Do you hear what I hear?

It's been a busy week for Maltese politics. Especially for certain sound engineers who've spent their time dissecting, amplifying, and generally toying around with those now-infamous few seconds of parliamentary proceedings.

I'm not terribly troubled over whether Justyne Caruana voted 'Yes' or 'No' (though if I were a betting man I'd go for the former, just on a hunch). Rather, I find myself intrigued by this whole business of, shall we call it 'politics of sound'?

It sounded like a definite 'Yes' on One Radio. Funny thing is, when I listened to the recording on Radio 101 I began to have my doubts. Two syllables seemed to fuse into one and, rather like Macbeth looking into the witches cauldron, I could swear I saw the negative spirit rising from the brew.

I've met Nationalists who said it was clearly a 'No' and Labourites who asked how one could doubt the clear evidence of the senses.

How indeed - unless, of course, one should be accustomed to living in a sensory world which is itself linked to party politics. Could it be that neither Radio 101 nor One Radio cheated, and that people actually heard different things depending on which side of the great divide their hats were deposited?

I think it a plausible thought. I grew up in Valletta with the General Workers' Union headquarters very much within earshot. The sound of 'irriduħ lill-Karmenu irriduħ' played over and over again will forever be the sound of 1980s politics to me. Together with the American union tune We Shall Not Be Moved that we sang to at Church school rallies, among other musical moments.

That the two big parties leave their mark on pretty much every aspect of life in Malta is no news. What is sometimes sidelined is that they've each also spawned their own sounds and music. It's probably fair to say Nationalists and Labourites inhabit quite different soundscapes.

Labour have been by far the more musically enterprising of the two. Especially in the 1970s and 80s, the party became associated with a generous and ever-expanding portfolio of songs, usually in Maltese and set to original music.

The 'epic' moment was reached in 1982 with Ġensna, a musical that portrayed Maltese history as a series of working-class struggles leading up to Freedom Day. The quirky sets and costumes, the triumphalist (to put it very mildly) lyrics in often-archaic Maltese ('issielet', 'misraħ', and such), and the debatable storyline, lent themselves to much fun and parody in the PN camp.

For Labourites, it was a different matter. Tickets for last year's performances of Ġensna sold out within hours, and I'm reliably told many people in the audience wept openly as memories and emotion took over.

But back to the 1980s, and to PN events this time. Although the party produced some very clever choreography, it was rather comatose in terms of original music. The official sound of PN meetings at the time was split between Rondò Veneziano's easy tunes and Hector Bruno's Karmenu iz-Zero, and such charming concoctions, all set to borrowed music. We're Ready For Eddie, sung in English, proved a perennial favourite.

One would think their musical originality worked in Labour's favour, but not necessarily. It may well be that the Rondò-Bruno combo was in fact a smart move. Hardly artistic, but smart nonetheless. The PN at the time was busy building a political alliance between people from working-class (and often Labour) backgrounds, and middle-class establishment and aspiration.

Bruno saw to the former element, the genteel pseudo-classical sound of Rondò Veneziano (plus the measured use of the English language) to the latter. Whether you were a dyed-in-the-wool Nationalist prone to saying nasty things about Labour politicians, or a mild-mannered civil servant eager to see your children through a Church school education, you sort of felt at home in a PN meeting.

The same could hardly be said of Mary Spiteri and Co.'s product. When you heard that sound, you knew you were either with or against it. Songs like Ma Niċħdek Qatt ('I'll never let you down') and Ħaddemin ('Workers') stood for a socialist and protectionist Malta, no more no less. These songs are still played on One Radio, especially around Freedom Day and May 1, and I rather suspect PN strategists rub their hands in delight every time Labour disc-jockeys do their memory work for them.

Speaking of Spiteri, boy did her voice and phrasing lend themselves to that kind of sound. She's the undoubted doyenne of Labour music, and rightly so. Which doesn't mean she's isolated, for both parties have sought to appropriate Maltese singers for themselves. Some singers, eager to avoid being associated with either party, make it a point of lending a vocal chord whenever asked to. Others are quite happy to make exclusively blue or red noises.

Things have somewhat changed since the 1980s. Labour spin doctors became increasingly happy to latch on to some chart-topping dance tune. At one point, for example, you could hardly think 'Manwel Cuschieri' without 'hearing' Robert Miles's Children. The last great chapter of original song-writing was the EU referendum campaign, when each party came up with its own sound. That time, the melodic Ngħidu Iva ('Let's say Yes') trumped the silly Partnership - probably with not-insignificant results.

I've limited myself to official party music. There is, of course, another world of vernacular ditties, usually vulgar, which keen supporters of each party know well and find themselves humming while shopping on Oxford Street. I hope that someday someone will compile these, for they tell us a lot about Maltese politics.

In sum, the 'Maltese miracle' (where such a small island produces so much difference) also has its roots in sound and music. In a world where Mitna Għalxejn ('We died in vain') from Ġensna brings a smirk to some and a sob to others, perhaps it's not so strange to think how variably Justyne Caruana's lyrics ring.

mafalzon@hotmail.com