Global frictions and the production of locality in Kenya’s music video industry

Hybridity, global imaginaries, and friction

Since its inception, global media studies have been concerned with making sense of the relationship between media and culture as both travel across borders. Scholarship rooted in the notion of hybridity emerged in the 1990s as global media scholars found the cultural imperialism and active audience approaches inadequate for conceptualizing cultural production as the complex interplay of the ideological power of global capitalist institutions, the contextual agency of local audiences, and countless other influences that were getting lost in the middle (e.g. Hannerz, 1992; Pieterse, 2003; Robertson, 1995). Arguing that hybridity is the cultural logic of globalization, Kraidy (2005) proposes critical transculturalism as an analytical framework that views culture as synthetic and advocates for more research into translocal exchanges in cultural production. As Mazzarella (2004) notes, studies of global media often reduce hybridity to the end product of exchanges between two seemingly autonomous entities, ‘the local’ and ‘the global’, wherein the former is valorized for its ability to resist or adapt to the cultural power of the latter. Such scholarship typically engages with cultural exchanges between geopolitical levels (e.g. global-to-local, global-to-national) rather than the exchanges that occur within levels (e.g. local-to-local, ‘East-to-East’) (Kraidy, 2005). One advantage of the within-level approach is the inherent acknowledgment that culture is not the mere blending of the local and the global but, rather, hybridity embodies a myriad of cultural exchanges within and between intermediaries, such as nations, regions, municipalities, and neighborhoods (Darling-Wolf, 2015; Kraidy, 2005).

One way to examine difference and disjunction within localities is to account for the hybridity of local actors engaged in the shared social practices of cultural production. In Modernity at Large, Appadurai (1996) argues that the imagination is a major constitutive feature of the production of localities. For modern subjects, the imagination is rooted in social imaginaries, ‘the ways people imagine their social existence, how they fit together with others’ (Taylor, 2004: 23). Social imaginaries offer a background for communal relations, a feeling of perceived affiliation that circumscribe and give meaning to social practices (Steger, 2008; Taylor, 2004). This form of sociality is imaginary, not because it lacks meaning but because individuals never physically engage with most of their fellow members, ‘yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion’ (Anderson, 1983/1991). Since World War II, social imaginaries have become increasingly global, offering a sense of communion that extends beyond local and national borders (Steger, 2008). As Steger (2008) argues, ‘the “objective” acceleration and multiplication of global material networks occurs hand in hand with the intensifying “subjective” recognition of a shrinking world’ (p. 11). Global imaginaries create hybrid subjectivities as people envision meaningful attachments to communities as broad as the human race and as divergent as religion, race, occupation, interest, and beyond. Hybridity, then, ‘is the raw material of the global imagination’ (Darling-Wolf, 2015: 143). Thus, global imaginaries produce hybrid subjectivities, which, in turn, shape the social practices involved in the production of locality – as Appadurai (1996) writes, ‘locality is always emergent from the practices of local subjects in specific neighborhoods’ (p. 198).

Tsing’s (2005) ethnography of environmental struggle in Indonesia introduces friction – ‘the awkward, unequal, unstable, and creative qualities of interconnection across difference’ (p. 4) – as a framework for studying global cultural exchange through the entanglements of local subjects. In contrast to accounts of smooth transnational flow, ‘friction-based approaches show how global trajectories come into being through specific histories of engagement and encounter’ (Tsing, 2012: 707). Through friction, the production of locality can be understood as the result of contentious interactions between hybridized subjects. For example, Tsing (2005) defines collaboration as a form of friction wherein different groups engage in a common project while maintaining separate agendas, resulting in ‘productive confusion’ (p. 247). Rather than view collaborations as seamless partnerships between like-minded collectivities, ‘parties who work together may or may not be similar and may or may not have common understandings of the problem and the product’ (pp. 246–247). Gray (2014) argues friction can be useful for understanding what happens when media and cultural products enter into complex and conflicted spaces, advocating for a ‘model of media influence [that] would examine multiple points of contact (within the language of global “friction”) and ripple effects (within the language of global media “flows”)’ (p. 995).

