Most every student I met was part of a talent show or school holiday performance.
The last time I was asked by someone to sing a song, I was part of a Sunday School Christmas program. Of course, that was before China.
My impression of China, and much of Asia, had been formed by the formality of Japanese culture and its intricate social politesse. I knew the Japanese liked to sing, but only in karaoke bars, and often only with close friends or when drunk. (Maybe that sentence should read “and when drunk.”)
Like the Japanese, the Chinese, I knew, also thought in terms of group harmony and saving face. But what about bowing, avoiding eye contact, speaking indirectly, and other characteristic Oriental traditions?
Chinese people, I would come to find out, don’t bow anymore. They shake hands vigorously like exuberant salesmen. As I quickly grew out of my ignorance, I learned that Chinese hardly spoke in hushed, indirect formalities. No, they tended to speak loudly, without prefacing their meaning with polite phrases or mild hesitation. From the basic Chinese language I acquired during my stay, I could already tell that many of the exclamations I heard used the barest words possible with no trace of complicated grammar to modify tone or expression. Example: “Come! Come! Come!” instead of “Come over here, please.” (I write exclamations and not statements because it was so common to hear Chinese call and cry out). Basic commands were the name of the game. Like a whistle and whip-equipped animal trainer, their sentences sprung out like an interjection, brusquely.
How about public reserve and spectacle? Saving face versus seeking attention? Were the Chinese demure or eager to mingle, to show off? Well, that answer is a two-sided coin, as are most coins. The young students tended to be modest and routinely refused to take credit when praised. Also, just as Americans are all good-humored, smarter, and better-than-average drivers, all my Chinese students considered themselves shy and did not want to be the one to stand out from the group. But I found a glaring exception: give them a microphone or goad them to sing a song and then step back. Chinese people love singing. It is their pleasure to sing a song for you.
Peng Liyuan, the wife of Chinese President Xi Jinping, is a popular icon known for her singing of super-patriotic military songs on TV.
In America, it is always the attention sponge with the acoustic guitar seeking romantic influence at social gatherings. In China, practically any one of the party guests is willing to be singled out to share their favorite song. When the soloist steps forward, everyone eagerly claps and sits in delight until the final note, then thanks him with a round of applause. Variety shows, where one person after another takes the stage to sing or play their instrument, are very popular on Chinese television, and they follow an unpretentious and schmaltzy style in tune with a tamer era of American television.
I witnessed Chinese enthusiasts singing in the park, singing in the car, singing in their homes, singing in talent competitions, in English speech competitions, singing in the private rooms of restaurants, performing a solo at their own wedding, and of course, I heard dozens of people sing at the KTV rooms, which is the Chinese term for karaoke clubs. The filthy streets were alive with the sound of music.
After the glitzy wedding ceremony, the bride changed into an eye-catching skirt and worked the catwalk with her singing skills.
In a nearby riverside park, early in the morning, when groups would gather to practice tai chi choreography and line dancing together, I would always see one old kung fu teacher expelling his lungs in a shrill bird call. My aunt explained to me that he was releasing his chi or building his chi power- I don’t know the difference, only that it sounded like an animal dying. I tried to imitate him: “AAAAAAIIIIIHHHAAAAAHHHEEEEEAAAA!”, but my aunt told me I was doing it wrong. not enough agony, I suppose.
At night, in the same riverside park, a few enterprising individuals would bring in speakers, a television, a microphone, and plastic lawn chairs so that anyone who found it too troublesome to walk or taxi to a KTV club could come to the park and sing pop songs in the open air, more conveniently and cheaply.
At almost any time, someone would be willing to break out in song to entertain the group. Whenever Aunt Fong and I were with her friends, she would prompt me during, say, the car ride, and ask me, “Would you like… sing a song for me?” I would bashfully decline repeatedly until she pouted or persistently begged me for several rounds. She didn’t understand that I came from a jaded American generation that eyed everything cynically with ironic detachment. Singing out of glee? Who does that? My culture only expected someone to sing if they were on stage with a microphone or if they were a very extroverted personality. Singing for delight to share happiness with others in the group was, to me, charming and refreshing, but to American eyes it seemed so simple-minded and naïve. If you’re going to sing with friends in America, at least have an acoustic guitar and make the song a rock standard.
All right, I admit, that generalization is a bit narrow. I’ve seen American girls singing favorite pop songs in high school hallways and joining in on Broadway musical choruses, and I think everyone has sung along to the radio in the privacy of their own car. But the pleasure is often a guilty one, a hidden treat, not a performance. When I rode in the car with Aunt Fong or Uncle Jiang (when I accompanied them anywhere), they would try and show me off to their friends, or Uncle Jiang would put in his mix CD of Celine Dion, Richard Marx, Lionel Richie, and Michael Jackson, and we would sing along together. He knew those songs from memory, and he had me teach him the lyrics to one of his new favorites, Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.”
