From Little Teng to A-Mei: Marking Time in Music

It is early 2000, and as you walk through the streets of Beijing or Shanghai, sometimes you feel like you're in the wrong place. Look this way and there is A-Mei drinking cola, look another way and there is Fan Hsiao-hsuan holding up an electronic dictionary. You stroll into a fast food shop and the sounds of The Crickets circle around your ears. Are the lives of people on the two sides of the strait really so close?

In some ways, yes, and it was so even through the downturn in cross-strait political relations that followed the enunciation of the "two states" formula by ROC President Lee Teng-hui last year.

It is late in the evening of August 29, and outside the sports stadium in Kunming, groups of people are streaming into the streets from the A-Mei concert. A slight drizzle has started, but the people are still on a natural high from the intensity of the show. One fashionably dressed young girl oozes: "That was fantastic! A-Mei is really a mystery-I don't know how to explain it-but in all of China she's the only one who sings that way."

That was the last of six concerts on A-Mei's tour of mainland China. Before Kunming, in Beijing, Shanghai, Guang-zhou. . . nowhere did she fail to get a passionate response from her fans. Beijing media commented that her no-holds-barred intensity reflects the toughness, directness, and the fearlessness of the present era.

Besides her natural vocal quality, the key to A-Mei's success has been that her songs reflect feelings and aspirations of her era. In fact, when you look back at the history of popular cultural interchange between the two sides of the Taiwan Strait, all the most successful singers and hit songs have been connected in some way to the hopes and feelings of the times.

Taiwan and Hong Kong pop music has been widely available in mainland China since the late 1990s. It is now much less likely that any single artist-with the possible exception of Chang Hui-mei-could have the individual impact that Teresa Teng did back in the 1970s.

Relief for thirsty souls

Twenty years ago, Teresa Teng opened the curtain on the exchange of heart-throbbing across the strait. Back in 1978, mainland China was just embarking on reform and opening to the outside world. "At that time," says Wang Xiaofeng, a music critic in Beijing, "Pop music was completely unacceptable to the official value system."

Nevertheless, it was hard to resist. Souls locked up for the decade of the Cultural Revolution had lost interest in so-called revolutionary songs that "put politics in command." Some mainland Chinese with overseas connections brought Teresa Teng's music into the PRC. Her delicate and warm voice radiated feelings of intimacy, love, and nostalgia, touching the natural feelings that had been suppressed for so long.

At that time there were no music stores were you could buy tapes, and the official media still wouldn't play this kind of music. People had to rely on crude cassette players to copy and re-copy Teng's tapes. Nevertheless, within a year or two, her music had swept China north to south.

Teng's music met official resistance right from the start, and eventually her music was officially banned. Nevertheless, just as young people who were tired of wearing "blue ant" uniforms turned to bell-bottom trousers-the popularity of which grew despite official condemnation-so did youth ignore the ban on Teng. They might very well sing "China, The Bright Red Sun Will Never Set" at official sing-alongs, but alone at home it was Teresa Teng who had their ears. The stature of "Little Teng" began to encroach upon that of Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping, and you could hear people jest, "Give me Little Teng over Old Deng any day!"

Xie Xizhang, cultural critic at the Beijing Daily News, comments: "After the Communist Party entered the cities in 1949, at a stroke it cut off popular urban culture." After liberation, light opera and song were banned, and pulp fiction authors met tragic endings. Later, after the decade-long Cultural Revolution, folk culture was virtually eradicated. "The real recovery began only in 1979, when Hong Kong and Taiwan culture began to come to China," Xie explains. He adds that Hong Kong and Taiwan culture were particularly acceptable to people in China because "at a deep level we all share a common cultural heritage."

Teresa Teng's popularity rippled through the country, and began to have an impact on the mainland Chinese music industry. After the coming to power of the Communist Party, for many years music performers-who were all then in state-run troupes, as there was no private music industry-were confined to Western classical music as the mainstream, with folk music in a supporting role. Not a thought was spared for the popular music that had been coming out of Shanghai since the 1930's.

But after Teresa Teng's example, music professionals who had become accustomed to only singing "revolutionary" tunes discovered that it was possible to make music in a completely new way. In 1979, the famous singer of Hunan drama and member of the Central Music and Dance Company, Li Guyi, adopted Teng's soft, breathy singing style to make the charming romantic ballad "Hometown Love." This broke the long-term monopoly of using only folk or classical voice styles. Although the effort was subject to considerable official criticism, it was also widely popular. Thereafter other members of elite art groups followed Li's example.

