there are enough f*cking seats for us at the table

The following long read was originally published in 2024, but as Junkee recalibrates (you might’ve heard… bit going on), we wanted to share an important piece from our past. We’ll be back next week with a refreshed and original pov.

When I was growing up, I thought that Indigenous artists had to be seen and not heard. I saw how the industry boxed them up, labelled “Indigenous artists”, and put that box in a corner — only to be dusted off whenever a token Blakfella (just the one) was needed.

Indigenous artists were considered “traditional” because they sometimes sang in language. They produced “thought-provoking protest anthems” but actually just wrote about their lived experiences. They “treated Australians” to “reconciliation rock” while also “forcing” their way into the top 40 ARIA charts. They were something to marvel at; placed just outside the consciousness of the ‘Real Australian’ music talent, an aside or add-on to the main event: mediocre copy-and-paste white artists. Our ‘next big thing!’.

I can count on one hand the Indigenous songs the majority of Australians might be able to sing along to — and it’s pretty telling that most of them project Indigenous pain and suffering. The all-important ‘My Island Home’ by Christine Anu and Warumpi Band and ‘Treaty’ by Yothu Yindi were the only songs to feature in APRA’s Top 30 Australian songs in 2001 (they ranked at 25 and 27). Meanwhile ‘Beds Are Burning’ by Midnight Oil — the song about Indigenous land rights inspired by the band seeing living conditions in remote Aboriginal communities — was number three that year. It was the song Garrett said he was “born to write”, but how sick would it have been if this white man’s career-defining track had come second to an Indigenous artist’s own incredible single?

These tracks weren’t in short supply. Artists like Uncle Archie Roach, Aunty Ruby Hunter, Georgia Lee, Gurrumul, The Donovans, and the Warumpi Band paved the way for Indigenous music to be recognised. And before them, we had Harold Blair, Australia’s first Indigenous-trained opera singer; No Fixed Address, the first “notable” Indigenous band or the Jimmy Little Trio, who, in the ’60s, was one of the first all-Aboriginal commercial recording bands. We had Yothu Yindi, Isaac Yamma, Trevor Anderson, and Auriel Andrew, the first Indigenous woman to perform on Australian television in the 1970s. We had Vic Sabrino (George Assang), who may very well have made the first Australian rock and roll recording. In the face of decades of racism, they persevered in the hopes that their struggles might bear fruit to a new generation of artists.

Even at their “peak”, though, many didn’t know who these artists were. Reaching viable sustainable success as a First Nations artist was near-impossible. “I think there’s a massive challenge in the music industry around people needing to have proximity to whiteness and power to be able to succeed,” RONA. says. “One of the key mechanisms in [changing] that is funding.”

Growing up in the 2000s, I knew little of this. I just knew I didn’t see artists I could look up to. The glimpses of my culture I did see, though, stuck with me. I remember watching The Voice (the irony) when Delta sang ‘Bayini’ with Gurrumul in 2013 or when ZK — the duo made up of Zaachariaha Fielding, who is now half of Electric Fields, and Kristal West — made it to the finals in 2014. (I still get goosebumps watching their performance of ‘Imagine’ incorporating the Yidaki, with Bangarra dancers behind them.) I remember when The Sapphires came out. I cherished these moments dearly. They were few and far between.

A 2010 report found that Indigenous artists made up just 1.37 percent of ABC’s music output in 2008, and only 0.8 percent in 2006, even less in the years prior. Remember So Fresh! CDs? Growing up, they were the hottest things out — if your song made it onto So Fresh!, you were a Big Deal. 24 years and 93 CDs later, only three First Nations artists — Jess Mauboy, Briggs and The Kid Laroi — have ever been featured. Bob the Builder — yes, the fictional children’s character — made it onto a So Fresh! CD seven years before an Indigenous artist did.

Ignorance is bliss, and the Australian music industry thrived on it. Teenage-me quickly realised that to see myself in Australian music culture, I had to search for it myself.

I first found Thelma Plum in 2016. She called Channel 7’s popular morning show Sunrise and Alan Jones a “bunch of racist cunts,” and it made a tiny little section on The Daily Telegraph. My dad just happened to leave that page of the paper open on our kitchen table, so I read it. I was 15 and it was the first time I’d seen an Indigenous artist call shit out. Who was this glorious, unapologetic queen?

I quickly fell in love with her discography, too. It felt like I’d found an artist that spoke a secret language I understood; lyrics only I could fully decode. I was so excited to finally get the representation I’d longed for. I felt proud to listen to her music. How quickly that door was slammed shut.

After Thelma started speaking out against racism, sexism, and abuse, I watched her get mercilessly attacked. I saw how people tried to dim the light of one of the only “commercial” Indigenous women in music; to push her away. Back into that Indigenous box. I learned that people would always defend their favourite white Australian band, despite how problematic they were. The reason I was so drawn to Thelma was the very reason why the public turned away.

“Australia was more racist, it still is a lot,” Plum says. “I think the music industry is definitely very different [today] in all aspects, but definitely for Blak people. I know you would have heard this, but there was this big thing about there not being enough seats at the table. It’d be like, ‘Oh, we’ve got one. That’s all we need. Do you know the diversity girl? We need our Indigenous girl. Where is she?’”

For the handful of Indigenous rappers who were trying to make it in the scene in the early 2000s — Nooky, Briggs, Wire MC, Street Warriors, The Last Kinection — it was just as hard.

“We were doing shows in Sydney and if you wasn’t good, you’d know. Shit was ruthless back then,” Nooky says. “And when you’re a Blakfella in there, you have to be twice as good. You really had to hold it down. I remember doing these shows and when [I was] on some real rap shit, they were loving it. The minute I dropped down and did some real Blak stuff, they turned their fucking backs. Soon as I’m rapping again, they’re back into it. It was difficult to be in that space. I couldn’t fucking imagine what it’d be like before that.”

“I feel like the waves kept crashing and breaking it down slowly,” he says. “Even the older fullas, the Coloured Stone’s, the Uncle Archie’s, the No Fixed Address’s, they done their part and broke down barriers then the next ones came through, the Briggs’ and all that and took it a bit further and then allowed us to come in and we did our own thing. We took on that brunt of the bullshit.”

Growing up in Lutruwita in the 2000s, then-aspiring (still iconic) artist Miss Kaninna took notes. “I think 10 years ago, a lot of Blakfellas that were making music were paving the way for us and they would have had to deal with so much bullshit,” she tells me. “And they would have had to be really careful about what they put out and how they say it, and what spaces they’re allowed to be in.”

Thelma’s Better In Blak came along in 2019 and became one of the most influential albums in Australian music history, and it was all about how this country, and the industry, treats Blak women. It was heralded as a triumph, but it wasn’t smooth sailing. After all, one of the worst things you can do in this country as a Blak person is hold up a mirror to white Australia. I had mixed feelings towards those who started backing Thelma in 2019. If these people weren’t by her side in 2016, they shouldn’t get to claim her now.

It angered me that our artists still weren’t succeeding as they should. How come they have to work twice as hard for a sliver of the recognition that’s afforded to white artists every day?

The answer? Systemic racism. Why would a nation built off the back of colonisation and slavery, one that continues to deny that very history, want a loud, proud Blak artist at the top of the charts? Artists they can’t control. Scared they’d stray from the script written for them to be good, quiet Aboriginal artists. Artists that didn’t question the fragile structures that kept First Nations peoples oppressed. Uncle Archie Roach’s ‘Took the Children Away’ from his 1990 album Charcoal Lane is one of the most important songs in Australian music. One that so clearly lays out the lived experience of a child taken during the Stolen Generation. And one of the only songs that puts into words what my great grandfather experienced when he was taken.

These aren’t the artists, or the stories, that the Australian music industry wants to platform. And by extension, that the Australian public gets to hear. And that’s really fucking sad.

My anger stayed with me for a long time. It would bubble up at every mob event I went to where some of the most talented artists in the country were performing to the same crowds of us. Watching artists like Barkaa, Nooky, Tasman Keith, and Kobie Dee perform at mob events provides such a tender connection between us all – I love that. But deep down it irritated me that these artists weren’t getting the exposure to the rest of the Australian public. They’re limited to “26 Indigenous artists to listen to this Invasion Day” playlists. Or picked as the one token Indigenous artist on the festival lineup that plays well before crowds start showing up. Or wheeled out on NAIDOC Week or Reconciliation Week or Sorry Day.

That anger led to me originally pitching, writing (but not publishing) the first iteration of what you’re reading now: Why Is There Only A Spotlight On Indigenous Singers During NAIDOC Week? At the time, I had just gone to NAIDOC Up Late at Barangaroo, a live music event headlined by Barkaa. A.GIRL, Nooky, Tasman Keith, B Wise, Mau Power, Wizz, Munkimuk, and Nino Brown also performed.

“What was bleedingly obvious about this event was how few people were actually there,” I wrote over a year ago. “It seemed like a majority of the crowd were either already fans of the artists or First Nations themselves. Where was everyone? It felt like a kick in the guts. Here we have some of the best First Nations talent in the country performing on a week celebrating our Elders, and yet it felt like not enough people were there to witness it.”

“When we talk about Indigenous singers or rappers, they are commonly referred to as ‘up and coming’ but it begs the question, when do they actually come up? When will they get to the same status as their non-Indigenous peers?”

A year on, things feel wildly different. It feels like we’re on the cusp of a much larger cultural shift — one that’s snowballing towards the Blak Music Industry.

According to Kobie Dee, now is the best time to be a First Nations artist. “I feel like we’re just kind of creating our own way,” he says. “We’re opening our own doors and getting our foot into places. I was just thinking about [how] there’s room for all of us, and we’re all shining on our own but still so together as a community, because we’ve all come up together.”

Where last year I hardly saw anyone outside of the community at these events, Indigenous artists are selling out their own tours, releasing incredible bodies of work, and winning coveted awards. Thelma Plum, Emily Wurramara, Miss Kaninna, Kobie Dee, 3%, Ziggy Ramo, Sycco, Barkaa, Briggs, Becca Hatch, and Dobby all dropped albums or EPs this year. More than half of them went on tour. Tracks that never would have been celebrated in 2016 were now gaining real traction everywhere.

“It’s fucking mad and it’s exciting,” Nooky says. “It’s a lot Blaker than what it was. If Kobie Dee isn’t one of your top five, you’re tripping. And Trials, still to this day is my number one. He’s by far the best rapper this country’s produced. Blak rap is taking over and you can’t stop it. Miss Kaninna, you can’t look past. There’s a mad crew coming through the ranks.”

If it’s difficult for Indigenous men to create a presence in the industry, it’s doubly so for women. Since she began making music, Barkaa’s been dominating in a field of men. Now, she’s not so alone. “It’s been absolutely amazing to see [Miss Kaninna],” Barkaa tells me. “Seeing our little Blak sisters getting that representation and seeing [who] our babies get to look up to. And mob are just taking it to the next level. We’re just keeping on that stepping stone our Elders have paved for us. It’s takeover season fuckers, you thought we was fucking around? Fuck no.”

Ziggy Ramo, ever the truth-teller, recognises it’s “amazing” to see such growth in Indigenous artists cutting through, even if sometimes it feels like just acknowledging this is a “double-edged sword”. “You want to still hold people’s feet to the fire so we don’t lose urgency but then you also want to be really genuine in acknowledging and celebrating the shift and change.” He knows we have to keep moving forward.

“From where I was [in 2016] to now and what the landscape looks like, it’s completely shifting. That doesn’t mean that we still don’t have to keep shifting.”

