Clay Punk
An Indonesian Tile Factory's House Band: Talawengkar #circa2023
Of all the countries I’ve toured through for music, Indonesia is the one that fascinated me most. Indonesians have an extraordinary way with their hands, and art flows effortlessly across mediums. A guitarist builds instruments from whatever materials are close at hand. A percussionist does the same. And if music isn’t your craft but making things is, you lend your skills to someone else and become part of the collective. It’s the only place I’ve encountered where collaboration emerges this naturally.
At a time when musicians are retreating deeper into their bedrooms with VSTs and unlimited access to gear, towns like Bandung, Yogyakarta, and the tiny, unassuming Jatiwangi are home to art collectives producing remarkable work across almost every medium imaginable.
A couple of years ago, we set off on a road trip across Java, led by two brilliant figures from the local music scene: Tedi and Dito. We travelled from Jakarta to the far eastern reaches of the island, meeting musicians, craftspeople, and artists along the way. Tedi fronts the phenomenal band LAIR and part of the Jatiwangi Art Factory, while Dito runs the wonderfully eclectic Orange Cliff Records. Together, they’re an unstoppable combination.
We arrived in Jatiwangi late that night, exhausted. Before turning in, Tedi warned us we’d need to be up early for a visit to the Jatiwangi Tile Factory - which, as the name rather plainly suggests, is exactly that: a factory that makes clay roof tiles.
Morning came, and so did Tedi. We were dragged out of bed, bundled into a car, and driven through Jatiwangi’s dry, sun-scorched landscape to the factory. Still half asleep, I rubbed my eyes, hoping I was dreaming. I wasn’t.
Workers hauled enormous mounds of clay, shaping each tile entirely by hand - tiles that would eventually become someone else’s roof. Before I had the chance to ask Tedi why he’d brought us here, I noticed him and his friends setting up microphones in one corner of the factory. Cables were uncoiled, a PA system came to life, and within minutes the workshop had been transformed into a performance space.
Then the very same men who had been hauling clay since sunrise carried over a new set of tiles. But these weren’t roofing tiles anymore. They had been transformed into instruments: a xylophone, percussion pieces, an entire ensemble sculpted and fired from clay.
The most formidable-looking worker stepped up to the microphone.
Then they began to sing.
“Oman, Oman...” he called out—a gentle reminder to himself not to forget to pick up his wife after work. Another song urged everyone to work harder and faster, a playful jab, perhaps, at the factory owners standing just a few feet away.A small crowd gathered. Children wandered over. Neighbours stopped to watch. The factory owners stood nearby.
Only later did I learn that this was how these men spent their lunch break: writing songs, rehearsing together, and becoming what I can only describe as one of the most honest punk bands I’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing.
True grit. Handmade instruments. Honest songs about the everyday grind.
Here’s what they look like: