State sanctioned bangers: Gaddafi’s Forgotten Funk Experiments
Times of political change, throughout history, have almost always been accompanied by a soundtrack. Before mass media, music was perhaps the most effective vehicle for spreading a message – and even now, songs of revolution and defiance from the past half a millennium continue to influence contemporary culture.
Afrobeat is a prominent example, Fela Kuti’s pointed responses to Nigeria’s political struggles in the mid-1960s now drives dancefloors across the globe, with artists like Burna Boy, Wizkid and Tems selling out arenas internationally. Music remains as a vital medium for Palestinian artists to shed light on the ongoing genocide in Gaza. Yet alongside acting as a mode of resistance, music can also act as a means of control. It’s not surprising that plenty of governments have looked to use it as a propaganda tool - to varying degrees of success.
A few months ago I found myself nodding along to a viral clip of a catchy funk song which, unbeknownst to me, was espousing the political theories of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi.
In the late 1970s, Gaddafi was in the midst of reshaping Libya through his ‘green book’ philosophy, after seizing control from the western-backed Idris monarchy in 1969 through a military coup. Convinced that music would equally and capably spread his message as pamphlets or parades, Gaddafi's regime set up what was effectively a state-sponsored record label.
The machinery behind this musical project was the Overseas Broadcasting Department of the Socialist Jamahiriya (OBDSJ), which operated just across the Mediterranean Sea in politically sympathetic Malta. Local singers and producers were recruited to provide slick disco, funk and pop tracks to capture the imagination of the younger generation. Much of the recording took place in Italy, which had a more developed studio infrastructure.
On the surface, these songs sounded like the era’s mainstream hits - glossy production, catchy hooks, multilingual vocals. The song that initially caught my attention via social media - Desert Green by Marisa – sounds not unlike something you’d hear on a modern dancefloor, with playful female vocals dancing over fluttering synths and a four to the floor rhythm. Unlike your stereotypical disco song, however, the lyrics praise Libya’s bountiful natural resources. The catchy refrain that opens each verse - “the desert green on the Libyan plain shall surely provide sustained supplies” - reflects a 1960’s plan to invest in Libyan agriculture and end the country’s reliance on foreign imports.
Another tune, Susy Puglisi’s Lodi alla Mia Terra, leans more into Italian and Southern European influences to provide what’s unquestionably an absolute toe tapper. But beneath the grooves, the lyrics carried Gaddafi’s slogans and political ideals. This was propaganda wrapped in disco sheen.
The most famous release was an album called Jamahiriya, named after Gaddafi’s political system. Tracks like September Revolution, Young Men Say It’s O.K. in Libya Today, and Voice of Friendship and Solidarity are as on-the-nose as their titles suggest. Another single, Sail Along Jamahiriya, leans into praising Gaddafi’s leadership as the path to harmony. There are even rumours of an ambitious rock-opera project that was in development.
The songs didn’t have much commercial success outside of Libya. Government-mandated art doesn’t have the same inherent edge as its counter cultural opposite, which can capture the ears and minds of listeners and inspire solidarity for struggles halfway across the world. In fact, many have been lost to history, with only the work of a few hardy record collectors and internet archivists ensuring that we can listen to them today.
This has caused an unlikely renaissance of the music once thought to be lost to history. The viral clip of Desert Green has racked up over 1.6m views and 111,000 likes on Instagram. On Reddit, there are entire threads dedicated to unearthing lost Jamahiriya tunes, with researchers working to create a digital library for easy access. For the Libyan diaspora, songs like Desert Green are a trip down memory lane, inspiring nostalgia for a time when these songs floated through family homes - even if their messages were state-scripted. For others - particularly younger listeners encountering them online - they’re less about memory and more about novelty. Our ability to enjoy them outside of the context they were created in allows us to view them solely as cultural oddities, designed to entertain rather than persuade.
Crucially though, they stand as an example of the awkward marriage of ideology and pop, providing an important reminder of how regimes have long tried to co-opt culture for their own ends. And that impulse hasn’t gone away. Today it tends to be less obvious than a disco track praising the “September Revolution,” but governments still use music to shape opinion and quell opposition – be it through strategic arts funding that shapes what gets made or international festivals designed to polish national reputations.
That doesn’t make Desert Green or Jamahiriya any less strange or entertaining when they resurface on Instagram feeds and Reddit threads. But it does underline the point that culture is never neutral when power is involved.
Written by Dylan Burchill
Edited by Zak Hardy