Te Kupu: words intended to penetrate mainstream society. |
Dean Hapeta launched New
Zealand’s political hip-hop scene by linking the force of Maori culture with the
struggle of black nationalism to fuel consciousness and controversy
 “Nigger!”
The biker’s insult blindsided the eight-year-old boy, shattering his vision of both
Maori and pakeha (white) society in Aotearoa, the original name of New Zealand. The
verbal attack sharpened the boy’s awareness of his society’s colour lines. Afterwards,
he couldn’t stand the sight of his fellow Maori cast as the peaceful but subordinate
native. Nor could he look up to indigenous gangs in his working-class neighbourhood
of Upper Hutt, outside the capital Wellington. Turning to white society, he felt
oppression. So the boy began to look inward, to imagine a “new breed”–proud of his
Maori past and committed to a radical break with the legacy of colonial domination.
Today, at the age of 34, Hapeta will refer to himself as “one bad nigger” in reference
to his hardcore politics as a rapper. Here lies Hapeta’s strength and, for some,
his weakness: the ability to weave Maori culture, language and political demands–from
land and fishing rights to economic equality–within the style and context of black
American hip-hop. Indeed Hapeta and his group Upper Hutt Posse (UHP) have influenced
a generation of hip-hop bands and fans across the country. Before these “warriors”
stormed the stage, Maori music was generally marginalised like an exotic trinket
of the past used in the “ritual” of entertaining tourists. By rapping in their language
and incorporating the sounds, values and history of their people, Hapeta and like-minded
artists shatter stereotypes of what it means to be Maori.
Hapeta’s political consciousness did not flow from the “cultural awakening” of the
1970s when the Maori middle-class rediscovered its roots. He followed the learning
curve of the streets, his whakapapa (“the place where one belongs”). Tuned into the
liberation music of Bob Marley, Jamaica’s legendary reggae musician, the songs of
resistance rang true in his disadvantaged neighbourhood, where police confrontations
were a rite of passage. By valourising the history of former slaves and colonised
peoples, the music enabled Hapeta to discover “black outernationality” or the collective
struggles of the oppressed.
The
impact of Malcom X
In fact, Hapeta’s
group UHP began in 1985 by playing reggae inspired by the political message of Marley,
considered a veritable saint. But then a new set of prophets landed in Aotearoa:
U.S. rappers like Afrika Bambaataa and Grandmaster Flash. Breakdancing and rapping
with crews in the street, Hapeta began mixing a homegrown message with two major
ingredients: experience and inspiration. Landing a job at the Justice Department,
he scoured the country to hear Maori land grievances. The second element flowed from
overseas via The Autobiography of Malcom X.
“The book knocked me out,” he says. “It was great inspiration … that pride in the
self and the ability to do something about it.” The life of the black nationalist–a
cultural hero for his radical defence of racial pride in the 1950s and 60s–led Hapeta
to see himself as a leader with hip-hop as a movement against racism and a political
platform for Maori interests. Ironically, Hapeta was soon approached by the son of
Elijah Muhammad, the man who banished Malcom X1 from the Nation of Islam, an influential
and controversial black militant group. Touring Aotearoa, Rasul Muhammad invited
Hapeta and his posse to perform in Detroit and meet the Nation’s leader, Minister
Louis Farrakhan, whose antisemitic remarks and inflammatory views on racial separation
have sparked heated debate.
In many ways, the trip reflects Hapeta’s ongoing dialogue between Maori culture and
African American influences. At first, the balance was tipped overseas. But with
time Hapeta struck an equilibrium. For example, he recalls that “meeting Farrakhan
was like going to the mountain-top.” There was also the thrill of performing in Detroit
and New York and even being interviewed inside Harlem’s Apollo Theatre, where nearly
all the great African American musicians have played. Black audiences were apparently
amazed by the fluency and force with which Upper Hutt drew links between Malcom X
and Maori leaders like Hone Heke. Praise in the homeland of hip-hop helped to legitimize
Hapeta’s own sense of authenticity.
But back in Aotearoa, the fiery brand of Maori nationalism has fuelled consciousness
and controversy. In particular, his no-compromise stance on land rights rattles more
conciliatory activists and, at times, Polynesian groups originally from the Pacific
Islands of Samoa, Nuie and Tonga. For example, at a 1990 concert, Polynesian fans
told Hapeta “to go home” after he announced that Aotearoa was the land of the Maori.
The same year, Hapeta successfully sued for defamation the newspaper Auckland Star
over claims that Upper Hutt Posse had barred two pakeha youths from a concert. Ironically,
the political talks peppering Hapeta’s shows are generally well accepted by pakeha
audiences.
Inner
peace
Today, Hapeta
is working as a solo artist under the name Te Kupu (the word) instead of the former
D Word. Two versions of his latest album Ko Te Matakahi Kupu (or The Words that Penetrate)
were released in January: one entirely in Maori and the other in English. These changes
reflect Hapeta’s personal evolution. Before the evils of society appeared to dominate
his work. Now, Hapeta seems to have found an inner peace in his reliance on his culture.
Within the Maori community, he is respected as a political leader for his dedication
to Te Rao (Maori language) and culture. But the warrior is still alive, staking claims
in new territory: mainstream society. “Promote it [Te Rao], push it into the mainstream.
Use its concepts of caring, social concern as a way of changing attitudes,” says
Hapeta, who is pushing for more than just space for his albums in record shops and
on radio stations. His words are intended to penetrate mainstream society.
Hapeta’s horizons widen as he travels internationally to check out the local political
platforms of other “conscious rappers” in the UK, for example. “I’m learning from
all struggles, getting out of my skin and [coming] back to share, as an ambassador
for the Maori people.” In many ways, this mission reflects the advice of the great
Maori leader, Sir Apirana Ngata. In 1897, he wrote of the need to harmonize one’s
conflicting ideas while daring “to wander in moments of the greatest exaltation and
wildest imaginings.”
1. Malcom X was fatally
shot on February 21, 1965 while addressing his followers in New York City. Three
members of the Nation of Islam were convicted of the crime.
• For more information on Te Kupu: http://homepages.paradise.net.nz/matakahi/
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