With a journal in her lap, sitting on the stage floor at Roulette Intermedium on Sep. 16 — legs crossed and barefoot — composer-performer Peni Candra Rini folded memoir into a concert of traditional and experimental Javanese music. In English, she read snapshots depicting imagery layered with distinct moods from her childhood to the present. Then, singing in her native language, Rini translated these scenes into music, dance, and shadow puppet theater.
The music came from her new album Wulansih (New Amsterdam Records), meant to be “a reminder that you are still human, listening to expressions of other humans,” Rini says. Her stories ranged from family and education to poverty, climate change, spirituality, and the royal court of Indonesia, leaving little arena of human expression untouched. And yet Rini, who lectures at the Indonesian Institute of the Arts, didn’t give any lectures. The narratives were singular in tone, like her voice — only mere depictions of events and circumstances. Alongside her music, however, they frothed with meaning and emotion.
The concert opened with music in Indonesian, Rini’s first language. Accompanied by Andy McGraw plucking a pin pia and Shahzad Ismaily sustaining on a moog, Rini’s voice arced out with a translucent, bright purity; sunlight cutting through low, crushed resonances. Rini’s hands extended above her head as she soared on a note, then her arms began to collapse while her fingers toyed with the air, as if playing with the sound, deconstructing the meter.
After setting the tone, Rini spoke in English about her father. “He taught me to sing on the beach and to strengthen my voice against the waves,” she shared. Thus began a series of short narratives punctuated by her father’s impact on her growth as a singer. While on walks to the store, a six-hour trek through the forest from her village, Rini’s father taught her songs about candy so she wouldn’t be afraid of the animals she heard in the forest.
Peni Candra Rini — Photo by Matt Mehlan courtesy of Roulette
A shift in instrumentation adding Curt Sydnor on keyboard, flute, electric guitar, cello, and tom-tom — although Western instruments — didn’t shift the traditional sound of the ensemble. McGraw switched to cello, playing it over his thigh like a guitar, plucking strings while beating rhythms on its body. The flute echoed the push and pull of Rini’s voice, and the guitar kept only a constant ticking of steady notes.
“After walking through the forest, I would sleep on the shore with my father – the sounds of the waves in front of us, and the sound of animals in the mountain forest behind us. We were very poor, and we did not have electricity. The stars were my television as I fell asleep. My father would recount legend about the goddess of the Southern Sea — Roro Kidul — who protects the ocean and the people who respect it.”
The next piece began rather ominously: a dark synthesizer drone, light plucks on the zither and guitar, tone clusters on keyboard, and a meandering flute. Rini pushed her voice into chaos and fear with guttural digs, grunts, shrills, and near-shrieks, while shadow theater images rolled on the projector: people on horses, likely in battle; homes; villages — and then the rain came. And more rain. And more. It was a palpable shift in mood, texture, and Rini’s voice.
“When I was 14-years-old, my father sent me to study traditional gamelan in central Java, a day’s bus ride from my village. The singers and the sindhèn were becoming sex objects only for mostly male audiences. I thought that singers were beginning to forget the spiritual knowledge that was the core of the vocal repertoire. I wrote this piece to correct this change and remind the singers of their important role in Javanese society.”
Joined on stage by gamelan and kendang, Rini was at her most still, sitting on her knees rather than cross-legged, hands on her thighs before only delicately pressing the air in front of her. The change in atmosphere set up her next shift to climate change in Indonesia, and a particular nostalgia because of it.
Peni Candra Rini, Gamelan Kusuma Laras members, Curt Sydnor, and Shahzad Ismaily — Photo by Matt Mehlan courtesy of Roulette
“I have come a long way from my poor village roots and my experiences learning to sing in the mountain forest on the coast. I often want to go back to that place and to that time to reconnect and study the sound, again, but that forest is now gone. It was razed and replaced with industry. The mountain was cut away to export its marble. Plastic and trash is now regularly on the shore.”
Returning to the shadow theater, Rini showed the audience more images of rain and flood waters but depicted in different ways, such as rain clouds hovering over an open pair of hands. Keyboard, bass guitar, and zither complied with low, electronically enhanced resonances, while Rini reached into her highest vocal range of the night. The stark contrast between registers made both the sound and the subject matter chilling.
Rini is an interpretive master, channeling every sensation of a narrative and wringing it dry. The immersive performance showcased her vocal agility, her chemistry with the other musicians on stage, and her ability to create transcendent moments while still holding eye contact with the audience. It’s no wonder then how through her artistry, even beyond her musicianship, Rini has toiled a groundbreaking path.
In 2023, Rini was commissioned by “the young king” of Java to compose for the court. “For centuries,” Rini said, “the court has been the center of Javanese culture and arts. No woman had ever been asked to compose for the court.” Rini’s head dropped with a hefty sigh, still with no lecture. A moment later, she lifted her head back up and continued: “After I performed, I was given a court name…the highest honor offered by the king.”
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