Collective concerts by Taiwan and Hong Kong singers never fail to create a sensation. This poster was for a 1993 show featuring acts from UFO Records.

Campus folk music

In the first half of the 1980s, Taiwan's "campus folk music" began to penetrate mainland China and unleashed a second wave that spread widely. It differed from the Teresa Teng phenomenon in that campus folk music, represented by singers like Luo Ta-you, deeply touched young students.

Jin Zhaojun, a veteran music critic in mainland China, says, "The first five years of the 1980s were a period of especially interesting social change." As a wave of skepticism about the disastrous Cultural Revolution and anti-rightist movements swept the mainland, intellectuals discovered that China's problem was not just that of the Communist Party or of the current stage, but required a broad re-evaluation of popular traditions and historic culture. At the same time, Western aesthetics, philosophy, and thinking were translated and introduced in large amounts. In terms of writing, there sprang up "literature of the wounded," "57" literature, and reform literature. In the arts, there was a period of effervescence following a path from star exhibitions through pop art to modern art.

"We were very idealistic, and, though we may not have been mature, at least we often thought: What can we do for the country?" says Wang Xiaofeng. The songs of Luo Ta-you, with their social commentary, written from the standpoint of the feelings of ordinary people, naturally had a tremendous impact and found resonance with young people. There virtually isn't anyone over thirty in all of the PRC who wouldn't give you a thumbs up for Luo Ta-you. Chen Ziqiu, directing manager of DMVE Culture Development Company in Beijing, who calls his "the generation that refused superficiality," says that he was greatly influenced by Luo's music: "His depth and vitality commanded respect."

Moreover, says Jin Zhaojun, "Campus music was a return to a natural, stripped-down style, and it helped those who passed through the Cultural Revolution to find themselves and the simple natural feelings they had lost." Songs like "The Olive Tree", "Grandma's Penghu Bay," and "Small Town Roads" inspired people to dream of a new Shangri-La.

The appearance in mainland China of Taiwan campus folk music in the early 1980s, when mainstream values were still at odds with pop music, opened a new window for music-loving young people who had studied classical and folk music from childhood. In a 1996 article entitled "Ten Years of the Music Industry," Jin Zhaojun wrote: "People finally understood that pop music was nothing more than a framework, and that this form was by no means "mind-numbing" or "debilitating" as its critics claimed. As the article noted, young people who became major players in mainland China's pop music industry, such as Cui Jian, Wang Yanjun, Wu Haigang, and Li Haiying, "realized from Hong Kong and Taiwan music, and especially from campus music, that pop music was a very broad realm, and that they could accomplish a lot within it."

Just as Taiwan's record industry began early by covering Western recordings with new Chinese lyrics, mainland music companies began by covering Taiwan music. "The record industry grew at astounding rates," says Jin. "One company sold eight million tapes, which is amazing when you consider the standard of living back then and the fact that one tape cost RMB 5.50."

In the 1990s, with liberalized music imports, karaoke, and media reform, the mainland market has allowed many more artists to flourish, including Chang Yu-sheng, the Little Tigers, and Angus Tung.（courtesy of Warner Music）

North by northwest

In the latter half of the 1980s, Hong Kong and Taiwan pop finally stimulated the first wave of the mainland's own musical production. Led by a group of young people with orthodox music training, mainland artists created a music with a critical spirit, very different from Taiwan and Hong Kong pop. This music not was only popular in the PRC, but even blew southeast over to Taiwan and Hong Kong, where it became known as "northwest wind" music.

Among the most well-known figures of that period was Cui Jian. Singing with a hard-edged rock and roll style, he launched his career by standing out from the other musicians at a large multi-artist concert, and his song "I Have Nothing At All," became a generational anthem. A reporter for the Beijing Youth Daily at that time wrote that, after Cui Jian's "I Have Nothing At All," never again could anyone say that popular music in the PRC "had nothing at all."

Jin Zhaojun says that the most important songs of that era, whether expressions of frustration, calls to action, or reflections in a critical spirit, shared a deep concern for the nation and for people. They reflected the reassessment of Chinese history and culture that was taking place in the 1980s. In singing the songs of the "northwest wind," ordinary people found their voice. Mainland Chinese pop music from 1987 to 1989 was deeply rooted in local life, and drew a clear distinction between itself and Taiwan/Hong Kong pop.

Teresa Teng （center）,Luo Ta-you （upper right）, Julie Su （right） and Chyi Chin （left） all have had enormous influence on the development of pop music in mainland China.（Sinorama file photo; courtesy of Rock Records, Warner Music, Whit's Music）

Yet, even during the northwest wave, Taiwan pop music was never completely pushed off the stage. And it was helped along by political developments: In 1987 the ROC government began to allow people from Taiwan to visit mainland China, and mainland authorities formally approved the import of recorded music from abroad. Thereafter, artists like Julie Su and Chyi Chin had a considerable impact.

