Halldór is the managing editor of Shouts - Music from the Rooftops!, an investigative journalist, audio engineer, and animal rights activist. Currently based in Cuernavaca, Mexico.
I recently binged the first season We Are Lady Parts, a Channel 4 comedy about an all-female Muslim punk band which is back for its second season. The American punk (and Muslim), Michael Muhammad Knight, could not have imagined what he was calling into existence when he came up with the name “taqwacore” for his debut novel, The Taqwacores, in 2004.
Knight’s book describes a fictional Muslim punk house in New York: “inhabited by burqa-wearing riot girls, mohawked Sufis, straightedge Sunnis, Shi’a skinheads, Indonesian skaters”. The Taqwacores has since become a catalyst for a new sub-genre, taqwacore.
Taqwacore’s name is derived from the Arabic term taqwa, which pertains to consciousness of the divine, or fear of god. It has become something of a global Islamic punk manifesto. The underground success of the book led to a feature length documentary, an indie film and the growth of international Islamic punk scenes in countries like Indonesia and Syria.
Punk was originally built on oppositional attitudes and DIY cultural production in response to social conservatism in the US and UK. I encountered this ethos myself as a young guitarist and drummer, shouting and smashing with lo-fi, punk and rock bands in Brisbane, Australia in the 1990s. We made the music we wanted to make, put on our own shows, hand-printed flyers, drew our own album covers on short run cassettes and photocopied our own zines with all kinds of smutty politicised humour.
In taqwacore, the fundamental tents of punk are a vehicle to challenge what it means to be Muslim. Islam doesn’t have an absolute definition and people have the power to define it for themselves. Taqwacore bands such as Kominas mostly use punk-styled guitar rock chord progressions, abrasive lyrics, fast tempos and loud volumes, although some groups use more experimental in their sound. For instance, there are also bands which blend non-western influences in their punk, such as the Sex Patels.
A hybrid ideology of punk and Islam may seem paradoxical. As the writer Ronia Ibrahim explains, punk and Islam: “are basically opposing identities. The former is seen as violent, profane and unhinged, the latter is a religion that values modesty, peace, and prayer”. We are Lady Parts tackles this paradox through humour, irreverence and that most-celebrated quality of a true punk – imperfection.
The main female characters in the series are complex, vulnerable and relatable, or as they describes themselves: “a bit shit but totally unique”. The series challenges stereotypical depictions of Muslim women and puts the female characters to the fore of the narrative, with the men mostly playing supporting or subordinate roles.
The band is a representation of a growing number of Muslim punks who confront the taboo of music being “haram” or forbidden by Islamic law head on. Tattooed band leader Saira pens ironic and abrasive numbers such as I Want to Fuck a Terrorist and the catchy Voldemort’s Alive And He’s Under My Headscarf. When the lead guitarist Amina protests that some people might find their lyrics offensive, the group’s queer goth drummer, Ayesha, shouts back: “fuck people in their eye sockets!”
The group’s vape-smoking, burka-clad manager Momtaz works in a lingerie shop while creating online content for the band on a mission, as Amina describes it: “to save the world one chord at a time”.
While We Are Lady Parts is a welcome evolution of taqwacore, presenting inclusive and divergent portrayals of Muslim identity, The British journalist Sanjiv Bhattacharya suggests that the movement has already betrayed its ideals. As taqwacore begins to gain more traction as a marketing label, punk groups such Secret Trial Five have begun to distance themselves from the taqwacore tag.
Similarly, in the final episode of season one of We Are Lady Parts, as the group becomes the target for online hate, bassist Bisma protests that they’re not the “bad girls of Islam” but rather, the “thoughtful Muslim women of planet Earth”.
Even punk music can be polished and packaged as a disposable commodity. Musically speaking, I don’t know how “punk” the music in We Are Lady Parts is. Sure, the lyrics are barbed and ironic, but the bands still succumbs mostly to non-confrontational pop-rock structures of western harmonic chord progression and cliched guitar solos. Perhaps this an example of what American critic Ted Gioia calls the current crisis in music. Or as We Are Lady Parts leader, Saira, fears, that their music could be used “to sell Pop-Tarts to make someone in Silicon Valley rich”.
