Sound, Story, and Survival: A Maker’s Perspective on the Native American Flute

by Charlie Mato-Toyela

I have been making and playing what are now commonly called Native American flutes since I was fifteen years old. At that time, I spent a great deal of my life with friends and distant relatives traveling the powwow circuit and observing what other Native people were doing musically and artistically. Much of that time was spent in the southeastern United States, though my experiences also include travel and extended stays with Cherokee and Choctaw families in Alabama, Tennessee, Texas and Oklahoma. My understanding of the flute did not come from a single source, but from years of observation, instruction, experimentation, and lived experience.

One of my earliest teachers was a relative from Tennessee who lived near where I grew up in Molino, Florida, just across the Alabama line. He was a knife maker by trade and showed me how to make what he called a flute—an instrument that today would likely be recognized as a Native American flute, though at the time it was simply something functional and familiar. Over the years, my understanding of what he was making has expanded, especially as I came to recognize the difference between instruments copied from modern craft guides and those based on older, original examples.

A defining moment in my learning came unexpectedly from my grandfather. On the day I was preparing to go learn more about flute making, he asked what I was doing. When I told him, he said plainly, “I’m Native American too—and I know how to make a flute.” He then cut a small maple sapling and showed me how to make a simple whistle, a form he had grown up making in North Alabama. That whistle, made from bark rather than carved wood, stayed with me for decades. Years later, while researching family history and reviewing Native rolls—particularly Cherokee rolls—I encountered a documented reference to a man named “Bark Flute”. That discovery did not serve as proof, but as confirmation that what I had been taught fit within a broader historical pattern.

As a maker, I have always been attentive to form and function. Historically, six-hole flutes did exist, but they were generally smaller in diameter and modest in length. Over time, especially during the mid-20th-century revival of Native arts and crafts, certain designs became standardized. One of the most influential sources was Ben Hunt’s Guide to Indian Arts and Crafts, an early 1900s publication that introduced many people to flute making in the 1950s and 1960s. While the fingering placement Hunt suggested was often fairly accurate, the interior diameters he prescribed were not always consistent with older instruments. This distinction is important. Historically, these flutes tended naturally toward minor pentatonic scales, but they were not keyed in the modern sense. A maker a thousand years ago was not concerned with whether a flute fell in the key of A or B; the goal was simply to create an instrument that sounded balanced and pleasing. Whether a flute had four, five, or six holes, its inherent scale tended toward a minor pentatonic structure through practical design rather than theoretical intent.

The difference emerges in some modern reproductions. Flutes made following later guides—particularly those that specify a larger bore diameter not commonly observed in historical examples—often require the player to take an additional step in order to access the instrument’s inherent base pentatonic scale. That step is the need to keep the third finger hole covered during normal play. This requirement appears to result from design interpretation rather than from a historical actuality of the instrument itself.

In reality, most archaic instruments tend toward natural scales. Minor pentatonic scales appear frequently not because they were artificially imposed, but because they emerge easily from functional design. Over time, however, repeated copying of modern plans—and later, commercial expectations—cemented certain assumptions as tradition.

It is worth noting that Native cultures did not produce only one kind of flute. Four-hole and five-hole flutes were common, and flute types were shared across regions and cultures throughout the Americas. During one trip to Central Mexico, I carried a four-hole whistle with me. A close friend there, who owned a shop, remarked on how difficult such instruments were to play. When I demonstrated it, the surprise was not that it worked, but that familiarity and understanding mattered more than design complexity.

At times, misconceptions surface in more troubling ways. I once had someone at a powwow tell me that Native people were “nothing more than cavemen.” This was not my belief, but a comment made to me—and one that has stayed with me because it illustrates how deeply misunderstanding can run. Indigenous peoples of the Americas developed complex mathematical systems, architectural traditions, agricultural knowledge, and ceremonial practices long before European contact. The idea that Native instruments were arbitrary, crude, or accidental simply does not align with historical reality.

Modern media has also shaped perception. Early Western films established the Native American flute as a sonic symbol—often low, somber, and solitary. In some cases, these sounds were produced not by traditional flutes at all, but by orchestral instruments chosen to evoke mood. Over time, audiences came to associate that sound with authenticity, and makers—including myself—adapted in response. While I originally tuned flutes by ear and resisted European tuning systems, practical realities eventually required compromise so musicians could play together. Even so, I have always tried to honor the original intent of the instrument rather than turning it into a novelty.

For many people today, the Native American flute is an accessible doorway into music. It offers confidence, expression, and connection. I have seen it change lives—not because the flute itself is magical, but because it allows people to access something already within them. At the same time, that accessibility makes it especially vulnerable to oversimplification and romanticization.

My goal, as both a maker and a teacher, has never been to strip the flute of meaning, but to return it to context. The Native American flute is not a prop, a myth, or a movie sound effect. It is a practical, adaptable instrument with deep regional variation and a long history shaped by human ingenuity. Understanding that history does not diminish its beauty—it strengthens it.