Su's voice had been known in mainland China since the film Getting on the Wrong Bus was shown there in 1984. Her style first caught on with young students of relatively progressive thinking, and gradually became more widely accepted, growing in popularity over the years. Most importantly, her robust, from-the-gut singing toppled the genteel and fragile Teresa Teng mode that had ruled the roost for so long. Says Jin Zaojun, "Many women singers with potential, such as Na Ying, Hang Tianqi, and Fan Linlin, took Su as their model."

As for Chyi Chin, after his 1988 "Wolf" trilogy entered mainland China, in the space of only a few months he was a phenom worthy of the aphorism "a single spark can start a prairie fire," becoming just as big as Teresa Teng had been. Ding Ning, chief writer for China Broadway, says: "Influential singers from Taiwan can be divided into three generations. First came Teresa Teng, along with Liu Wen-cheng, then Luo Ta-you, then Chyi Chin." She says that the generation of people now between 23 and 28 was most effected by Chyi Chin. "The impact he had on us was not merely the pleasure of listening to music, but a whole worldview." Lyrics like "I wander alone in the wind," expressing at once alienation and self-confidence, appealed to people like the young Ding, who deliberately tried to be just like Chyi Chin.

Wang Xiaofeng says that Chyi Chin's rebelliousness was different from the rebelliousness of Luo Ta-you, which was built on history. Chyi Chin had a very individual style, and gave young people the courage to be themselves and therefore got a great response. Ding Ning clearly remembers the first time Chyi Chin had a concert in Beijing: "That winter it was fashionable to wear long white scarves. When the concert ended, and Chyi Chin left the venue, a whole group of kids had dangled their scarves down just hoping that Chyi Chin would touch them."

Idols and niche markets

By 1989, the pop music market seemed to be entering a new phase. One factor was that karaoke was growing rapidly in the mainland. By the end of that year there were more than 70 karaoke bars in Beijing alone. Cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou had reached a certain level of development, and there was tremendous demand for this recreational activity that let people show off their individual personalities and fashion-consciousness.

Another factor was the Tiananmen Incident. After June 4, 1989, disillusioned musicians in the PRC felt that they were powerless to change anything, and local creative output dried up. Hong Kong and Taiwan pop music moved into the vacuum, a vacuum made all the larger by the demand for karaoke music.

"Another critical link was reform in the media," notes Jin. Beginning in 1989, TV stations, newspapers, and magazines around the country began responding to the market by producing things like all-music stations. New entertainment and lifestyle features in the media created a huge appetite for pop music and related news. In this way the development of the mass media added fuel to the spreading flames of Taiwan pop.

"At that time, whatever was hot in Taiwan or Hong Kong would automatically become hot in the PRC." While Chyi Chin remained popular, other types of singers got into the mainland market after the official liberalization of recorded music imports. Albums were selling in the hundreds of thousands or even surpassing one million, and concerts in big cities couldn't drum up any interest unless they featured performers from Taiwan or Hong Kong.

Wang Xiaofeng opines: "The era of chasing stars has arrived." From here on, it is less and less likely that any one singer could have the profound impact of a Luo Ta-you, a Julie Su, or a Chyi Chin.

In fact, these changing tastes of the audience reflect changes in the larger environment. "That was an era of dramatic economic reform. If we can say that in the first five years of the 1980s idealism was the main trend, then in the first five years of the 1990s it was pragmatism," says Jin Zhaojun. Following Deng Xiaoping's 1992 "Southern Tour" and his comments on the direction of the economy, reform was accelerated in mainland China. In recent years, there has been dramatic social change: Personal computers and private cars have become relatively common, real-estate prices have skyrocketed, the medical system is switching over to an insurance system... and these changes are affecting people's value systems.

Xie Xizhang avers, "In the 1990s, the standard for what is good entertainment is that it is not too serious and that it is about pretty-much everyday stuff."

In this kind of era, "Taiwan's songs, which are more carefully written in comparison to the vacuous lyrics of mainland songs, naturally have appeal," says Jin Zhaojun. He points for example to the song "In Love with a Person Who Doesn't Come Home," which has struck a chord with Beijing policemen and their wives. Jonathan Lee's "In Fact 17-Year-Old Girls Are Really Very... You Know" has found its place in the fashionable self-involved culture of Beijing teens.