And yet, despite these misgivings, I still remain optimistic about the future of punk. Ironically, this optimism is humanistic rather than political. It stems from that tangible and universal sense of how music can unite us.
My favourite scenes in the show are the most simple. For instance, young people losing their shit listening to System of a Down in a car, or the unbridled joy of writing a song. It is in these very human moments that the core ideals of taqwacore come alive: when we experience the power of music to help us find our true voice, to feel connected to each other and commune with something much bigger than ourselves.
If a TV show can spark that flame for an alienated youth in Jakarta or Johannesburg, in London or in Lahore, then ultimately I think that punk is still a beautiful thing – whether you’re wearing a hijab or not.
As an ethnographic researcher of Detroit techno – and a self-confessed “househead” – I have watched as the city and its music have changed as more and more Black Detroiters have been forced out by rising rents. But I have also seen how the city’s underground music scene is fighting back by preserving community in the face of spatial injustice – that is, the unfair allocation of resources in a mixed society – and the pressures of systematic racism.
One such space of resistance happens every Thursday during the summer at The Congregation, a cafe built in a former church located one block from the epicenter of Detroit’s 1967 rebellion – which saw days of confrontation between police and predominantly Black residents.
At The Congregation, a grassy dance floor draws an intergenerational and diverse crowd. The event keeps the spirit of old Detroit alive, while offering newcomers a vision of what a truly inclusive city can look like.
The Congregation brings together generations of Detroiters. Marius Bingue, CC BY
Techno is Black music (from Detroit)
Detroit is known universally as the birthplace of techno. The genre emerged in the 1980s, when the Rust Belt city was experiencing white flight, widespread disinvestment and the consequences of postwar government programs, such as urban renewal and highway building, that were destructive to community needs.
As one techno musician from back in those days told me, techno was the soundtrack they heard in their head while walking, and looking over a shoulder, in mostly abandoned downtown streets.
Techno emerged from two interrelated scenes: Black, gay clubs and the Black high school party scene, where people, some too young to drink, organized elaborate events with professional light shows and sound systems.
Meanwhile, inspiration and encouragement also came from the music being played by the Electrifying Mojo, a radio DJ whose nightly show demonstrated Detroit’s wide range of musical tastes, from Parliament to Peter Frampton to the B52s, and, later, techno and house.
The diversity of influences and do-it-yourself attitude of techno pioneers such as Juan Atkins, Eddie Fowlkes, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson resulted in a form of music that is both funky and futuristic, even some 40 years later. The purpose of Detroit techno was, and still is, to make you dance, to make you sweat; it distinguishes itself from other dance music by its characteristic layered rhythms, abstract sounds and Afrofuturistic themes.
Detroit techno was always rooted in strong community bonds – especially within Detroit’s Black community – despite the city being ravaged by disinvestment.
Since the 1980s, many of the forms of electronic dance music that were inspired by Detroit and Chicago have gained mainstream popularity in Europe and white America.
In return, the Detroit techno and house scene helps maintain a sense of community and support for Detroiters who have long faced systemic racism in the city, and are now encountering gentrification.
Gentrification’s threat to culture
The changes in Detroit over the past 15 years have been disorienting and have had negative consequences for many longtime Black Detroiters.
Seniors have been evicted, sometimes with little notice, from downtown buildings, which are then redeveloped into high-end apartments out of the financial reach of many Detroiters.
Angie Linder from Detroit, USA, CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons
Gentrification is a danger to Detroit’s underground music community, too. Not only is it making residential and commercial spaces unaffordable for longtime residents, but cultural communities are also threatened.
The high school party scene that incubated techno was possible because there was so much downtown space in 1980s Detroit. That space has been squeezed by gentrification.
‘Are you going to The Congregation?’
In response to the squeeze of gentrification, Detroit’s underground music scene has kept vibrant by creating spaces for weekly pop-up events.
