewing platforms, drink vendors, and snack shops.

Petriani and her sister have opened a popular noodle shop under the beached boat. Petriani said after the tsunami this place became very well-known.

“That’s why my sister and I took the place. And word of mouth spread quickly, so people know the place and it’s easy to find us here,” Petriani said.

Across the street, 51-year-old Abdul Wahab sells drinks, snacks and souvenirs. He came here after the tsunami looking to make some money helping with the cleanup.

Now, he sits in front of his small shop serving thirsty tourists. He smiles at his good fortune, but said he sometimes he feels embarrassed, since it is such a sad place.

“I see people crying before they go up the platform,” Wahab said. “They remember what it was like here the day before the tsunami.”

About a mile away, the Aceh-Nias Rehabilitation and Reconstruction Agency, or BRR, built a $6.7 million Tsunami Museum. It exhibits photographs of victims, stories of survivors and an electronic simulation of the undersea earthquake that triggered the wave.

Spiritual Tourism

Officials say more tourists come to see the aftermath of the tsunami than come for the area’s wide, sandy beaches. Yusny Saby, a professor at the State Institute of Islamic Studies in Aceh, said it may sound morbid, but it’s actually very healing.

“We call it spiritual tourism,” Saby said. “If it were not for the tsunami, we would have still been in war. So the tsunami is a sort of blessing in disguise. We lost a lot, but it speeded up the process of bringing peace.”

The peace came after a nearly 30-year civil war between Acehnese rebels and the government of Indonesia. And that’s become another draw for tourists.

Zulkifi once worked as a tour guide in Jakarta and Bali, but he now teaches English and German to classes of future tour guides. Some of those guides-in-training spent years fighting for the rebels.

Zulkifi said before the tsunami, rebels holed up in the jungle. Now they’re engaged in guerrilla or “terror tourism.”

In fact, many western embassies still issue travel warnings for Aceh. There have been sporadic attacks targeting foreigners in recent years. But still the tourists come.

“I didn’t expect it, actually, how it looked like,” said Erlbrich Elsenga, who’s here from the Netherlands, looking up at the fishing boat on the house. “It’s different from what I expected, it is a big boat. I thought it was maybe a small boat on top of a small house, but really big.”

The scars of the tsunami are still not completely healed but the Acehnese hope they can at least get some benefit from the natural disaster that nearly wiped them out.