Chinese Rock’s Evolution: Cui Jian to Carsick Cars
In 1989 on the open square in the center of Beijing, Cui Jian repeated the cries “I have nothing!” above quick guitar riffs, a melody from Dizi, and a steady drum beat (“Nothing to My Name,” Cui Jian). Those words ignited the patriotic hearts of a hundred thousand students. 20 years later, Carsick Cars repeats the cries “This was a hopeless square,” pressing on top of a mesh of guitar sounds and drums and cymbals in a night club just to the north of Tiananmen (“Square,” Carsick Cars).
Carsick Cars parallels Cui Jian in many ways. Both use sounds that oppose the mainstream of their times. Both subtly criticize Chinese politics and society through their lyrics. And both are the most popular underground rock group in their own eras. Hence it’s fair to say that both groups more or less accurately represent their respective intellectual youth populations and are the embodiment of their epochs.
Part of Cui Jian’s identity and Chinese rock’s history is the 1989 Tiananmen Square protest where students from all over the country rose up and demonstrated their spirit of reform. Cui Jian was the manifestation of those students’ messages in musical form. Yet, Carsick Cars’ assertion that Tiananmen “was a hopeless square” seems to dismiss the effort and sacrifices of these students. Based on the authority of their voices as discussed in the last paragraph, does this statement constitute modern Chinese rock’s abandonment of its 1989 origin?
I claim that in fact it doesn’t. Even though C-rock’s musical strategies of pronouncing criticisms of society and politics have changed over the past 21 years (their styles seemed to have “softened” from Cui Jian to Carsick Cars) due to China’s own metamorphosis, modern C-rock still inherits the role as an organ of social commentary, just as Cui Jian had in 1989.
I will first show the differences between Cui Jian’s and Carsick Cars’ sounds. Then I proceed to explain these differences by tracing the modern history of nationalism and Chinese pop. Finally, I will demonstrate Carsick Cars’ penetrating lyrical social criticisms through the example of “Zhong Nan Hai,” and argue that indeed this characteristic has not changed from Cui Jian’s days.
Without a doubt, Cui Jian’s musical style differs significantly from that of Carsick Cars. As the father of Chinese Rock, he employed a wide array of different styles in his music in 1989. Reggae guitar appears in “Start Over” (“从头再来”); Ska appears in “Rock n’ Roll on the New Long March” (“新长征路上的摇滚”); Punk appears in “Let Me Have a Good Sleep” (“让我睡个好觉”); and so on. Many different styles fuse with traditional Chinese instruments in a single song: “he combines the sounds of the electric guitar with that of what are considered classical Chinese instruments, such as the guzheng, suona (a reed instrument), and dizi (a transverse flute made of bamboo)” (De Kloet 2005, 231). In comparison to Carsick Cars, the rhythms are more lively and quick, the changes sudden, and the structure of the songs more complex. The overall feel, from a cosmopolitan point of view today, is a hodge-podge of western and eastern instruments and styles, but whose mixed stylistic innovation no doubt have surprised the audience of 1980’s China and appeared to them to be revolutionary and modernizing.
On the other hand, the first second of any record of Carsick Cars would already mark to the listener its incredible difference from the classics of Cui Jian. Carsick Cars possesses a post-modern guitar sound, overlaid with various techniques of noise distortion; a simple rhythm from the drums lightly carries on the progressions of the songs; a bass line subtly creeps under the rhythms and guitar effects. The rhythm is sometimes purposefully disconnected between instruments to create a sense of chaos, a feel of anxiety. The music style is slow, gradual, and delicate in changes, inducing a kind of trance in the listener. If Carsick Cars is to “[bring one] to that desired plateau of non-being”, they would melt as opposed to blow one away with urgent rhythms and heavy bass (De Kloet 2001, 55). Their sound is on the forefront of the international rock movement, devoid of any trace of Chinese cultural influence. What “rocks” in their music is not rhythm or use of new instruments, but the adoption of new sound techniques (especially different types of noise) and the redefining of the role of rhythm in driving the music. Such characteristics are shared with avant-garde bands around the world, not just in China.