I attended the very first house night at The Congregation in the summer of 2020. With a large, grassy front yard, it was perfect for social-distanced dancing during the pandemic. The three resident DJs who host the event – Marvin Prather, John Spears and Tony Dennis – are lifelong Detroiters who bring in guest DJs, including Eddie Fowlkes, who helped originate Detroit techno.
Over the four years of its existence, house night at The Congregation has become a gathering place for people who were part of the 1980s techno scene – predominantly Black Detroiters now in their 50s and 60s.
I find it remarkable that the community has maintained these connections over the decades, and that the dancers and DJs who were there from the beginning still draw inspiration from their participation.
Yet it’s a welcoming, inclusive community that incorporates newcomers – just as it did when I first moved to Detroit from California in 1998.
It is, simultaneously, a homecoming with a family cookout vibe, a great place for a weekly catch-up or a banger to work up a sweat dancing.
Midway through one such evening last summer, a young Black woman near me on the dance floor shouted with surprise, “Dad! Dad! Dad!” and then walked along the fence to greet a Black man, perhaps a bit older than me. The fact that both attended the event – and were happily surprised to see each other there – demonstrates the way in which Detroit’s music scene continues to bring generations together. And The Congregation is just one such venue. On any given night, the regular crowds at the four main dance music venues in Detroit are likely to be diverse in races, ethnicities, sexualities and – in contrast to the norm in electronic music events worldwide – age.
During the final record played on the last Thursday event of summer 2023, one of the DJs, Taz, acted as MC and asked the crowd to take out their phones as another DJ, Mark Duncan, was playing “Flashlight” by Parliament.
Many in the crowd shined their phone flashlights as they danced and sang along.
That sense of community is what makes events such as those that take place at The Congregation something that househeads like myself miss from summer to summer – and fear might be edged out completely in the face of gentrification.
I am counting down the days until it begins this year on June 6. In a gentrifying city, spaces like The Congregation represent both continuity and an honoring of all that have come before: the Black people who created techno and house, the Detroiters who didn’t leave a disinvested city, and the fierce creativity that remains one of the city’s main draws.
For some people, music is a healing power, for some it is entertainment, and for others it is a life saving shelter. For Lisa Marie Simmons, music plays a role that encompasses all of the above. After a difficult childhood Simmons found solace in music and poetry which eventually led her on a path of art and exploration around the world. She finally settled in Italy where she leads two different ensembles , Hippe Tendencies and NoteSpeak, along with producer and songwriter Marco Cremaschini.
Simmons and Cremaschini released NoteSpeak 12 back in February, an eclectic mix of jazz, hip-hop beats, fusion and spoken word that grooves seamlessly throughout. Simmons’ work is always socially conscious she told me via email. Samia from their first NoteSpeak album was inspired by a documentary Simmons saw about the sad story of Samia Yusuf Omar. Simmons found the author of the book that the documentary was based on: Don’t Tell Me You’re Afraid by Giuseppe Catozzella. Simmons wanted to shine a light on the horrendous numbers of refugees lost to the sea every year, an end to life that she, if not for the luck of a birthplace, might have had to endure herself. Simmons went further in her research for the song and eventually made contact with Samia’s sister, who did make it across the Mediterranean, who gave her blessing for Simmons to share Samia’s story in song.
HK: What’s the backstory here?
LM: I grew up in the U.S., in Boulder, Colorado of the 70s and 80s – hippiedom and counterculture movements. Progressive yes in many ways, culturally diverse, not at all. I was adopted and raised by a Black father and a white mother and I found myself navigating the complexities of race and identity from a young age. My upbringing was marked by a blend of tension and creativity, as I sought refuge in words and music to escape the abuse in our household and the challenges of being a minority in a predominantly white community.
HK: Do you find yourself connected equally to both music and writing?
LM: Absolutely. Music and writing have always been intertwined in my life, serving as both a form of expression and activism. I’ve found solace and empowerment in both mediums. Whether through songs, essays, poems or stories, I strive to amplify marginalized voices and challenge societal norms.
HK: And perhaps an activist as well?
LM: Without a doubt. Activism is at the core of my identity and creative endeavors. I’ve been involved in various social movements throughout my life. My activism manifests through my art, as I use music and writing to advocate for change and do my best to inspire others to join the fight for justice.
