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SBS Australia
a day ago
- SBS Australia
A generation to lose it, three to restore it: One man's quest to revive a language at risk
Marlon Williams is torn between two worlds. E mawehe ana au ki nga ao e rua ( I am split between two worlds ) are the first words sung in the new documentary that follows one of Aotearoa's (the Māori name for New Zealand) greatest musical exports, Marlon Williams. Two Worlds — Ngā Ao E Rua, follows the 34-year-old musician as he records his first album sung entirely in te reo Māori (the Māori language) — Te Whare Tīwekaweka — and documents the challenges of reconnecting with culture, deepening ties with community, and reclaiming his reo (language). Williams identifies as part Māori, part Pākehā (Māori for a white New Zealander) — from both Ngāi Tahu and Ngāi Tai iwi (tribes). He has always sung in te reo Māori, but is still not fluent in it. It's a challenge many Māori share today. While language revitalisation efforts have ramped up in recent decades, reclaiming Indigenous languages is still an uphill journey. And for Williams, music is the strongest way back. Aotearoa musician Marlon Williams is not fluent in Māori. But he still recorded an album entirely in te reo in the hope to reconnect with culture. Source: Supplied "This documentary is about my process in making an album fully in te reo Māori and the Māori language and all the bumps and slides along the way," Williams told SBS News after its Melbourne International Film Festival premiere. "Maori is always a beautiful thing to sing in. Like a lot of things in my life, music was the way to find a new way of thinking. But it was very patchy and certainly wasn't fluent. "I'm still not fluent, but music's helped me find a sense of entitlement to the language." Lost languages Te reo Māori was once the language of daily life in Aotearoa. But British colonisation and assimilation policies sought to erase it — and almost succeeded. Children were told Māori "had to be left at the school gates" and that English was "the bread-and-butter language". Those who spoke it risked corporal punishment. The result was stark: In 1913, around 90 per cent of Māori schoolchildren spoke te reo (the language). But by 1975, that number had plummeted to just 5 per cent. For director Ursula Grace Williams, the Samoan filmmaker behind the documentary, that kind of loss is deeply personal. "My mama is from Apia — she was born in Samoa and came over to New Zealand in the 1960s," Ursula told SBS News. "At that time, it was assumed that you needed to assimilate into colonial culture." Her Nana, who was born in Vaimoso, a village on the island of Upolu in Samoa, prohibited her mother from speaking Samoan at home. "My grandmother — without any shame or disrespect at all to her — but my mum wasn't allowed to speak Samoan in the house at all." We lost our connection to our own mother's tongue. Ursula Grace Williams, director of 'Marlon Williams: Two Worlds – Ngā Ao E Rua'. "My mum was not allowed to speak, so we weren't allowed to speak. I know small greetings … but it's a shame I don't speak the language." She says her experience made her understand what it was like to "lose something beyond your control that should belong to you forever". "You hold it in your bones." Musician Marlon Williams and filmmaker Ursula Grace Williams both know what it's like to lose their own language. Source: Supplied From loss to revival By the mid-1970s, Māori activism was pushing back. In 1975, a petition with 30,000 signatures called for te reo to be taught in schools. It became a turning point, sparking the creation of kōhanga reo (Māori-language preschools), bilingual and immersion schools, adult learning initiatives such as Te Ātaarangi, and Māori broadcasting. Te reo Māori became an official language in 1987, the direct result of the WAI11 Waitangi Tribunal claim . This Māori Language Act 2016 reaffirmed that status, acknowledged the harm caused by past language suppression, and committed the Crown to revitalisation. The current strategy sets ambitious goals for 2040: over 85 per cent of New Zealanders will value te reo Māori as central to national identity; one million people will hold a basic conversation in it; and 150,000 Māori over 15 will use it as often as English. Ursula saw the benefits firsthand. "I was lucky enough that my mum had the foresight when there was a resurgence of Māori in New Zealand in the 90s that she enrolled me into a bilingual unit," she said. "My first learned language was actually te reo Māori. There are a lot of similarities [with Samoan]." "It's Te Moana Nui a Kiwa — it's a broader region of the Pacific." Te Moana Nui a Kiwa is a name used in both Samoan and Māori cultures to represent the Pacific Ocean — the significance of it as a source of life, a pathway for exploration, and a connector of people and culture. It is 'The Great Connector' of all Polynesia. Music as a gateway to 'preserve difference' For Marlon Williams, preserving Māori culture through music is part of that continuum. "It's a very basic human thing to preserve difference," he said. "In an increasingly globalised world … it's important to be able to understand different pedagogies and methodologies of understanding of life." Waitata — or Maori songs — have always carried whakapapa (genealogy), identity and history. Williams joins a long legacy of artists recording in te reo, but, as Dr Julian Rawiri Kusabs notes, that wasn't always possible. Marlon Williams joins a growing cohort of artists who have recorded songs in Māori in the last few decades, but before that, it typically wasn't viewed as being "commercially viable". Source: Supplied "It hasn't always been viewed as commercially viable," Kusabs, a Maori educator at the University of Melbourne with Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Te Arawa, Ngāti Awa, Ngāti Maru (Hauraki), and Tainui iwi affiliations, told SBS News. "People have had to fight to get that. But in the last few decades, you've had a lot of artists — both Māori and non-Māori — recording and re-recording songs in the language." Kusabs says Marlon's album shows that fluency isn't the only measure of authenticity. "The fact that there are opportunities for someone like Marlon to go back to the language and have the opportunity to record and engage in it, even despite the fact that there aren't resources that make fluency available, that's a really positive step," he said. There's a range of ways that Maori people can still gain meaning even if they're not necessarily fluent. Dr Julian Rawiri Kusabs, Māori Educator at the University of Melbourne "There's still a lot of meaning and value that can be gained from having the language more available and having more culture available." "Even if they can't understand every word, just being able to hear the sounds, hear the intonations, hear the styles and connect with a long tradition that way." The protest of the everyday Revival efforts have shown some signs of success. Government data shows the proportion of New Zealanders able to speak te reo in daily life rose from 24 per cent in 2018 to 30 per cent in 2021. Almost a quarter of Māori said they spoke te reo as one of their first languages, up 17 per cent in 2018, with younger people most likely to speak more than a few words or phrases. Kusabs warns of recent hurdles: attempts to roll back te reo in official settings, cuts to Māori language teacher training, and a growing backlash to bilingual efforts. "After all these fights for revitalisation, you're seeing a bit of pushback recently against having it be given equal prominence and equal opportunity and equal standing," he said. "I think that's part of fighting for a language and also fighting for an Indigenous culture — it's filled with those difficulties, setbacks, and struggles." For Ursula, the most powerful response to the film is one of persistence and the "protest of the everyday". "It's those stories of the everyday — in terms of where we choose to place our time and who we choose to connect with and how we choose to position ourselves within society — those are the things that chip away at discussions and narratives and the context of where we are," she said. "It's the protest of the everyday … standing in yourself and speaking your language and reconnecting with fragments of who you are." Marlon Williams hopes that his story can inspire others to find their way back to te reo Māori and help them any shame around losing the language. Source: Supplied / Ian Laidlaw 'It's yours by birthright' For Marlon Williams, that persistence has already had an effect. "There have been people reaching out," he said. "Because I'm not fluent and because on one level, I'm not classically Māori in appearance, it feels like people have been afforded a little bit more room to find their own way back to [learning Māori] without the sense of shame or embarrassment that comes with that." Shame is always there when trying to reclaim a language that has been lost over generations. Marlon Williams He hopes that his album and documentary will help others shed the shame, even a little bit. "It's there and it's yours by birthright to go into that world," he said. "That sense of shame at having lost it [the language] — it's not a reason not to do it." "It's the reason to get into it because that shame is something that's been overlaid into you and the estrangement is built on the system." "It's all the more reason to feel like you've got the right to be able to do that and go into that world."