In addition, the vocals of the two rock groups are almost on opposite poles. Cui Jian employed a deep, rough voice inherited from the Xibeifeng trend in 1980’s China, sometimes with “staccato[, snare-like]” articulations “that are reminiscent of Maoist gunshots during the Cultural Revolution” (Matusitz 158). These characteristics fuel what de Kloet calls the “Rock Mythology”: that rock is “subcultural, masculine, rebellious, and (counter-)political” (de Kloet 2005, 232). Cui Jian in each song tirelessly utters away the buried voices of his generation, of those 1989 students who tried to “cut at [the government’s] hypocrisy ’til [they] get some truth” (Jones, Like a Knife 148). In contrast, the frontman of Carsick Cars, Zhang Shouwang, has a smooth, tranquil vocal, so much so that at times it would be able to be characterized as the opposite of the rock mythology: compliant, quiet, orderly. He uses a voice that is between talking and singing. If listening half-heartedly, Zhang sounds as if he’s just chatting to the rhythm, but on a closer listen, one finds that one cannot fully understand Zhang’s words because he subtly superimposes pitches over the natural tone of each character. His voice does not intrude upon the fuzzing monolith of noise of his band as often as other bands sing. For example, in the 6:45 neo-C-rock anthem “Zhong Nan Hai,” Zhang’s voice appears for about a total of only 2 minutes, and even most of that is repeating the 3 words “Zhong Nan Hai.” Hence the sound of the guitar, the bass, and the drums play a much greater role in the holistic feel of the band than they did in Cui Jian’s group in 1989.
Such radical differences in style can be explained through a look at China’s transformations and Cui’s philosophy of rock: “rock is born out of opposing society’s traditional ideology” (Xue 1993, trans. Jeroen Groenewegen). In particular, the conversion of nationalism from a pure propaganda tool to a genuine sentiment of the Chinese populace and finally to its polarization in the 21st century reveals much about the sounds of the two groups.
From the birth of PRC, CCP instituted education that stressed “nationalism” --- not just the love of China, but the love of Communist China --- through compulsory reading of classical Chinese works in addition to Communist writings such as Mao’s Little Red Book. During the Cultural Revolution, the book was even mandatory for everyone to carry around with, or else one could be beaten by the Red Guards (Shaw, 92). Accompanied with the notion of “nationalism” was the nativism. Through the storms of Cultural Revolution, city-dwellers got to see the most rural, technologically backward parts of the country by “education through labor.” In addition, Communist texts emphasized the merits of labor, which were often framed in rural China such that the image of labor fused with the image of agriculture. Even though after Deng Xiaoping took power and the Revolution ended, these specific examples faded in influence, the overall trend of government-monopolized nationalistic (and nativist) education continued up to late 1980s when Cui Jian started performing.
This background helps explain Cui Jian’s musical style as a reaction to the artificial injection of nationalistic values. Cui’s incorporation of Western rock elements rebelled against Mao’s idea of a self-sufficient China able to fend off the West’s “corruption,” which for the period of China’s closure had re-instilled a sense of national confidence. It refuted China’s nationalistic aloofness by melting Chinese music into sounds of the West. At the same time, it destroyed the nativistic picture of China by importing something that was completely un-Chinese and equated with modernity (think about Cui Jian’s use of electric instruments!). Cui Jian’s popularity with the college youth and intellectuals was probably a result of their weariness of China’s nationalistic exclusion and nativistic backwardness along with their yearning of the West.
From 1989 on, however, things reversed in favor of the party for the first time:
Patriotic sentiment was no longer the sole province of the party and its propagandists. Just as commercialization created a new and avaricious social contract, so too did nationalism increasingly become the basis for a consensus beyond the bounds of official culture. It was a consensus that for a time, at least, benefited the party […] Both economic realities and national priorities required a strong central state and thus tended naturally to give an ideologically weakened Communist Party a renewed role in the broader contest for the nation.