My journey as a multi-disciplinary storyteller has been shaped by my experiences growing up as often the only Black person in the room. Through my art, I strive to challenge, among other issues, systemic racism, white supremacy and the patriarchy one song and one poem at a time.
HK: Have you always been concerned about the world around you, the politics of it all?
LM: Growing up in a predominantly white community, and the household I did, there was not much I could find that reflected me. In the town library, though, I found books by people like Alice Walker, James Baldwin and Maya Angelou that showed me another world and how the past informs the present; the institutional racism woven into the fabric of America from its inception. I was keenly aware of the injustices and inequalities that existed in my own home town which helped build empathy for those outside of my experience. I firmly believe that sharing our stories is the key to building compassion. From a young age, I found myself drawn to activism and social justice, whether it was participating in protests or in movements like streaking (Boulder in the 70s!).
Young Lisa Marie, painted by her adoptive mother (used with permission).
HK: Has your music always been a tool and a voice for the oppressed or the voiceless, or was there a switch at one point?
LM: Music in general has always been a powerful tool for expressing and reflecting the issues of today. From my earliest encounters with literature and music, I was drawn to works that spoke truth to power and shed light on social injustices. I have tried since I began writing and composing to amplify the voices of those whose stories are not in the mainstream’s consciousness. I often use my own intimate and personal experiences to speak to larger issues. From the moment I witnessed the power of protest and expression as a child, I knew that music would be my medium for challenging the status quo. While my approach to activism and advocacy has evolved over the years, my commitment to using stories as a medium for connection has remained steadfast. Whether through songs, essays or poetry, I continue to use my art as a platform for change and empowerment.
HK: Can you tell me a bit about the process of making NoteSpeak 12 and what you wanted to achieve with it?
LM: The making of NoteSpeak 12 was a journey filled with serendipitous encounters and creative synergy. My co-founder, Marco Cremaschini, and I met in Brescia in 2005 after several near misses of crossing paths over the years. Our collaboration began as a result of our shared passion for music, both of us drawn to the others’ artistry. After so many years of working with one another it was an organic evolution from our first band Hippie Tendencies to the NoteSpeak project. The first album was NoteSpeak (Amori e Tragedie In Musica), NoteSpeak 12 was the sophomore offering and we are currently working on the third in the trilogy. We are intent on making sure Marco’s compositions and my words complement each other seamlessly.
Our creative process is collaborative and dynamic. We exchange ideas, trade work, and continuously push each other to explore new territories. The songs on NoteSpeak 12 are a reflection of this shared vision, each with its own story and inspiration. Some songs started from poetry, while others began with the music. Some musical ideas were mine, some concepts for the poems were Marco’s but all were intricately woven together to form a cohesive and expressive whole.
Our goal with NoteSpeak is to create a body of work that transcends traditional boundaries of music and poetry. We wanted to blur the lines between spoken word and music, allowing each to complement and enhance the other. Through this fusion, we aimed to convey a range of emotions and experiences, from introspective reflection to impassioned protest.
With NoteSpeak 12, Marco and I sought to continue this tradition by using our art as a platform for social commentary and protest. Each song on the album carries themes of resilience and resistance, addressing issues ranging from immigration to environmentalism. Through our music and poetry, we strive to spark dialogue, inspire action, and give voice to those who may otherwise go unheard. Through our collaboration, we hope to challenge conventions, provoke thought, and ultimately, effect change.
HK:Musicians that sing about politics, animal rights, women‘s rights and raise awareness about different issues sometimes get backlash and are told to keep politics out of music. What is your take on the connection between music and activism in your opinion? Why can music be such a powerful tool for getting a message across?