Here, I offer friction as a useful conceptual tool for studying the production of locality within the context of global imaginaries. I argue that we can better understand ‘the techniques of the production of locality’ (Appadurai, 1996: 182) by focusing on how and why frictions occur between hybridized subjects shaped by divergent global imaginaries throughout the process of creating, sharing, and making sense of local cultural products. To demonstrate this approach, I examine multiple points of contact that occur in the social practices that comprise the Kenyan music video industry. This analysis demonstrates that collaborations are but one type of friction that help explain entanglements between local actors drawing discursively from varied constructions of the global imaginary. By considering different types of friction – as collaborative, combative, and competitive – we can better understand the production of locality within the context of transcultural exchange.

Global music and Kenyan hip hop

Music is a truly global cultural form with deep connections to specific localities and a long history of border crossings. While some critical scholars have argued that music television promotes a homogenized global youth consumer culture in service of hegemonic capitalism (Banks, 1996; Juluri, 2003), an even greater number of studies have explored the productive agency of local artists who use music for cultural negotiation, political resistance, and locally rooted creative expression (Charry, 2012; Nyairo, 2007; Nyawalo, 2014). Hybridity has become the dominant framework for studying music, particularly hip hop, as a global cultural form. For example, Ntarangwi (2009) argues hip hop is the ‘epitome of this hybridity in which Western music styles are appropriated into local sensibilities to produce something that reflects the local as well as the global’ (p. 12). As a music genre, hip hop is inherently hybrid, constructed via bricolage of beats, melodies, and remixed samples. Hip hop has also facilitated frequent border crossings by connecting, first, members of the African Diaspora to the motherland and to each other and, second, global youth seeking a common cultural language for resistance (Condry, 2006; Nyairo, 2007). In Kenya, hip hop’s hybridity is further evidenced by artists’ frequent use of Sheng, a creole language incorporating Swahili, English, and multiple ethnic languages (Nyawalo, 2014).

Recognizing hip hop as hybrid means acknowledging that its cultural production is infused with boundary crossings – both stylistic and geopolitical. But hip hop around the world is more than a mere blending of the local and the global. As Condry (2006) argues in Hip Hop Japan, a reductive approach to hybridity that ‘suggests an original Japan and hip-hop elsewhere in the past’ is insufficient for understanding performative spaces where creative energies are concentrated (p. 17). Similarly, Darling-Wolf (2015) notes, ‘conceptions of “the global” as a U.S.-dominated totalizing whole to be opposed to local environments are not particularly useful heuristic devices when considering hip-hop as a transnational phenomenon’ (p. 85). In the Kenyan context, a dichotomous focus on the global and the local ignores important socio-cultural tensions within the country. For example, rural Kenyans associate hip-hop music with youth living in cosmopolitan Nairobi and, thus, see it as more foreign and threatening than gospel music (Kidula, 2012). Even for musicians, Nairobi signifies a site of post-colonial anxieties, where artists must negotiate their social and economic ties to the city, their rural homes, and their international aspirations (Wasike, 2011). Beyond urban–rural tensions, Eisenberg (2012) notes that hip-hop artists on the Swahili Coast seek to cast Mombasa as a Kenyan Los Angeles, ‘an urban space that can be just as cosmopolitan or gritty as Nairobi even though it happens to be situated amid beaches and coconut palms’ (p. 563). In short, global music broadly and Kenyan hip hop specifically are hybrid cultural forms shaped by a myriad of local and supralocal forces while being produced, distributed, and consumed in contested local environments.

Methods

This study draws from two primary data sources: interviews with music video directors and DJs and a discourse analysis of YouTube comments on selected music videos. Interviews with directors and DJs were conducted in Nairobi in June 2014. For the director sample, I compiled a list of potential interview subjects by, first, identifying the directors of Kenya’s most popular music videos and by, second, referencing local assessments of the industry’s top directors (e.g. Omondi, 2014). I also consulted interlocutors from my previous fieldwork in Kenya, several of whom have become well-connected professionals in the industry (Ekdale, 2013). Through a combination of maximum variation and snowball sampling (Lindlof and Taylor, 2002), I contacted 16 music video directors, 8 of whom agreed to be interviewed. The director interview sample includes some of Kenya’s most decorated and sought after directors, as well as new directors trying to break into the industry. In addition, one director brought his business manager to the interview, and another director brought a hip-hop performer to the interview, both of whom agreed to participate in the interviews. Director interviews were semi-structured in nature and averaged an hour in length, ranging from 31 minutes to 102 minutes each. Interview questions addressed each director’s style, influences, and production process.

