I wrote an essay for the latest issue of Maura Magazine, "The Beach," about the cultural and political legacy of Jawaiian music. It's behind a paywall, but the issue is well worth the $2.99 price. Here's an excerpt:
To any outsider, the music might seem anonymous, annoyingly formulaic, and utterly foreign. “Why has this music persisted despite its obvious absurdity?” they might ask. The answer is in its politics. Reggae caught on in the islands at just the right time: In the early ‘80s, just as major reggae bands were touring the Pacific, Native Hawaiian groups were in the infancy of their activism. They were then beginning to organize in opposition to the military occupation of sacred lands like Makua Valley and the island of Kaho‘olawe, and what many view as the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy by a group of American merchants in 1893. At the same time, the health of the Native Hawaiian population was in a dire state. Native Hawaiians have a higher risk of obesity, diabetes, and alcohol abuse compared to other minority groups in the state, face unique challenges in education, and are continually overlooked in national conversations on native rights.
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But writing off Jawaiian as a joke does nothing to halt its popularity, since across the state, it is the background music of choice for nearly every major event or venue. It’s pumped through the speakers at local malls, sets the mood for networking events and hotel and office lobbies and street fairs and television commercials and, yes, beach days around the islands. Locals like me may claim to despise it, and pretend to endure it only grudgingly, but it remains so universal that I can still sing along to the choruses of most radio hits from the last 20 years, like the Mana‘o Company’s “Drop Baby Drop,” or J Boog’s “Letʻs Do It Again.”