A couple of years ago, Taiwan performer Jen Hsien-chi found widespread popularity in mainland China with the song "Too Soft Heart." It is generally thought the success was not connected so much to the music as to the fact that the song describes the rapid social change in the mainland these past few years, and expresses the frustrations that people have built up in their hearts.

Taiwan songs are particularly welcome to mainland listeners, even in comparison to Hong Kong songs, because, in the eyes of mainland Chinese, Taiwan has not recently been under the influence of a colonial culture, and therefore shares the same foundations as mainland culture, "so communication is especially easy."

"Beginning in the late '90s, most of the jargon in youth society has either come from satirical anti-traditionalist pulp fiction or else from Taiwan popular music," says Jin Zhaojun. He says that there has even been an undeclared competition between the Beijing Youth Daily and the Beijing Evening News to see who can make more clever use of such youth jargon. Traditional culture critics may disparage such practices, but this has not stopped them.

Learning market manipulation

Mainland music makers are now learning how to respond to the market. "Music companies are beginning to explore more orthodox methods to produce albums," says Wang Xiaofeng. In the past mainland record companies either pirated music or made a few "greatest hits albums" gathering together a number of different singers. But, beginning in 1993, companies began to sign singers to contracts, and to establish planning, marketing, production, and star-manager systems to systematically commodify artists.

Ai Jing, whose album My 1997 brought together many first-rate musicians in Beijing, became an overnight success as a "female Cui Jian" with the help of "carpet bombing" advertising. She has also released two albums in Taiwan, and recently signed a contract with Japan's Sony records. Mao Ying, who came to Taiwan last year, and Zhu Zheqin, whose 1995 release Ah Jie Gu created quite a sensation in Taiwan, are all artists that have been promoted under the new system.

Jin Zhaojun is critical of this development. Though companies have escaped from the heavy folk music coloring of the "northwest wind" style, they place too much emphasis on packaging of artists and not enough on content, and they have not yet built the foundations for the flourishing of the mainland's own music industry.

By the latter point, Jin is referring to the fact that Hong Kong and Taiwan records still dominate the mainland market. As record company exec Chen Xingqiu explains: "The total value of the music market is about RMB 1 billion, of which popular music accounts for 80%; and of the pop music market, Taiwan and Hong Kong products take four-fifths of that. For ten years now, this structure has changed little." He estimates that Taiwan's share will in fact continue to experience steady growth, even more so than Hong Kong's, because Taiwan music has a language advantage (it is mostly in Mandarin, whereas Hong Kong music is mostly in Cantonese). Another reason is that "market manipulation for Taiwan records is mature, whereas mainland companies are still not up to speed," he admits.

Dai Fang points out: "Currently trends in the mainland simply follow Taiwan popular culture." The record industry there is still learning, but it is having trouble keeping up with the rapid transition from one musical generation to another.

Voice of a new generation

Recently, the Beijing boy band The Flowers has become a hot topic among Taiwan music fans. This group is only the most noticed of the new generation of rock outfits to crop up in Beijing in 1998; others include Awake and New Pants.

Dai Fang suggests, "In their understanding of music outlook on life, this generation of young groups tends toward individual experience." Compared to the generation of Cui Jian or Tang Dynasty, although they are more shallow, they are less abstract.

The Flowers are three middle school students aged 16 and 17. Fans of Green Day, they do pop punk. The lyrics are about frictions they have with their parents, or day-to-day concerns of being a middle school student. No songs exceed two minutes. Asked by a reporter, "It is said that Cui Jian likes your stuff, how do you feel about that?" they responded, "That's impossible-we don't like his stuff, why should he like ours?"

The Flowers' style calls to mind recent hits in Taiwan like Hsu Huai-ning's "Monster," and Chang Chen-yu's "Daddy, I Want Money! I Want Money!" No wonder in recent years there has been a "Beijing fad" in Taiwan music circles. Pop artists Karen Mo and Faith Yang have both recorded Flowers' tunes, while Su Hui-lun has covered a New Pants number.

Peter Loehr, managing director at Magic Stone (China) Music, asks: "Why do the albums of Chang Chen-yu sell well in mainland China? Why did the film Love Spicy Soup, made in mainland China and targeted at trendy youth, do well in Taiwan?" Answering his own question, he says: "Because kids in Tokyo, Taipei, and Beijing are all thinking about the same things! The times are changing, and youth culture is sharing in the change."

"You can't expect popular music not to change with the times!" says veteran Taiwan music critic Chen Le-jung. Each era has its own stories. In the new millennium, as the popular music of two sides of the Taiwan Strait increasingly overlaps, what do these songs say to you?