For the DJ interviews, I worked with a research assistant to design a structured interview protocol, after which the research assistant conducted all of the interviews. Questions on the interview protocol addressed each DJ’s style, training, musical tastes, and thoughts about the Kenyan music industry. The research assistant recruited interview subjects, first, at a DJ conference and, then, via snowball sampling. In total, 26 DJs were interviewed for this study. Interviews were conducted in English and Swahili. All Swahili interviews were translated and transcribed by a native speaker. The DJ interviews varied in length depending on the subject’s experience with remixing music videos. These interviews averaged 13 minutes each, ranging from 6 minutes to 32 minutes in length. This sample included DJs with a variety of professional experiences, from resident DJs at local clubs to novices who had performed only at small events. All director and DJ interview participants consented to be identified by name in future publications, except where indicated below. All interview participants were men in their 20s and 30s.

Finally, I analyzed the YouTube comments for three music videos released in 2014: ‘Nishike’ by Sauti Sol, ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’ by Sanaipei Tande, and ‘Money Maker’ by Blaqy. These videos were selected because each produced a heated debate online and in local media concerning the supposed ‘Western’ or ‘international’ influence evident in these videos. I used the NCapture app for NVivo to extract the YouTube comments for these three videos (Bazeley and Jackson, 2013). After confirming that all of the comments were collected (2182 comments in total), I analyzed all comments to identify and categorize those that discussed influences and ambitions within a global context. The analysis below focuses on the frictions between two distinct groups of commenters who were concerned about global articulations, influences, and aspirations. The selected videos are not representative of all Kenyan music videos, but the conversation surrounding these videos is illustrative of a particular type of global friction discussed below. YouTube comments are presented verbatim, including slang, alternate spellings, and misspellings found in the original comments. Finally, the director interview sample included the directors of ‘Nishike’ and ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’, and portions of those interviews are included where relevant.

Collaborative frictions: directors and musicians

Interviews with directors revealed a wide variety of global, regional, national, and local influences in Kenyan music video production. Interviewees cited favorite directors and videos from the United States, the United Arab Emirates, the United Kingdom, Australia, India, Nigeria, and Kenya. Most interviewees did not have any formal production training; instead, they learned their craft through informal mentorship, trial and error, and from watching videos on YouTube. Several directors discussed music videos as the ideal format for experimenting and pushing creative boundaries. Simon Okongo, who primarily produces videos for reggae artists, says he enjoys being able to ‘play around’ and ‘break all the rules’ when making music videos. Jim Chuchu, who directed several videos for his former band Just a Band, said music videos are the ‘most playful’ form of visual storytelling: ‘you can do all kinds of things that would be completely unacceptable in some of the other formats’. Chris King, who was commissioned to direct videos for the Geothe-Institut Kenya, said music videos provide a good first step in visual storytelling: ‘you don’t have all these rules … they don’t have to make sense, they don’t have to do anything really’. These directors argued that music videos were appealing precisely because this format allowed them to play with rules and push boundaries. In fact, hip-hop music video director Kevin Bosco Jr. said he does not make a profit from most of his music videos, but he directs them anyway, because ‘it is my passion’.

However, during the process of conceptualizing, planning, scripting, shooting, and editing music videos, directors must negotiate their creative visions with other local subjects who have a different sense of belonging within their own imagined global community: musicians. Most directors said that musical artists had equal or greater say in determining what goes into a music video. Because of the economics of Kenya’s music industry, the relationship between directors and artists is both creative and transactional. Few Kenyan musicians earn a living through legal sales and royalty checks; rather, they make most of their income through live concerts, sponsorships, and corporate promotions (Ntarangwi, 2009). Thus, artists view a music video as an investment in brand management. For example, the rapper OBJay who accompanied his director to the interview explained, ‘we use [a music video] as a kind of advertisement but … if I get events or performance in given clubs and stuff, there is where it pays back’. Despite the boundary-pushing rhetoric surrounding music videos, musicians ultimately hire directors to produce commercials for the artist’s brand. Ogopa Deejays director Alfred Ngachi, who has been making music videos for a decade, said that there are parallels between his line of work and the hospitality industry – he is most successful when he has convinced a client to return.

At the same time, directors engage in their own brandbuilding with each video they produce. Most music videos include on-screen credits, and some directors add signature taglines, such as Enos Olik who ends his videos with the imprint, ‘Enos Olik waz hia’. Conscious of their own brands, directors are selective about which clients to take on and which songs to shoot. As Edward Martins, head of the upstart Library Box Films, said, ‘if the quality isn’t to the standard of the company, we can’t accept to do it’. So even though the director is a service provider and the musician a client, both parties are invested in producing high-quality videos that serve both commercial and artistic interests.