Briggs also tells me we’re not there yet, “... but we’re carving out our piece of the mainstream. We don’t have to minimise who we are as people, various nations or anything, we can be ourselves and still be excellent, still be amazing because we are. Now the rest of the industry is taking notice. We’re changing the face of what Australian music can look like. It’s everybody.”

To be an Indigenous artist is to come up against politics every day. The Voice referendum inflicted yet another trauma upon us – and the ramifications are massive. “I’ve noticed it’s harder as a Blak musician to crack it now because the whole country, or 80-something percent, just said we don’t matter, the stories you’re telling don’t matter, we don’t wanna hear it, you don’t deserve to tell them. So the next ones are gonna have to fight even harder but the fight never stops.” In November, when 3% won Best Hip-Hop Rap at the ARIAs (and the ABC subsequently referred to the group as “lesser-known”), he said in his acceptance speech: “We made this album at a time when people said our people shouldn’t have a voice. Well, it looks like they fuckin’ heard it.”

For Thelma, it’s been a welcome change seeing other deadly Blak women climb the ranks in Australian music. “I will use any moment I can to talk about Miss Kaninna, who is just so insanely talented,” Thelma says. “Miss Kaninna also has pop girlie vibes as well. I think that’s really fun, because for a very long time, Australia had a certain idea of what an Indigenous artist looked like. But do you know what an Aboriginal artist looks like? Australia had a very one sort of idea, and that is not the case now. But [we have] Barkaa, who I love, The Kid Laroi, and I think Nooky has done a really good job of that with 3% as well, but with the Blakout on Triple J in showcasing Aboriginal talent in a way that is not tokenistic.”

At this year’s ARIAs, there were the most Indigenous artists ever nominated, with Emily Wurramara making history as the first Indigenous woman to win Best Adult Contemporary Album and Miss Kaninna being the first independent Aboriginal woman to be nominated for a debut single. “First Nations artists only make up such a small percentage of the industry,” Emily tells me. “And so every level of success that is being had by one artist, I feel like that is a collective celebration, because we’re being seen. We’re being heard.”

Sycco, the second-most-played artist on Triple J behind Lime Cordiale this year tells me “representation is everything”. “It’s just fucking sick people doing what they’re passionate about.” For Tia Gostelow, “it feels as though the scene is going from strength to strength and that is highlighted by the incredible music and art that is coming from First Nations artists … The exciting thing for First Nations artists in lots of cases is that they have a powerful and unique story to tell and that is a great first step.”

And all this isn’t thanks to the Australian music industry finally putting in the work to platform Indigenous artists. It’s thanks to the work that these artists have put into saying ‘fuck you’ and making their own industry. The seeds were planted by the likes of Uncle Archie Roach, Yothu Yindi, Gurrumul, and the Warumpi Band long ago. Now the Australian music industry can no longer ignore, or deny, their impact.

As for what’s next, Ziggy has thoughts. “I really hope we get to a place where people get to be appreciated for their craft. It was just so cool to see 3%, Miss Kaninna, Becca Hatch and everyone who jumped up [at Blak Powerhouse] like JK-47 and Kobie Dee. That’s the thing, Kobie is just a better rapper than everyone. He’s just a better storyteller than everyone. But it’s like, ‘Oh, he’s really good for a First Nations artist.’ No, he’s just better than everyone.”

Above all else, Thelma Plum just feels proud. “It’s just so different to what it was 10 years ago. It’s funny, I’m getting flashbacks. But really no it’s different, and I feel really happy that it is and I hope it keeps changing.”

To think that if I were writing this piece 20 years ago, there’d only be a handful of artists I’d be able to speak to. Today, there’s too many to even fit into one article. And while the change has been long awaited, I feel honoured to be alive at the same time as these incredible artists, whose strength, determination, and power has changed the Australian music industry forever.

As Thelma says, “There are enough fucking seats for us at the table. Pull up a chair.”

By Ky Stewart.