After observing Uncle Jiang and the rest of China’s infatuation with song and Michael Jackson ballads (their favorite MJ song was “You are Not Alone;” pretty weak), I used their love of singing against them. My teaching arrangement at the local middle school required me to go in front of a class of 50 bored, uncommunicative students and humiliate myself 9 times per week. The students hardly understood me and hardly cared- except when I first walked into the classroom and they applauded at the sight of a young foreigner- so after wearing myself out trying to compel them to talk every week, I finally resorted to the winning strategy of writing song lyrics on the board. Most of the class would follow along, and those who didn’t were drowned out by the singing voices. All I had to do was be a ham and sing repetitively in front of a whole room of onlookers.
The only way to maintain order in this chaos was to lead them through “Over the River and Through the Woods.”
In my university class, I never led a sing-along, but there were a couple times when a lone student stood up to showcase his singing abilities. The soloist might be shy at first, but after a wave of encouragement from his classmates, he would pipe out a few lyrics. Outside of the classroom was another story. When I invited students over to my apartment for a Christmas Party, several were more than willing to line up and have a turn serenading the party crowd.
Guests take turn singing at my Christmas Party to End All Chinese Christmas Parties. That’s Aunt Fong in the Christmas colors sitting on the left.
I think this performing instinct is why Aunt Fong was always urging me to sing for her friends. She wanted to entertain them, and what better way to show me off as a foreign novelty than to have me sing? I don’t mean to say I was only treated as a pet, though being made to sing for strangers by my aunt did make me feel, again, like a child. Aunt Fong genuinely enjoyed listening to me sing, and she would often request me to sing hymns that I had previously shared with her, and she even had me record a song so she could listen to it on her computer.
Aunt Fong insisted I record a song with her nephew, Ja Ja’s help.
Aunt Fong was very modest about her own singing abilities, but I thought she had no need to be so. She had a lovely, dulcet voice. I think her lack of confidence was from being around the operatic Uncle Jiang, her vocally talented nephew, Ja Ja, and other amateurs with well-honed voices. Ja Ja could rap and hit high notes for Backstreet Boys’ songs, and he even produced his own music. Uncle Jiang, when amplified through a KTV sound system, nearly blew out my ear drums as he bellowed Chinese patriotic and pop songs from yesteryear. Sometimes, he would hand me the second KTV microphone and we would sing “My Heart Will Go On” or one of the Chinese songs he taught me (e.g. “Dong Fang Hong,” which praises Chairman Mao for being as radiant as the sun and starving- excuse me- serving the people). Other times, Aunt Fong would encourage me to make selections from the KTV computer library of hits, and Uncle Jiang would impatiently delete my choices when they came in between his songs. The KTV experience could bring out the zeal in passionate crooners like that.
For those who have only experienced karaoke in an American setting- one brave (or shameless) soul singing from a monitor in front of an entire barroom- I will briefly describe the highlights of KTV. One thing to first understand is that the KTV clubs were everywhere. Every commercial district had several KTV buildings decorated with bright signs and elaborate, gaudy, multi-colored lighting. Even in my home base, which was considered tiny by Chinese standards, there were still three different KTV clubs to choose from.
Inside the clubs, more bright lights and mirrored walls decorated the lobby. A clerk at the front counter would book a room for guests as they shouted back and forth over the pumping music beats. After passing a snack bar with popcorn, candy, chicken feet, soft drinks, and beer, guests could walk upstairs or take the elevator to the their floor (there were no expansive, single-story structures in China besides the Forbidden City). Employees functioned as bellhops in the world’s loudest, brightest, and most kinetic, if not obnoxious, hotel, leading guests to their rooms. The KTV rooms were dark and loud, the volume left on max by the previous occupants. A large, vinyl couch hugged three of the walls, so a big group of about a dozen people could crowd into one room. There was a big screen on the opposite wall for music videos and scrolling lyrics, and a touch-screen monitor for selecting songs (sometimes Uncle Jiang would choose American songs for me and I would look at the screen, mute, and eventually communicate that I didn’t know this cross-cultural English language hit).
As the hours went by, the microphone would be passed around, everyone would sing their favorites and impress the rest with their voice, while fruit, nuts, snacks, and drinks would be consumed in a big mess on the table. KTV turned out to be a fun experience, most of the time. It brought out the performer in people, and it was a chance for friends to relax and have fun together. KTV was the go-to choice for an afternoon or evening outing, and it was also a way to cap off a night after an important business deal or special dinner.
So often in America, I have found myself after a dinner out with family or friends when, after an hour or ninety minutes tops, there is a palpable feeling that the affair is over and the restaurant, it is tacitly understood, would like you to move on to open up a table for the next diners. Even if Americans, contrary to custom, wanted to sit around a restaurant table for hours, the atmosphere would not make them feel at ease. The noise of the dining room, the servers constantly stepping in to ask if they can “get those plates there, for ya?”, the bare table, and the open floor plan with a busy crowd buzzing around impinge on people to leave. Then, with a few hours left before bedtime, the group is left to either go to a bar or part ways and go home to watch late-night TV, or scroll through their phones, alone.
In China, I found that big, private dining rooms for parties of six to ten people, followed by a couple hours of KTV together, was the time-filling solution to this social activity dilemma. It was one of the few treasures of Chinese life that I thought Americans should adapt, but knew never would.
Great read, looking forward to next installment