According to my director’s interviews, artists are less interested in creativity and experimentation in music videos and are more concerned about presenting a marketable and consumable musical identity. Within Kenya’s hip-hop community, a key part of that identity is swag, a mix of grounded bravado and demonstrable skill that allows artists to project superiority while maintaining local roots (Mose, 2013). In Kenya, swag might mean an artist who first appears in a music video set in a slum will only appear in later videos surrounded by fancy cars in expensive locations. Director Mhando Brian said that musicians understand the market: ‘they know that guys, teenagers like flashy flashy things […] so they look for five-star hotels, everything will be five star’. Several directors noted that some artists will flash bling while the camera is rolling but haggle for prices in-between takes – projecting a public identity of wealth while navigating the lived reality of cost saving. Kevin Bosco Jr. said he wished more Kenyan artists were willing to buck this trend and push boundaries with their identities. He cited the American singer Lady Gaga and the South Korean viral sensation Psy as international artists who became famous because they took risks, yet ‘most Kenyan artists don’t want to do it; they don’t want to go overboard and look crazy’. Chuchu’s group Just a Band was one of the few exceptions, choosing to embrace what Chuchu described as a ‘very, very geeky’ identity. Not only did Chuchu direct the group’s music videos but members had an unwritten rule that they would not appear in their videos. ‘I think it is really important that we were never in the videos’, Chuchu said. ‘We did not need to make ourselves look cool, because I think you spend a lot of time trying to make artists look cool in their videos’. As a result, Just a Band’s videos are more creative and experimental than most artists in Kenya (Ekdale and Tully, 2014), which may also explain why, according to Chuchu, the group has been more successful outside of Kenya than within their home country.

The creative frictions between directors and artists demonstrate collaboration as first conceptualized by Tsing (2005): ‘differences within common cause’ (p. 246). Both parties have a vested interest in producing a successful music video but they have different understandings of what defines success. The global imaginary of directors captures their belief that music videos are global cultural products that should be both experimental and infused with local and supralocal influences. Directors seek the ideal of boundary pushing while also building a reputation within Kenya that will attract paying customers. Artists, on the other hand, see themselves as part of a global community of musicians who must project marketable identities that are both locally rooted and internationally aspirational. Artists use music videos to design and communicate brands that will appeal to local and supralocal power brokers, such as managers, concert promoters, and corporate sponsors. Collaboration occurs through the negotiated social practices of directors and artists. Thus, Kenyan music videos are the product of collaborative frictions between hybridized subjects negotiating creative visions within divergent global imaginaries. These frictions underlie the production of locality in Kenya’s music industry by shaping the look, feel, and message of the country’s music videos.

Combative frictions: DJs and the MCSK

After a music video is released, there are no guarantees it will find an audience. Internet distribution platforms like YouTube afford direct access to videos, but DJs on TV, on the radio, at clubs, and at public events still serve as important gatekeepers in the distribution of Kenyan music. In one sense, DJs exemplify hybridity by blending a variety of audio and video clips to create locally produced cultural artifacts composed of local, national, regional, and international samples. The DJs interviewed for this study said that they incorporated music from many different countries (e.g. Tanzania, Nigeria, Jamaica, and the United States), genres that transcend national borders (e.g. hip hop, gospel, reggae, and riddims), and subgenres specific to Kenya (e.g. genge and kapuka). Few DJs claimed to play only music they liked personally. Most said they put together playlists based on audience demand. ‘If you are doing the job, you must do the job perfectly to fit the people who you are to entertain’, said DJ Abmok. ‘If it was to entertain yourself, you would just have your machines at home and play over there’.

But a DJ’s playlist is not determined solely by audience taste. One important factor in shaping what DJs play is Kenya’s regulatory system for copyright and intellectual property. In 2001, the Kenyan government passed the Copyright Act in response to an anti-piracy campaign by local artists, pressure from US entertainment, and software companies, and a requirement to comply with the Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) after joining the World Trade Organization (Perullo and Eisenberg, 2015). Kenya has three registered Collective Management Organizations responsible for gathering licensing fees and distributing royalties, but the largest and most influential is the Music Copyright Society of Kenya (MCSK). Officially, MCSK’s mission is to provide artists with financial and legal remuneration for any public use of their creative works, but the organization has been plagued with inefficiencies and corruption (Perullo and Eisenberg, 2015).