News.com.au
a day ago
- News.com.au
Sad reason Aussie singer Alex Lloyd disappeared
Twenty years ago Alex Lloyd was one of Australia's most successful singer-songwriters, with a string of hit albums, a Triple J Hottest 100-winning song and sold out shows around the country. But then he all but disappeared, dealing with legal woes, health issues, a marriage break-up and a crippling drug addiction. Now, as he prepares to release his first new studio album in 12 years, the 50-year-old singer shared the story behind his disappearance from the public eye on Monday's episode of Australian Story, now available to stream on ABC iView. 'I've had extreme highs. I'm not saying I'm not lucky, but there's been some f**king heavy s**t too,' he revealed. The episode traces Lloyd's story back to his childhood, living with mother Bridget in Sydney's inner west. He had a 'chaotic' home life living with his mother and her abusive partner of a decade, but music was a solace, and by the age of 10 he was a successful child busker around the streets of Balmain. Further trauma followed when Bridget died when Alex was still a teenager. But 10 years later, Alex, by then in his mid-20s, was one of Aussie music's hot new properties. His debut album Black the Sun was a 2 x platinum smash, and he bested that with the follow-up, 2001's Watching Angels Mend, thanks to the Hottest 100-winning radio staple Amazing. But that song would also cause him much grief years later: In 2008 he was sued by a truck driver named Mark O'Keefe who claimed that the two of them had written the song together when Lloyd was still a teenager, shortly after his mother's death. Lloyd denied ever having even met O'Keefe, and emerged victorious when the case was eventually withdrawn. Still, he says it cost him dearly: Around $300,000 in legal fees, and a lot of unexamined trauma in having to revisit the period of his mother's death in such forensic detail for the courts. 'It kicked off a particularly dark time for Alex,' close friend Brendan Fletcher said on Australian Story. After having four children together, his marriage to wife Amelia Wasiliev broke down and Lloyd sank further into despondency: 'I'm sorry it didn't work out, but [Amelia and I] slowly came apart, and ended up in a place where nobody could really help me,' he said. Alchohol and food numbed the pain. 'I lost my drive, I'd lost my passion to do things. I was 168kg, and I was going out doing shows in front of 10,000 people, winery gigs, with my face on a massive screen. I didn't feel very good about myself and I didn't want to be on stage, but I needed the money.' He also had chronic neck pain, and was prescribed the powerful opioid oxycodone, also known as oxycontin. Initially it made him feel invincible, but it was also dangerously addictive. 'I had no idea what I was getting into with that drug, and I tried to get off it myself so many times,' he said. Dark times followed, but Fletcher said Lloyd deserved respect for the measures he'd made to improve his health in recent years, including lap surgery on his stomach to control his weight, surgery on the neck issue that had caused the pain in the first place, and drug counselling to ween himself off the painkiller addiction. Throughout it all, he kept touring to keep his head above water. Lloyd would be 'in full blown withdrawal – sick and crying' before going on stage to sing the hits to unsuspecting audiences. Now aged 50 and almost three years clean of the painkillers that almost ruined his life, Lloyd says he can look back with a sense of pride that he's made it through his darkest times. 'I don't think I'll ever be about total abstinence: I'll have a vodka, but not the whole bottle,' he says. 'But I got off probably the most addictive drug ever made, and now I'm at the tail-end of that journey.'
The Advertiser
2 days ago
- The Advertiser
Rusty regrets his telephone-throwing arrest in New York
Regrets, Russell Crowe has a few. The New Zealand-born actor, 61, was arrested in New York in 2005 for assault after throwing a telephone at a hotel concierge, and has now reflected on the incident in an interview with the Daily Telegraph on Sunday. "Look man, at 61, I can forgive my bad days," he said. "I'm not at all one of those people that say you shouldn't have regrets, I absolutely respect regret," he said. "Regret is one of the greatest processes. "You know, you're not gonna be finding any improvement by not being honest with yourself about who you are and what you did, what you might've said." Crowe was led from the Mercer Hotel in handcuffs after lashing out at staff when he was unable to place a call to his then-wife, Danielle Spencer. He spent six hours in custody before being charged. Crowe references the incident in the music video for his latest single Save Me, recorded with his band, The Gentlemen Barbers. The Gladiator star was in New York in June 2005 to promote his film Cinderella Man, about the heavyweight boxer Jim Braddock. He had tried to call Spencer at their Sydney home so he could say goodnight to their young son. After failing to connect through the hotel's phone system, Crowe went down to reception and threw the device at Nestor Estrada, the 28-year-old concierge. Police said the actor broke down in tears when he was handcuffed. "I can't communicate how dark my life is right now. I was at the bottom of a well," he admitted at the time. He said he was "very sorry" and acknowledged problems controlling his anger. Crowe initially faced felony charges but later pleaded guilty to third-degree assault, a reduced offence. He was fined and avoided prison. He settled a civil case brought by Estrada, reportedly paying about $US100,000 ($A153,587). Speaking about the incident in connection with his new music, Crowe reflected on the highs and lows of his career. "The song is just a reminder that not every night you get to play in front of 12,000 people – sometimes you're singing Irish folk songs to the prison officer who is looking after you in jail." Regrets, Russell Crowe has a few. The New Zealand-born actor, 61, was arrested in New York in 2005 for assault after throwing a telephone