Guy van Egmond
I have to open this by admitting that, until I opened the program for Music Portrait of a Humble Disabled Samoan, I did not know who Fonotī Pati Umaga was. But many people did and, by the end of this performance, I was happy to join in the standing ovation for this legendary musician and advocate. His biographical show stretched across cultural traditions, physical abilities and artistic disciplines to produce both a portrait of a man and of what he spent his life fighting for.
The show began before we’d even made it to our seats. As the line snaked through the foyer of Tāwhiri Warehouse, hips started swaying to the live music coming from the stage. Immediately, the promise of great rhythms and melodies was laid. Hints as to Umaga’s importance started to dawn on me as a busload of school students arrived, chattering excitedly, and I spotted the Samoan High Commissioner in attendance too. Inside, the theatre was arranged in the round—seats on all sides of a level stage that were packed, if not quite sold-out.
That promise of good music was fulfilled from the get-go. Umaga rolled out on stage to introduce himself, followed by five ensemble actors (both physically-disabled and not) and four musicians, who all introduced them as Fonotī Pati Umaga, the musicians doing so with their instruments.
The show began as a nostalgic homage to Umaga’s youth. The ensemble joined Umaga in painting a picture of the era that he grew up in: Jimi Hendrix, Muhammad Ali, Martin Luther King Jr. on television; Ka Whawhai, the dawn raids, and Polynesian Panthers on the street. Umaga recounted a youth of free love and joints growing up in Wainuiomata, taking action in the Springbok protests and roaming the mall with his wannabe-Panthers crew (until his father found out and gave him a hiding in front of the ‘gang’). Underscoring all of this reminiscence was live music by Meka Nehemia, Hayden Nickel, Andy Mauafua, Isitolo Alesana, who kept a decidedly Samoan feeling to the story.
His bi-cultural background was always at the forefront in Umaga’s life, growing up in Aotearoa within Samoan communities. This was woven into the fabric of the show, from opening with a projection of te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa to the constant driving beat of the pātē drum, and the focus on ancestry and connection in the form of Umaga’s star map. Throughout the show, he spent a lot of time and attention on the people who have helped him through his life and since passed away. Umaga’s humility was clear to see in these moments; he told of the people who believed in him when he didn’t, who brought him back down to earth or up out of depression, and of those who forgave him.
The honesty of his storytelling really struck me. There was a lot of success in his life that the show didn’t deny: from establishing the Pacific Nation Record label, the Whitireia contemporary music programme, and Whaikaha Ministry of Disabled People, to touring with Holidaymakers and being Nelson Mandela’s chaperone on his visit to Auckland Domain. But Umaga spoke plainly about his regrets and mistakes too, especially his internalised ableism that he had to confront even after his paralysing accident. Some of this later storytelling strayed into TED-talk territory, which jarred with the high-energy of earlier scenes. But it was arguably necessary, because stories such as hearing your assigned carer steal from you in the other room and being unable to get up and stop them, required sobriety. Alongside this, there were still strong scenes in the second half that, for example, used movement to represent the dehumanising inconsistencies of care and the experience of having to relearn your own body, which kept up the multimodality of the show.
As a show, Music Portrait of a Humble Disabled Samoan was hard to pin down. It was both a party and a reflection on trauma and struggle; a celebration of music, community and kindness, as well as a fierce challenge of lived marginalisation. The show brought Umaga’s life to forefront and—while humble is in the name—is unapologetic about being Samoan, Indigenous, disabled, and creative. So many aspects—that for another show might be a focal point—were wrapped up together as facets of this performance, just as they are facets of Umaga’s life. It was a powerful example of intersectional art and a way of realising the kaupapa: “nothing about us without us.”