Produced by Nubar Ghazarian. Kingsville, Vic.: Distributed by Flying Fish Films, 2011. 1 DVD (90 mins.) Institutions, A$300.00; Home use, A$30.00. In Mongolian with English subtitles. Url: www.mongolianbling.com.
What does it mean to be Mongolian almost a quarter century after the democratic revolution of 1989/90? How are Mongolians, and especially young Mongolians, negotiating their place within society, and between nomadic tradition and the increasingly Western cultural world of Ulaanbaatar? Benj Binks’ documentary “Mongolian Bling” begins to offer possible answers to some of these questions by telling the story of Mongolian hip hop, and how it has become a dominant feature of youth culture in Mongolia, as it has in the west.
The importance of poetry within Mongolian culture stretches back beyond the “Secret History of the Mongols” and today it is still rare for someone devoted to literature not to write poetry. Poetry is the literary default, then, and the ability to use language with sensitivity to sound and rhythm is considered central to a successful career. For hip hop, of course, there is also the importance of presence, of edge, and Binks’ portrayal, not only of the artists Gennie, Quiza and Gee, but of the young rappers whom he meets in the poor ger districts on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar, reveals very clearly who has the chops and who doesn’t.
Mongolian rap grew out of the music of techno crews such as Har Sarnai (Black Rose), who are featured here as the “grandfathers” of contemporary hiphop. During the late 1990s, bands such as Dain ba Enh (War and Peace) started to rap using the lyrics of the great maverick poet R. Choinom (1936–1976), whose uncompromising anti-establishment poems, proclaimed sometimes in Sühbaatar Square in the centre of Ulaanbaatar, landed him in jail on at least three occasions. That Choinom’s work influenced hiphop in Mongolia indicates the unusual form which rap’s universal challenge to the status quo has taken in Mongolia, as well as how Choinom himself, whose work was all but unavailable before 1990, became something of a figurehead to the emerging rap scene.
The film’s three central characters reveal more about how contemporary Mongolia looks and feels than about what makes their lyrics and music special. Gee’s well-publicized advocacy of the ger districts—he points out how there is pride and respect among the people who live there, but that outsiders see only the dirt and the apparent chaos—provides an important backdrop to much of the music. It also provides a backdrop to the fact that, as in the West, successful artists can make the sort of money which would have been unimaginable to those with whom they grew up. Now, although there is little love lost between Gee and Quiza (indeed, in a duo with the child hip-hop star MG, Gee mocked the chorus of one of Quiza’s songs; and here he expresses his opinion in graphic terms), and although there is much evidence in Mongolian rap videos of the bling of the film’s title, nonetheless, these three artists are shown at home with their families, living in relative simplicity, and being part of their own extended communities. For all their success, they remain regular Mongolians, who want somehow to help in the development of their nation in the twenty-first century.
“Mongolian Bling” seeks to introduce discussions about the democratic revolution (there is an interesting sequence about the song “Honhnii Duu” [“The Sound of the Bell”], which was sung throughout the democratic protests), about shamanic music and the possible influences of traditional nomadic music on Mongolian hip hop, and about the larger meaning of Ulaanbaatar’s urbanization, but I was left wanting more from the connection between the social and the musical. For instance, we hear nothing of the association, whether real or imaginary, between Har Sarnai and hardcore Mongol nationalist groups such as Dayar Mongol (although Har Sarnai do claim here that they wanted to make nationalism an “addiction”). And exactly how does traditional music function in hip hop? Bands such as Anda Union and Shuuranhai (and Tuva’s Hün Huur-tu) blend Western and traditional styles, but what influence do the damaru and kangling, imported from Indian shamanic ritual via Tibet, have on Mongolian hip hop? Such questions remain tantalizingly unanswered.
The inclusion of Gennie, one of Mongolia’s only female rappers, as a kind of foil to the bickering of Quiza and Gee, provided an excellent example of how hip hop might develop away from the macho and the bling, and towards a thoughtful and more musically sensitive style. We see her recording and at home with her grandmother, and she seems in both contexts to be assured as a young Mongolian, and as an artist. More than anyone else in this film, I will be intrigued to see how Gennie’s career develops. Quiza has become a UN ambassador, and Gee remains an advocate for his people in the ger district, but I would not be surprised if Gennie, as a smart and self-aware female artist in a male-dominated genre, made the leap into the international sphere.
This is a great film, and I congratulate Benj Binks for having the vision to pursue his subject with such integrity. Given the number of hip-hop artists in Mongolia, his was a fine choice, bringing together three rappers whose characters reveal the meaning and potential of Mongolia’s hip-hop industry, as the country addresses the issues of mining and economic growth, alongside urbanization, nationalism and globalization. While I would encourage anyone interested in contemporary Mongolia to watch this film, we should all be aware just how fast the nation is changing, and how the traditions which underpin even the most modern of art forms are themselves changing and adapting to the desires and aims of Mongolian youth and the largely benign influence of imported Western culture.
Simon Wickhamsmith
University of Washington, Seattle, USA
pp. 211-212