Inside Beijing’s underground rock scene
On 4 June 2014, 25 years after it bore the fallen bodies of pro-democracy demonstrators, Tiananmen Square looked as it might on any other day. Beneath an imposing portrait of Mao Zedong, tourists milled about and children laughed and played as they would anywhere else. Military personnel laced the square’s perimeter, however, swarming it in numbers noticeably larger than usual. But morning bled into night without suspense, the anniversary’s tense calm unbroken. In Tiananmen, no microphones blared, no candles burned, and no heads bowed, as they did in vigils held in Taipei’s Liberty Square and Hong Kong’s Victoria Park.
Nothing to My Name, the anthem of the 1989 student democracy movement, written by the founder of Chinese rock ‘n’ roll, Cui Jian, was nowhere to be heard. Its themes of individualism, experimentation and non-conformity have since been stripped of any element of political rebellion – displaced from the open air of Tiananmen Square to the underground Beijing rock scene, which is thriving.
Cui Jian, who introduced rock music to China (Credit: Fritz Hoffmann/In Pictures/Corbis)
Cui Jian introduced rock music to China in the late 1980s, and it had a political edge – rock avoids challenging the government now (Credit: Fritz Hoffmann/In Pictures/Corbis)
Chinese rock music began to gather pace in 1987, a little over a decade after the death of Mao. It started when Cui left the Beijing Philharmonic, for which he had played the trumpet, to compose and record China’s first rock album, Rock ‘n’ Roll on the New Long March. His music would become a political fixture in the late 1980s as China’s urban youth mobilised dissent against what they perceived as the People’s Republic’s repressive policies. Even after the authoritarian state unleashed violence on the student demonstrators, putting an abrupt end to their movement, Cui embarked on a nationwide tour. He called it the New Long March, mockingly alluding to Mao’s own ‘Long March’ of the 1930s – the event that began his rise to power within the Chinese Communist movement and first inspired his cult of personality. It was not long before Communist party leadership wised up to Cui’s political ethos and cancelled the remainder of his tour dates.
Nonetheless, Cui had pioneered a new breeding ground for Chinese music, one that would swell into the vibrant indie scene Beijing enjoys today. But as Chinese underground rock has evolved from its confrontational beginnings, it has largely shed its political content. A new generation of Sino-rockers has shied away from overt or even oblique references to rebellion against the government. Chief among them is Zhou Shouwang, the frontman of experimental noise trio Carsick Cars, who traces his musical ancestry to the Velvet Underground, Sonic Youth and the minimalist composers Steve Reich and Philip Glass. In an interview with Michael Pettis, an American ex-pat who left Wall Street to found an underground club and record label in Beijing, Zhou reflects: “[Cui’s] music fit a more idealistic generation who knew less about music and city life and cared more about changing the world. I think we are maybe more pessimistic and also more interested in finding art that challenges us and makes us expand our thinking.”
Rock without rebellion
The relationship between politics and art in modern China is a fraught one. Since the Cultural Revolution brought a decade of terror to artists and intellectuals in the late ’60s and early ‘70s, some of China’s foremost creative talents have fled overseas. Among them is Gao Xingjian, the first author to write in Chinese and receive the Nobel Prize in literature, who emigrated to France in the late ‘80s. Despite his pedigree in the Western world, Gao’s novels are nowhere to be found in China’s bookstores and his dramas are notably absent from Beijing’s stages. Many Western critics expect Chinese artists to replicate the progressive politics of dissenting voices like Gao and Ai Weiwei, and call them out if their work does not directly challenge the regime of censorship under which they operate – for instance, some writers in the West have called the 2012 Nobel Laureate in literature, Mo Yan, a pawn of the Chinese government and undeserving of the prize.
Those who have criticised Mo might also be disappointed with the Beijing rock scene’s lack of political engagement today. But within an authoritarian society, Zhou Shouwang and his fellow musicians have carved out a space to explore modern urban life and identity. The creative licence available to them in that space, they feel, is not severely limited by government censorship. If they provoked the Communist party with more explicitly political lyrics they could jeopardise that freedom. Many prefer to avoid interaction with the government altogether, including any potential state sponsorship. “I am afraid that if the government understood what we were doing and decided to support the underground artists and musicians in Beijing… they would end up hurting the strength and variety of the Beijing art and music scene,” Zhou Shouyang told Pettis.
The search for profit
The greatest challenge indie musicians face in China is not political but commercial. Few of them can sustain themselves on the music they produce. I spoke with Duncan Hodson, an ex-pat who plays guitar for the five-piece Brit-punk band MagicBus.“There is very little money to be made from it and the market is very small at present,” he told me. “In China, you can probably count the number of bands that can actually make a living from music on one hand.”
Chinese rocker Wang Feng (Credit: Hai Ying/Epa/Corbis)
Rocker Wang Feng is among the lucky musicians to play at large festivals – getting booked can be a challenge for lesser-known acts (Credit: Hai Ying/Epa/Corbis)
In China, as in the West, the digitisation of music has shifted the industry’s profit mechanism from album sales to earnings from live-performances. The result is that the most popular underground bands make most of their money at large festivals, like the Modern Sky Festival and the Strawberry Festival. While this fact has helped bring the indie rock to the Chinese public at large, it comes at the expense of smaller acts.
Up-and-comers who struggle to break into the festival scene find it tough to stay afloat on album sales alone. In an industry starved of cash, owning and operating a record label is a losing proposition for most, which has allowed a handful of brand names to monopolise the scene’s production and distribution. The industry’s giants include Modern Sky, Genjing Records and Maybe Mars, founded by Pettis in 2007.
That Chinese experimental acts can find very few sources of capital beyond that of a former Wall Street banker may seem bleak. But Hodson argues that the scene’s commercial woes are part of what makes it so unique and vibrant: “People get involved in it for a simple reason – they love the music and want to use it to sing about their lives.”
A dizzying array of genre-bending sounds has emerged from the Beijing underground: hybrids of electro dream-pop, post-punk, instrumental math rock, noise music and post-rock. The acts vary in instrumentation from standard four-pieces to wild bands with tin whistles, Irish fiddles and traditional Chinese instruments. It’s a remarkably eclectic scene, and well worth checking out – just don’t expect to find rebellion in the mix.
ภายในฉากหินใต้ดินของปักกิ่ง บน 4 2014 มิถุนายน 25 ปีหลังจากนั้นแบกศพของผู้ประท้วงประชาธิปไตย fallen ซซีมอง ตามมันอาจในวันอื่น ๆ ภายใต้ภาพที่โอ่อ่าของเหมาเจ๋อตง ปลายเกี่ยวกับนักท่องเที่ยวและเด็กหัวเราะ และเล่นเป็นที่ใดก็ได้อื่น บุคลากรทหาร laced perimeter ของสี่เหลี่ยม อย่างไรก็ตาม swarming ตัวเลขขนาดใหญ่เห็นได้ชัดกว่าปกติ แต่เช้าคราวที่แล้วไปคืนโดยไม่ใจจดใจจ่อ ครบรอบปีตึงเครียดสงบไม่เสียหาย ในเยียร์ ไมโครโฟนไม่ blared เทียนไม่เขียน และหัวไม่ลง เหมือนกับใน vigils ที่จัดขึ้นในไทเปของลิเบอร์ตี้สแควร์และสวนวิคตอเรียของฮ่องกงไม่มีชื่อของฉัน เพลงของการเคลื่อนไหวประชาธิปไตย 1989 นักเขียน โดยผู้ก่อตั้งของจีนร็อคโรลล์ Cui เจียน ไหนได้ยิน ชุดรูปแบบของปัจเจก ทดลอง และให้สอด คล้องไม่ได้เนื่องจากถูกปล้นขององค์ประกอบใด ๆ ของกบฏเมือง – พลัดถิ่นจากอากาศเปิดของซซีใต้ดินปักกิ่งร็อคฉาก ซึ่งเป็นที่เจริญรุ่งเรืองเจียน Cui ที่นำเพลงร็อคจีน (เครดิต: ฟริทส์ Hoffmann/In ภาพ/Corbis)เจียน Cui แนะนำเพลงร็อคกับจีนในปลายทศวรรษ 1980 และมันมีขอบเมือง – หลีกเลี่ยงหินท้าทายรัฐบาลขณะนี้ (เครดิต: ฟริทส์ Hoffmann/In ภาพ/Corbis)ดนตรีร็อคจีนเริ่มรวบรวมก้าวใน 1987 น้อยกว่าทศวรรษหลังจากการเสียชีวิตของเหมา เริ่มต้นเมื่อนคุยปักกิ่งฟิลฮาร์โมนิค ซึ่งเขาได้เล่นทรัมเป็ต การเขียนบันทึกของจีนแรกร็อคอัลบั้ม ร็อคโรลล์ในใหม่ยาวมีนาคม เพลงของเขาจะกลายเป็น การแข่งทางการเมืองในปลายทศวรรษ 1980 เป็น dissent เยาวชนเมือง mobilised ของจีนกับสิ่งที่พวกเขาถือว่าเป็นสาธารณรัฐประชาชนของนโยบายกดขี่ แม้หลังจากที่ความรุนแรงกับผู้ประท้วงนักเรียน ทำให้สิ้นสุดอย่างทันทีทันใดการเคลื่อนไหวของพวกเขา การปลดปล่อยรัฐประเทศนคุยเริ่มต้นทัวร์ทั่วประเทศ เขาเรียกว่าใหม่ยาวมีนาคม ป่าชิ้นของเมา 'ยาวมีนาคม' ว่าด้วย – เหตุการณ์ที่เริ่มต้นของเขาขึ้นสู่อำนาจภายในขบวนการคอมมิวนิสต์จีน และลัทธิของบุคลิกภาพของเขาเป็นแรงบันดาลใจก่อน ไม่นานก่อนที่แกนนำพรรคคอมมิวนิสต์ wised ขึ้นไปของนคุยปัดการเมือง และยกเลิกส่วนเหลือของวันที่เขาต้องการทัวร์กระนั้น นคุยได้เป็นผู้บุกเบิกเป็นดินผสมพันธุ์ใหม่สำหรับเพลงจีน ที่จะบวมเข้าฉากดี้แห่งปักกิ่งตลอดวันนี้ แต่เป็นหินใต้ดินที่จีนมีพัฒนาจากจุดเริ่มต้นของ confrontational มันมีหลั่งส่วนใหญ่เนื้อหาการเมือง รุ่นใหม่ของบ้านชิโนมี shied จากอ้างอิงแจ่มแจ้ง หรือ oblique แม้การกบฏต่อต้านรัฐบาล หัวหน้าในหมู่พวกเขาคือ โจว Shouwang, frontman ของทริโอเสียงทดลองรถยนต์ Carsick ผู้ติดตามของเขามืดดนตรีใต้ ดินกำมะหยี่ กยู และมินิมัลลิสต์คีตกวี Reich สตีฟและฟิลิปแก้ว ในการสัมภาษณ์กับไมเคิล Pettis การอเมริกัน ex-pat ที่ทิ้งวอลล์สตรีทยังมีคลับใต้ดินและค่ายในปักกิ่ง โจวสะท้อน: "เพลง [นคุยของ] พอดีสร้างอุดมการณ์มากขึ้นที่รู้น้อยเกี่ยวกับเพลงและเมืองชีวิต และดูแลเพิ่มเติมเกี่ยวกับการเปลี่ยนแปลงโลก ผมคิดว่า เรามีทีในเชิงลบ และยังความสนใจในศิลปะที่ท้าทายเรา และทำให้เราขยายความคิดของเรา "หิน โดยกบฏThe relationship between politics and art in modern China is a fraught one. Since the Cultural Revolution brought a decade of terror to artists and intellectuals in the late ’60s and early ‘70s, some of China’s