The MCSK collects licensing fees through a tariff system. Most tariffs are imposed on performance venues (e.g. clubs, concert halls, and restaurants) but certain tariffs target performing artists. For example, the MCSK tariff on ‘mobile disc jockeys’ requires DJs who work in public spaces or unlicensed venues to pay an annual fee of approximately KSH20,000 (~US$200; MCSK, 2014b). Another tariff requires DJs who produce VCDs to pay licensing fees on a percentage of their sales (MCSK, 2014a). The DJs interviewed for this study argued that these tariffs were excessive, especially for amateur DJs. While radio, television, and club DJs are licensed through venue tariffs, DJs who perform at outdoor events or traveling road shows must pay the annual fee themselves or face arrest or police harassment. According to DJ Dawn, ‘because of this MCSK, [police officers] always come and harass us, and then they take a lot of money from us’. These DJs claimed it was unfair for the government to expect aspiring DJs to pay expensive licensing fees when they were struggling to support their families on as little as KSH500 (~US$5) an event.

Although the Copyright Act includes stipulations for international intellectual property rights, local law enforcement primarily enforces penalties for the piracy of Kenyan content. DJs know that they are more likely to be punished if they use Kenyan music at public events or in VCD mixes than if they play foreign music. Although, in principle, an enforcement scheme that prioritizes Kenyan intellectual property rights demonstrates a commitment to local artistry, an unintended consequence is that DJs are incentivized to avoid Kenyan music altogether. Rather than face fines or arrest for playing local artists, many DJs elect to mix foreign music only. Although Kenyan musicians frequently complain that DJs play too much foreign music (Ongaji, 2015), several interviewees suggested the MCSK was to blame. As DJ JJ explained, many DJs want to promote Kenyan music but see the MCSK as standing in their way:

[The MCSK is] trying to ruin our DJ business … by asking us [for] a license. We want to promote. We are not selling. We are just promoting them, so that the music can be heard. That’s why you will find that most of the DJs, they don’t play Kenyan music.

Others agreed, claiming that they fill playlists with foreign music because of the MCSK, not in spite of it. Rational self-interest outweighs their desire to promote Kenyan artists. Another DJ (who asked to remain anonymous) questioned the MCSK’s rationale for charging DJs for playing local music, even though Kenyan musicians benefit from their music being played in public: ‘We have more reach to people than the artists themselves. [MCSK] can’t charge us that much and then expect us to play [Kenyan] music for guys to listen. They expect to sell from us’. These DJs considered themselves allies of Kenya’s creative industries and resented the MCSK for viewing them as adversaries.

Similar to directors and artists, DJs and the MCSK are engaged in negotiated social practices over the circulation of Kenyan music. But the relationship between DJs and the MCSK is not collaborative; it is combative. DJs see themselves as part of a global community of bricolage auteurs who mix and remix music from all over the world. They seek to promote Kenyan artists by distributing their music to the public through live performances and recorded VCDs. DJs claim that the MCSK tariff system impedes their ability to promote Kenyan artists and artistry. On the other hand, the MCSK envisions its role within a global regime of intellectual property laws and trade regulations as protectors and enablers of local cultural production. The MCSK views piracy in all its forms as an injustice to creative artists and an impediment to cultural growth in Kenya. According to the MCSK, DJs must abide by a system that compensates musicians for their creative works. Thus, DJs and the MCSK engage in a combative friction, as each is trying to interfere with the progress of the other. Whereas collaborative friction entails a common cause, combative friction involves causes that are in direct opposition to each other. While both parties claim to promote Kenya artists, their methods for accomplishing this goal are directly at odds. Like collaborative friction, combative friction also results in ‘productive confusion’ (Tsing, 2005: 247), which in this case brings about an outcome antithetical to both groups’ stated desires: Kenyan DJs promoting foreign music instead of local music.

Competitive frictions: ‘Western’ influence and ‘international’ aspirations

In April 2014, Sauti Sol received an MTV Africa Music Awards nomination for ‘Group of the Year’. While the afro-pop band had been a mainstay of the Kenyan music industry, the nomination marked Sauti Sol’s biggest international recognition to date. As director Enos Olik explained to me, the group realized it was not well known outside of Kenya, so members approached Olik saying, ‘we need something that people will talk about’. They decided to produce a music video for the song ‘Nishike’ (‘Touch Me’) that would upend the band’s wholesome image, an idea described by Olik as ‘something for the ladies’. The resulting video is 4 minutes of slow-motion sensuality featuring shirtless band members serenading and caressing half-clothed women. Although the band desired a provocative video, they did not anticipate ‘Nishike’ would be banned from local television for allegedly ‘showing pornography’ (Jaymes, 2014). Despite, or perhaps because of, the television ban, ‘Nishike’ became a YouTube hit – the most viewed Kenyan music video of 2014 (Daily Nation, 2014).

The controversy surrounding ‘Nishike’ followed the video online in the form of more than 1000 YouTube comments. Commenters largely fell into two groups, each of whom drew discursively from divergent global imaginaries to situate the video’s significance in Kenya and beyond. The first group criticized Sauti Sol for imitating what they saw as ‘Western’ morality:

Just dirty music … senseless display of moral degradation and erosion of cultural values. Mere imitation of western vanities in the name of fame.

this is just too explicit ve we gone the western way??

We like to copy western so much […] Now Sauti Soul started on a good note and we were looking upon them like kenyan music ambassadors but it seems they are lucking creativity.

Critics of the video frequently evoked ‘Western’ values without clearly articulating how they conceptualized the West. A few commenters specifically mentioned the United States (e.g. ‘this is not America’), yet others compared the video to those by Jamaican dancehall artists (e.g. ‘when your videos start looking like RDX videos then shit has hit the fan’). While both countries are geographically west of Kenya, the United States and Jamaica are rarely conflated as fellow architects of cultural homogenization. Yet, this group of commenters used the term ‘Western’ to signify a global imaginary in which unwanted cultural change was understood as foreign to Kenya.

The second group of commenters defended ‘Nishike’ and characterized critics as hypocrites. These commenters considered it treasonous for Kenyans to denounce their own Sauti Sol while welcoming sexually explicit music videos from foreign artists:

Miley gave us Wrecking Ball and we savored it. Sauti Sol gives us Nishike and we are all up in arms … wat the fu..k we Africa

if this song was beyonces, rihanna or any other musician from those sides nobody would be complaining about the nudity […] this is our kenyan artists we should support them in any song they release

Most of our teenagers watch Jamaican videos […] and nobody complains, but when its Kenyan, Complains everywhere!!!! Stop the hate, promote our own!!!

For this group of commenters, promoting Kenya did not mean endorsing conservative cultural values, it meant encouraging Kenyan artists in their creative pursuits. Several commenters further challenged the premise of a traditional Kenyan culture newly under threat by foreign powers, arguing that contemporary culture is a construct produced, in part, by the violent imposition of colonialism:

what exactly is this ‘western’ culture, is it the same one that those clothes you are wearing came from? or is it the same one that brought us christianity? is it the same one that your education originated from? or is it the same one that invented the youtube you are now using to express yourself?

The video’s defenders rejected the global-local dichotomy presented by critics and, instead, recast ‘international’ as a desirable measure of artistic quality that extends above and beyond the nation (e.g. ‘sauti soul nolonger have competition in Kenya, they are competing with the international market’). Unlike critics’ imaginary construct of the ‘West’, defenders embraced a global imaginary situated in an aspirational understanding of ‘international’ quality. For defenders, it was an enviable goal to produce local content that could compete in the global marketplace. Through this construction of the global imaginary, in which culture is synthetic and promoting Kenyan culture means supporting Kenyans, commenters praised artists who demonstrated international aspirations and potential.

A similar conversation resurfaced in June 2014 when R&B singer Sanaipei released the video for her single ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’ (‘King of Love’). As director Mhando Brian noted in our interview, Sanaipei is a well-known entertainer and radio presenter who wanted to make splash with her first music video in years. While Brian encouraged Sanaipei to capture different representations of romantic love – ‘love is not about just the bedroom’, Brian argued – Sanaipei insisted on her vision, a sultry depiction of the singer and her lover in various sensual embraces. The video, which several commenters referred to as ‘Nishike for men’, produced a similar uproar: reigniting the debate about sexual content in music videos, getting banned from several local TV stations, and becoming the eighth most viewed Kenyan music video of the year on YouTube (Daily Nation, 2014).