LM: Speaking out politically is not just the artist’s right; it is imperative. In the course of shopping for a home for NoteSpeak (Amori e Tragedie In Musica), an A&R guy at a well-known indie label chastised me when I sent him the project, saying that, “It is not the musician’s job to be political.” I find it pretty much impossible to understand that stance. However, I know many musicians decline to perform for any political party for various reasons, chief among them not to risk alienating any fans who may be across the aisle. But to say that musicians should not voice an opinion on political issues makes me wonder what that A&R dude had been listening to. Famously, Bob Dylan refuses to endorse a political party, but c’mon now, the history of his oeuvre makes it very clear where he stands on a variety of issues. In today’s tumultuous political landscape, it’s more crucial than ever for artists to stand up and be heard, especially when faced with the cacophony of our world order’s rhetoric. I’m keenly aware that we are privileged in our birth countries, more so even by the fact that we can take the time to wrestle with such questions. Exceedingly lucky that we don’t suffer more pressing issues, such as having to take three hours out of our day to fetch water,fight for the right to an education, battle the suppression of free thought, or countless other obstacles. If the artist does not hold up a mirror to injustice we are missing an opportunity to effect positive change.
HK: Are you following other contemporary artists whom you‘d like to give a shout out to? Are you aware of other musicians, perhaps in your local scene or elsewhere, who use their talents in a similiar way as you? (I understand that you are in Italy at the moment, so you might have interesting perspectives on the music scenes there and in your native home?).
LM: So many. Esperanza Spalding, Aja Monet, Saul Williams, Ani DiFranco, Evan Greer, Angélique Kidjo, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Sarah Gee, and on and on and on. As for using their talents in a similiar way- there’s nothing new under the sun, except we are each our own little universe, our experiences form how we see and respond to what surrounds us, so each, if digging deep, is entirely unique. In Italy there’s a long history of musicians working for social change like DeAndrè, DeGregori, Gaber etc. Today there are voices from Afro Italians like writer, journalist, activist Igiaba Scego, whois a fiercely dedicated leader as is author, journalist, activist Cristina Ali Farah, another whom I deeply admire. Director, writer and actor Alfie Nze is making incredible films that inspire dialogue. Model and activist Bellamy has created the digital platform AfroItalian Souls celebrating AfroItalians while simultaneously providing a space to amplify black Italian voices. Afro-Italian queer immigration activist Medhin Paolos is a photographer, filmmaker, and musician whose current project in collaboration with Harvard University, “Mind the Gap” will have far-reaching effects as the heart of the work will be implemented in Italian classrooms. Activist Karima 2G makes music with a message. ARTivist Kwanza Musi Dos Santos is getting national attention with her non-profit work, as is interpreter, journalist, and activist Uche Bridget, and so many more, there are way too many marvels disguised as humans to list here. In my own little corner of Italia, I am awed by and honored to work with: Uno Collective, activist Francesca Sanneh is one of the collective’s intrepid leaders whose commitment and tireless energy to the cause inspires me daily – and Afrobrix. Musicians: Osasmuede Aigbe, Eva Fuedo Shoo, Daniela Savoldi, and Anna Bassy are talent and beauty personified while fighting the good fight.
HK:What musicians, authors or activists have inspired you in your life? What kind of extra curricular activism (outside your art) do you partake in, in one way or another?
LM: Again the list is endless. The usual luminaries Angela Davis, Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, Sonia Sanchez, Nina Simone, Audre Lorde, Mari Evans, James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, Billie Holiday, Marvin Gaye, Gil Scott-Heron and so many more. Coming of age in Boulder there were also the influences of Joan Baez, Woodie Guthrie, Bob Dylan and, again, so many more. As for extra curricular activism, I believe in living a life of conviction, and demonstrating one‘s ideals in every facet of the path we walk. You can find essays on my advocating for the rights of Black birth fathers, sharing stories on DAWTA the podcast with my co-host Dionne Draper to support the transracial adoptee community, writing about the racism in my adoptive mother’s family.
HK: What is on the horizon for you, musically and in life?
LM: At our artist residency at SUNY Oneonta in November we began writing the new NoteSpeak album in earnest and have begun full band rehearsals, now I’m hunting for the funds to head back into the studio to record it. Then we’ll tour it as widely as we can and perhaps I’ll then have more concentrated time to continue the work on my semi-autobiographical novel.
HK: Anything else you‘d like to shout from the rooftops?