at a hotel concierge, and has now reflected on the incident in an interview with the Daily Telegraph on Sunday. "Look man, at 61, I can forgive my bad days," he said. "I'm not at all one of those people that say you shouldn't have regrets, I absolutely respect regret," he said. "Regret is one of the greatest processes. "You know, you're not gonna be finding any improvement by not being honest with yourself about who you are and what you did, what you might've said." Crowe was led from the Mercer Hotel in handcuffs after lashing out at staff when he was unable to place a call to his then-wife, Danielle Spencer. He spent six hours in custody before being charged. Crowe references the incident in the music video for his latest single Save Me, recorded with his band, The Gentlemen Barbers. The Gladiator star was in New York in June 2005 to promote his film Cinderella Man, about the heavyweight boxer Jim Braddock. He had tried to call Spencer at their Sydney home so he could say goodnight to their young son. After failing to connect through the hotel's phone system, Crowe went down to reception and threw the device at Nestor Estrada, the 28-year-old concierge. Police said the actor broke down in tears when he was handcuffed. "I can't communicate how dark my life is right now. I was at the bottom of a well," he admitted at the time. He said he was "very sorry" and acknowledged problems controlling his anger. Crowe initially faced felony charges but later pleaded guilty to third-degree assault, a reduced offence. He was fined and avoided prison. He settled a civil case brought by Estrada, reportedly paying about $US100,000 ($A153,587). Speaking about the incident in connection with his new music, Crowe reflected on the highs and lows of his career. "The song is just a reminder that not every night you get to play in front of 12,000 people – sometimes you're singing Irish folk songs to the prison officer who is looking after you in jail." Regrets, Russell Crowe has a few. The New Zealand-born actor, 61, was arrested in New York in 2005 for assault after throwing a telephone at a hotel concierge, and has now reflected on the incident in an interview with the Daily Telegraph on Sunday. "Look man, at 61, I can forgive my bad days," he said. "I'm not at all one of those people that say you shouldn't have regrets, I absolutely respect regret," he said. "Regret is one of the greatest processes. "You know, you're not gonna be finding any improvement by not being honest with yourself about who you are and what you did, what you might've said." Crowe was led from the Mercer Hotel in handcuffs after lashing out at staff when he was unable to place a call to his then-wife, Danielle Spencer. He spent six hours in custody before being charged. Crowe references the incident in the music video for his latest single Save Me, recorded with his band, The Gentlemen Barbers. The Gladiator star was in New York in June 2005 to promote his film Cinderella Man, about the heavyweight boxer Jim Braddock. He had tried to call Spencer at their Sydney home so he could say goodnight to their young son. After failing to connect through the hotel's phone system, Crowe went down to reception and threw the device at Nestor Estrada, the 28-year-old concierge. Police said the actor broke down in tears when he was handcuffed. "I can't communicate how dark my life is right now. I was at the bottom of a well," he admitted at the time. He said he was "very sorry" and acknowledged problems controlling his anger. Crowe initially faced felony charges but later pleaded guilty to third-degree assault, a reduced offence. He was fined and avoided prison. He settled a civil case brought by Estrada, reportedly paying about $US100,000 ($A153,587). Speaking about the incident in connection with his new music, Crowe reflected on the highs and lows of his career. "The song is just a reminder that not every night you get to play in front of 12,000 people – sometimes you're singing Irish folk songs to the prison officer who is looking after you in jail." Regrets, Russell Crowe has a few. The New Zealand-born actor, 61, was arrested in New York in 2005 for assault after throwing a telephone at a hotel concierge, and has now reflected on the incident in an interview with the Daily Telegraph on Sunday. "Look man, at 61, I can forgive my bad days," he said. "I'm not at all one of those people that say you shouldn't have regrets, I absolutely respect regret," he said. "Regret is one of the greatest processes. "You know, you're not gonna be finding any improvement by not being honest with yourself about who you are and what you did, what you might've said." Crowe was led from the Mercer Hotel in handcuffs after lashing out at staff when he was unable to place a call to his then-wife, Danielle Spencer. He spent six hours in custody before being charged. Crowe references the incident in the music video for his latest single Save Me, recorded with his band, The Gentlemen Barbers. The Gladiator star was in New York in June 2005 to promote his film Cinderella Man, about the heavyweight boxer Jim Braddock. He had tried to call Spencer at their Sydney home so he could say goodnight to their young son. After failing to connect through the hotel's phone system, Crowe went down to reception and threw the device at Nestor Estrada, the 28-year-old concierge. Police said the actor broke down in tears when he was handcuffed. "I can't communicate how dark my life is right now. I was at the bottom of a well," he admitted at the time. He said he was "very sorry" and acknowledged problems controlling his anger. Crowe initially faced felony charges but later pleaded guilty to third-degree assault, a reduced offence. He was fined and avoided prison. He settled a civil case brought by Estrada, reportedly paying about $US100,000 ($A153,587). Speaking about the incident in connection with his new music, Crowe reflected on the highs and lows of his career. "The song is just a reminder that not every night you get to play in front of 12,000 people – sometimes you're singing Irish folk songs to the prison officer who is looking after you in jail."
