Te hau

 TE AO MĀORI | ISSUE FIVE | PUORO O AOTEAROA / LOCAL MUSIC

Written by Skye Lunson-Storey (she/they/ia) | Whakatōhea, Ngāti Maniapoto, Ngāti Tūwharetoa | @uku_rangi  | Arts, Culture, and Te Ao Māori Editor

I like to think of te hau, the wind, as one of life's first voices. As I close my eyes, I imagine the sounds of Tāwhirimātea singing through the mountainous landscapes of Aotearoa. Breathing mauri through all that te hau touches. From a young age, I have been captivated by the sounds of taonga pūoro and its ability to act as a vessel of communication. 

I remember listening to my nan as she wrote an album on our tipuna Mokomoko, with many songs featuring the sounds of different taonga pūoro. Through this, I realised that their oro is a form of rongoā, capable of bringing healing to a deep mamae. I watched my mum as she played her kōauau to the manu. Hearing them respond in a kind, quiet conversation carried on te hau. To me, the waiata of Tāwhiri transcend both language and time. They are a reminder that communication is not always spoken; it can be breathed, felt, and remembered.

The revitalisation of taonga pūoro began with Dr Hirini Melbourne (1950-2005), who was drawn to the old taonga pūoro instruments that lay within museum cases and exhibits. Looking at these lonely taonga, he wondered what sounds they yearned to sing. Gathering a group of people already working towards the revival of this practice, they shared their mātauranga, humbly forming the Haumanu Collective, with its initial beginnings on Takaka Hill, near Nelson. 

Its name is chosen for its translation of ‘breath of birds’, grounding the collective in the tradition of taonga pūoro being used to play and communicate bird songs, whilst giving direction through its other meaning, which is ‘revival.’ If you look closely at the Haumanu logo, you will notice the kōkako, a manu renowned for its haunting song, depicted as if drawn toward the sound of a nguru, a traditional nose flute. Together, these elements speak to a reconnection between people, sound, and the natural world, te taiao.

With revitalisation happening primarily through wānanga, there has been a resurgence in people being gifted the ability to create their own taonga pūoro. Working with materials that were traditionally used, like wood, bone, hue, and even uku, this practice reconnects makers to both the whenua and the whakapapa of the instruments themselves. Uku pūoro, also known as clay pūoro, is something I’ve personally been drawn to for its grounding, tactile nature and the intimacy of shaping sound from Hineukurangi.

As this resurgence continues, knowledge around how to make your own instruments and understand the different types of taonga pūoro is becoming increasingly accessible. A great place to begin exploring more deeply is Taonga Pūoro: Singing Treasures by Brian Flintoff, which offers rich insight into the history, form, and significance of these taonga. There are also a growing number of online resources. Looking into the work of the Haumanu Collective provides a strong foundation, while the Kauae Raro Research Collective features a beautiful article by Ruby Solly on harvesting clay to create your own ukutangi, an instrument used in times of mourning.

For those wanting a more guided introduction, the SOUNZ website hosts a series titled Introduction to Taonga Pūoro, featuring renowned practitioner Jerome Kavanagh. In these videos, he shares his personal journey alongside explanations of different instruments and their purposes, connecting each back to our atua and the wider natural world they embody.

The legacy of the Tohunga Suppression Act, which I discussed in the last issue of Debate, plays a significant role in the generational gap in mātauranga surrounding taonga pūoro. This disruption severed not only knowledge but also the deeply intimate and spiritual relationships people once held with these instruments. Taonga pūoro are not simply tools for making music. They are living connections, shaped by generations who crafted their own, embedding identity, whakapapa, and wairua into each piece. 

Musicians are not separate from their art; they are formed through it, carrying its presence through all aspects of life. Sometimes even silenced by its suppression. Today, the struggle for recognition and respect remains. When the practice of something as tapu as taonga pūoro is questioned for its cost, it reflects a lingering disconnect from its true value. Yet, musicality itself exists all around us: in the subtle sound of a bird’s wings cutting through the forest air, or in the near-silence of the ruru in flight. It is present in the rhythm of the poi, in the movement of piupiu, and in the ways music and all aspects of life intertwine. All these elements speak to a worldview where sound, identity, and expression are inseparable - everything is connected.

Mauri ora!