As with ‘Nishike’, commenters diverged between those who criticized the video as too ‘Western’ (e.g. ‘Kenyan artists, notorious for aping foreign modes of artistic expression, ought to be taught that it’s possible to sing about and pass the message on the art of love making without having to expose yourself’) and those who praised it for achieving international standards (e.g. ‘We must appreciate the level at which Kenyan musicians are producing their videos […] why love those of Rihana and Shakira while and hate the ones for our own brothers’). Yet, both sets of responses to ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’ were more muted this time. One reason is that several commenters who might have otherwise criticized the video as too ‘Western’ reframed its sensuality as morally Kenyan, citing the man’s wedding ring as evidence of a committed relationship (e.g. ‘very nice production Sanaipei […] a perfect skit for a church retreat on passion and marital bliss!’). Second, several commenters who might have otherwise celebrated the video’s ‘international’ quality found plenty of room for improvement in the video’s production. While a handful celebrated the video’s high resolution (e.g. ‘sick resolution..4k!!’), many commenters criticized the production values from lighting to cinematography to staging:

The song was a 9/10 but the video HAS BROUGHT IT DOWN TO A 3/10 the 3 is just for SANA’s body … The cinematography turns down the SEX APPEAL that’s was supposed to be.

was waiting for so long for the vid … but this is waaaaaaaaaaaay below my expectations … the rooms should’ve been darker … sexy scenes are always waaay better in some little dark

Defenders of ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’ were less passionate than fans of ‘Nishike’, who saw the Sauti Sol video as unquestionably international in quality. Notably, ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’ was one of directors Mhando Brian’s first music videos, while ‘Nishike’ director Enos Olik was already well regarded in the industry. This difference in directorial experience is evident in the production quality of the two videos and in the substance of commenter reactions. In the global imaginary of critics, the threat of ‘Western’ immorality was mediated by the virtue of marital love. In the global imaginary of defenders, the production quality was inconsistent with international standards for music videos.

In August 2014, both sides finally came to a consensus in the comments section of the controversial video ‘Money Maker’, by dancehall artist Blaqy – everyone hated it. YouTube commenters broadly rejected the song and the video, which features several women in bikinis twerking and grinding:

I don’t mean to be rude but this was waste of time and resources. it’s the reason why Kenyan music industry is not propelling to greater heights with such ratchet production!

This is most stupid music video have watched in Kenya pure desperation from them

I truly appreciate and give thanks for this video. It is a blessing for every artist in Kenya! Because after this, it is arguably IMPOSSIBLE for anyone to do worse!!!

Despite the video’s explicit sexual imagery, critics did not decry the imposition of ‘Western’ morality, they savaged Blaqy and the video for lacking creativity and skill (e.g. ‘This is the reason why Ghana, Nigeria, S.A will always be ahead of Kenya musically’). In fact, several commenters made explicit appeals to international viewers, apologizing on behalf of the video (e.g. ‘Please if you are not from Kenya and watching this, dont judge us, this is not the kind of music we produce’). The consensus response to ‘Money Maker’ resolved a tension about what it means to promote Kenya. While some argue promoting Kenya means preserving Kenyan values in the face of foreign contamination, others believe promoting Kenya means supporting local artists who can compete on the global stage. For both groups, ‘Money Maker’ was a failure.

The variety of responses to these three videos demonstrates a third type of friction: competitive friction. In the YouTube comments for these videos, Kenyans engaged in a competition for meaning making. Critics drew discursively from a global imaginary that situates so-called traditional Kenyan values as under attack from the spread of ‘Western’ moral decay. For these audiences, sexual content in Kenyan productions signifies foreign corruption and local acquiescence. On the other hand, defenders drew discursively from a global imaginary that understands global cultural production as a meritocracy. For these audiences, Kenyan artists should be encouraged when they achieve international standards of quality. As such, entanglements between these two groups of commenters resulted in a competitive friction, in which different groups promoting distinct causes conflict at certain times, as with ‘Nishike’, and align at others, as with ‘Money Maker’. Because competitive friction is more fluid and dynamic, the ‘production confusion’ (Tsing, 2005: 247) it engenders may be more productive and more confusing than that which is brought about by collaborative and combative frictions. For the sexualized videos discussed above, competitive frictions between commenters shaped the interpretive framework for local audiences seeking to define the relationship between the global and the local in Kenyan music videos.