foremost creative talents have fled overseas. Among them is Gao Xingjian, the first author to write in Chinese and receive the Nobel Prize in literature, who emigrated to France in the late ‘80s. Despite his pedigree in the Western world, Gao’s novels are nowhere to be found in China’s bookstores and his dramas are notably absent from Beijing’s stages. Many Western critics expect Chinese artists to replicate the progressive politics of dissenting voices like Gao and Ai Weiwei, and call them out if their work does not directly challenge the regime of censorship under which they operate – for instance, some writers in the West have called the 2012 Nobel Laureate in literature, Mo Yan, a pawn of the Chinese government and undeserving of the prize.Those who have criticised Mo might also be disappointed with the Beijing rock scene’s lack of political engagement today. But within an authoritarian society, Zhou Shouwang and his fellow musicians have carved out a space to explore modern urban life and identity. The creative licence available to them in that space, they feel, is not severely limited by government censorship. If they provoked the Communist party with more explicitly political lyrics they could jeopardise that freedom. Many prefer to avoid interaction with the government altogether, including any potential state sponsorship. “I am afraid that if the government understood what we were doing and decided to support the underground artists and musicians in Beijing… they would end up hurting the strength and variety of the Beijing art and music scene,” Zhou Shouyang told Pettis. The search for profitThe greatest challenge indie musicians face in China is not political but commercial. Few of them can sustain themselves on the music they produce. I spoke with Duncan Hodson, an ex-pat who plays guitar for the five-piece Brit-punk band MagicBus.“There is very little money to be made from it and the market is very small at present,” he told me. “In China, you can probably count the number of bands that can actually make a living from music on one hand.”Chinese rocker Wang Feng (Credit: Hai Ying/Epa/Corbis)Rocker Wang Feng is among the lucky musicians to play at large festivals – getting booked can be a challenge for lesser-known acts (Credit: Hai Ying/Epa/Corbis)In China, as in the West, the digitisation of music has shifted the industry’s profit mechanism from album sales to earnings from live-performances. The result is that the most popular underground bands make most of their money at large festivals, like the Modern Sky Festival and the Strawberry Festival. While this fact has helped bring the indie rock to the Chinese public at large, it comes at the expense of smaller acts.Up-and-comers who struggle to break into the festival scene find it tough to stay afloat on album sales alone. In an industry starved of cash, owning and operating a record label is a losing proposition for most, which has allowed a handful of brand names to monopolise the scene’s production and distribution. The industry’s giants include Modern Sky, Genjing Records and Maybe Mars, founded by Pettis in 2007.That Chinese experimental acts can find very few sources of capital beyond that of a former Wall Street banker may seem bleak. But Hodson argues that the scene’s commercial woes are part of what makes it so unique and vibrant: “People get involved in it for a simple reason – they love the music and want to use it to sing about their lives.”A dizzying array of genre-bending sounds has emerged from the Beijing underground: hybrids of electro dream-pop, post-punk, instrumental math rock, noise music and post-rock. The acts vary in instrumentation from standard four-pieces to wild bands with tin whistles, Irish fiddles and traditional Chinese instruments. It’s a remarkably eclectic scene, and well worth checking out – just don’t expect to find rebellion in the mix.
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