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| The members of Me N Ma Girls, all in their early 20s, travel to rehearsals in traditional outfits, because the shorts and tank tops they rehearse in would raise eyebrows in Rangoon. After decades of military rule, Burma is slowly opening to new forms of culture. (Photo courtesy of Me N Ma Girls) |
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With
sensual choreography and provocative outfits, Burma’s first girl band pushes
the limits of artistic acceptability in this socially conservative country.
But when
their parents call, asking why they are not home at 10 p.m., the five band
members scurry back to being deferential daughters. “We are living two
different lives,” said Lung Sitt Ja Moon, who is known onstage as Ah Moon. “We
do what we want to do onstage, and then we go home to our parents.”
The band is
called Me N Ma Girls, a play on “Myanmar girls,” referring to an alternative
name for the country. They are battling conservative parents, government
censorship and boyfriends who think it is outrageous that they go onstage in
such skimpy outfits.
“We try our
best to be hot, but not too sexy,” said Wai Hnin Khaing, another band member.
Burma is
emerging after years of dictatorial military rule and isolation. There is talk
that the censorship board, which vets songs, articles and movies, will be
abolished. Government-sanctioned art and traditional, ankle-length sarongs are
being challenged by the prospect of more Western-inspired entertainment,
clothing and lifestyles.
“People
think that if a girl is wearing something too sexy, she’s not normal,” said Ah
Moon, whose preacher father is still grappling with her career choice. “They
think she’s a bad girl.”
The members
of Me N Ma Girls, all in their early 20s, often travel to rehearsals dressed in
traditional outfits. The denim shorts and tank tops they rehearse in would
raise eyebrows on the streets of Rangoon.
The band
members do not see themselves as rebels. All five have college degrees:
chemistry, zoology, mathematics, Russian and computer science. They are tapping
into a trend by Burma’s younger generation to embrace Western pop culture.
Me N Ma
Girls released its first album in December and has been raising its profile
with a recent string of concerts in Rangoon. The band is the creation of an
Australian dancer and graphic designer, Nicole May, who came to Burma three
years ago and teamed up with a Burmese, Moe Kyaw. He initially financed the
effort.
May chose
five women from 120 candidates who responded to an ad for a band called Tiger
Girls. “I wanted five girls who had energy and magnetic attraction,” she said.
But her
winners did not have the South Korean look Moe Kyaw was aiming for:
light-skinned with willowy bodies.
“I was
skeptical,” he said in response to e-mailed questions. “If you were to ask me
if I thought they had the looks for a successful girl band, I would say no.”
Moe Kyaw
said he initially relented because he thought that the girls were talented and
that looks were not everything. “This was during the days of Susan Boyle,” he
said, recalling the unprepossessing Scottish singer who soared to stardom on a
British TV talent show.
But he
changed his mind. A year ago, the partners parted. The girls followed May and
changed their name to Me N Ma Girls.
The notion
of an all-girl band is still novel here, said Heather MacLachlan, a professor
of music at the University of Dayton and the author of a recent book, “Burma’s
Pop Music Industry: Creators, Distributors, Censors.”
The band
sings about love and heartbreak and boy-meets-girl situations that might be
benign in other cultures but rankle in a society where children live with their
parents until they are married.
In the
video for their song “Festival,” the girls dance in a sweaty nightclub and take
a dip in a swimming pool. They peer over sunglasses as they sing the suggestive
lines: “Hey, you! Are you happy? You want some?”
“I’ve NEVER
seen girls behave like that, ever,” MacLachlan wrote in an e-mail, referring to
Burmese girls.
As pop
musicians in Burma, Me N Ma Girls face a unique set of problems. The power
regularly goes out in one of their practice locations and the roof leaks during
the rainy season. The censors barred the band from using colored wigs last
year. “Tipping” the censors eases the process.
Growing
name recognition has yet to translate to financial success.
Wai Hnin
Khaing’s mother makes a living selling pork salad on the street for 200 kyat,
or about 25 cents, a plate.
Lalrin
Kimi, who goes by Kimmy onstage, grew up in a mountain village near the border
with India, an area that suffers from famine and plagues of rice-eating rats.
She lives with her siblings in Rangoon and makes a living singing in bars and
restaurants.
Her father
disapproved of her joining the band. “He wanted me to do only gospel songs,”
she said.
The girls
have big dreams.
“I want
this band to hit Hollywood!” said Su Pyae Mhu Eain, the zoology major, known as
Cha Cha.
Cha Cha’s
own experiences inspired a song about a breakup, featuring the chorus, “You are
a liar!” The song’s video was shot in Bangkok late last year.
For most of
the band, that trip was the first time outside impoverished Burma. They
marveled at Bangkok’s mass transit, the malls and the anonymity of a big city.
“I felt
freedom there,” Kimmy said. “We could wear whatever. We didn’t need to care
about other people. Here, if we wear shorts, we get teased.”
The band
also saw the libertine side of Bangkok, including a sex show. “There were so
many things we don’t see in Myanmar,” Kimmy said. “Prostitutes — so many!” (The
show, which featured one particularly explicit sex act, was too much for Cha
Cha. She ran to the ladies’ room and vomited.)
The girls
are planning a return early this year, where they will perform with other bands
from Burma. In the meantime, they focus on rehearsals, and keeping their
parents soothed.
Band member
Htike Htike Aung received a text message from her mother after one recent
rehearsal carried over to midnight.
“Do you
know you still have parents!” the message read, followed by more pleading: “My
little daughter, call me back!”
She returned
home and found her mother waiting for her with a home-cooked meal.
“She never
goes to sleep until I get back,” Htike Htike Aung said. “I felt so bad.”
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