Discussion

Examining the frictions that occur between local subjects who have divergent understandings of how they fit within global imaginary communities helps us better understand the production of locality. As Appadurai (1996) argues, ‘the imagination is now central to all forms of agency, is itself a social fact, and is the key component of the new global order’ (p. 31). The imagination is a productive force, shaping local subjectivities and social practices. Through an examination of the Kenyan music video industry, this article demonstrates the complex relationship between global imaginaries, frictions, and cultural production. Although production, distribution, and reception were treated separately above, it is worth noting that these stages of the media cycle are interdependent. Directors and musicians build and maintain relationships with popular DJs to ensure that their songs will get played on the radio, on television, and in the clubs. Although YouTube offers direct access to music videos, DJs still play an important gatekeeping role in introducing audiences to new music. Similarly, regulatory bodies and television executives have the power to decide which songs and videos can be distributed through the public airwaves; although, as with ‘Nishike’ and ‘Mfalme Wa Mapenzi’, banning a video from television might paradoxically generate more attention to that video online. Finally, although audience meaning making has always been contextual and contingent, sites like YouTube provide a public forum for viewers to share interpretations and engage in debates with others. Notably, each of the directors I interviewed said they read YouTube comments and incorporate audience feedback into future music video productions. Thus, interpretive and productive audiences contribute to a feedback loop that shapes future media and cultural production.

This study both demonstrates the analytic utility of Tsing’s (2005) concept of friction for understanding the production of locality within the context of global imaginaries and offers a typology of frictions that may be useful for others studying global cultural production. Borrowing from Tsing directly, collaborative frictions occur between social actors who work across differences toward a common cause. As Tsing (p. 246) notes, ‘collaborators work with the enemy in wartime’ (p. 246), so it is important not to misconstrue their partnerships as unions based on equality or sameness. Demonstrating collaborative friction, music video directors and musicians must negotiate their creative and economic interests in the pursuit of successful music videos, those that toe the line between creative expression and strategic brand management. Combative frictions occur between those whose social practices are situated in direct opposition to each other. Adversaries engaged in combative frictions seek to overtake their opponents, impeding each other’s progress until one ultimately yields. Yet, even the resulting gridlock can produce unexpected outcomes and unintended consequences. While DJs and the MCSK battle over what it means to promote Kenyan artists, local music disappears from many DJ’s playlists. Finally, competitive frictions occur between social actors whose interests conflict at times and align at others. The fluidity of competitive frictions demonstrates the uncertainty and complexity of local cultural production within a context of transcultural exchange. As Appadurai (1996: 182) notes, the production of locality is ‘a fragile and difficult achievement’, and as Kraidy (2005: vi) argues, ‘Hybridity is a risky notion. It comes without guarantees’. Competitive frictions capture the deeply entangled antagonisms and allegiances that can occur when hybridized subjects engage with each other in social practices. In this study, Kenyans on YouTube disagreed over whether they should fear ‘Western’ influence in sexually charged music videos or aspire for ‘international’ recognition, although the force of their arguments depended on the perceived quality and morality of the subject material. Together, the bumps and scrapes that comprise collaborative, combative, and competitive frictions serve as the building blocks of media and cultural production.

One advantage of studying the production of locality using the concepts of global imaginaries and frictions is that this analytical framework situates hybridity as both an antecedent to and outcome of transcultural exchange. Hybridity captures both the local subjects who construct personal senses of belonging through an assemblage of local and supralocal influences, as well as the ‘productive confusion’ (Tsing, 2005: 247), that results from the entanglements of divergent global imaginaries put in motion. This approach further emphasizes two points of entry for studying the exercise of power in global cultural exchange: in the construction of global imaginaries and in the frictions between social actors. For example, common within the global imaginaries of directors and musicians is the rationalization of neoliberal markets in which creative artists must strategically brand and rebrand themselves to attract potential clients and sponsors. Thus, capitalist ideology is embodied in these local actors and their social practices. Alternatively, amateur DJs are engaged in an uphill battle with the institutionally powerful MCSK. While many DJs currently evade the MCSK’s authority by avoiding Kenyan music, the MCSK likely will adapt its approach to enforcing its intellectual property regime, itself constructed through engagements with foreign nations with greater resources and institutional authority. Thus, an approach that considers both global imaginaries and global frictions allows for an exploration of power differentials, first within social actors and then between them.

In closing, the three frictions presented here do not necessarily comprise an exhaustive list. I encourage other scholars, particularly those studying production cultures in non-Western contexts, to adopt and further develop friction as an analytical tool for studying cultural production. As Gray (2014) suggests, frictions need to be studied up close using ethnographic methods and interviews with local actors. Such a focus on multiple points of contact between divergent global imaginaries will help us better understand the production of locality in a way that accounts for both hybrid subjectivities and the hybrid cultural products they create.