(Barme 256)
In his amusingly named chapter “To Screw Foreigner is Patriotic,” Barme gave further examples of popular works which confirmed and amplified the nationalistic sentiments:
1) A Beijing Man in New York, a Chinese TV series, climaxed in a suggestive scenes of the Beijinger protagonist having sex with an American prostitute, showering down money on her and demanding her to cry “I love you, I love you.”
2) A post-apocalyptic novel in which a deadly computer virus destroyed everything outside of China, due to the Great Firewall’s protective power. A Chinese man saved the world with the help of his half-Russian girlfriend, who could use her power of foresight only when she’s having sex.
3) The following poem was published in a 1996 anthology of Australian works:
| "Sex Notice" by Ouyang Yu I have come to this country for 90 days 90 days without a fuck I've seen your dirty books dirty videos and dirty, dirty mags I want your women I want your girls I want whoever is willing Your sun is cold your moon is hot your suburb is too too dead and your city is arty your money thirsty | your life farty and lousy so instead of boring me let me bore you with a brand new China-made flute to play you a tune of starved love for five thousand years to flood you with the fresh cum of the Yellow River and the Yangtse so if you want to come and be my love call me at six six six plus triple sex. |
Hence it’s easy to see that the nationalism of early 1990s quickly combined with xenophobia and escalated into jingoism. The effect is even clear today. Anti-cnn.com was established by Rao Jin to report factual misconducts of Western media. During the torch relay in preparation for the 2008 Olympics, pro-China protesters appeared against other protesters who rallied against the Tibet incident.
In this environment, Carsick Cars emerges as a reaction to the chauvinism that arises from the Chinese people themselves. It deliberately blurs national boundary with its post-modern post-punk sound. In contrast to the works briefly described above, Carsick Cars’ noises bear no resemblance to any cultural norm in the world; it doesn’t even connect with mainstream rock and roll in the US. The noises dissolve all the transnational conflicts into an international emptiness. Neither are these noises violent like heavy guitar riffs. They do not suggest any kind of sexual or physical violation associated with the works above. Together with the calm, somewhat disaffected voice of Zhang, they disconnect the sound from the over-the-top nationalistic passion of Chinese people.
To explain the differences in vocal style, we need to look at the differences in the mainstream music that they oppose. Cui Jian performed in the Golden Age of Cantopop, whose singers sang with sweet, pleasing voices characterized by legato and occasional vibrato. In reaction, Cui Jian sang in a rough, masculine voice, often staccato, resembling rap. The pop also had slower tempos to emphasize the drawn-out legatos and the “soft emotions,” and its accompaniment was as well low on percussion. Cui Jian, however, typically went on a much faster tempo in comparison and employed heavier percussion to emphasize rhythm. Comparisons like “Chinese Madonna” Anita Mui’s “Years Flowing Like Water” (“流年如水”) versus Cui Jian’s “Let Me Have A Good Sleep” best exemplify these polarities.
In the current age, Chinese pop has incorporated the brief mainstream flash of rock in the early 90s and also mainstream rap from America. These influences are apparent in songs such as Jay Chou’s “Anti-War Song" (“止战之殇”), Wang Lihong's "What's wrong with Rock" (“摇滚怎么了”) and Xiao Jingteng's "Prince’s New Clothes” (“王子的新衣”). In response to the harder sounds of pop, Carsick Cars adopts a more malleable musicality in the form of noise. In response to rap’s quick and long soliloquies, the band “says” less in the lyrics. And instead of pronouncing words in their natural tone, as is done in pop rap, or stretching the words out in their musical tone, as is done in other pop songs, the band takes the middle way and subtly superimposes inflections on each word after its natural tone is enunciated.
Hence the evolution of mainstream pop induces a parallel (and a reverse, reactionary) evolution in the musical strategies of Carsick Cars, making its voice softer and more reserved compared to Cui Jian.
Now, Carsick Cars’ economy of words begs this question: Has it given up the rich power of text as social commentary?
I argue with the following example that the answer is no. On the contrary, such a relatively low-key, peaceful packaging of their lyrical contents perhaps only makes Carsick Cars more incisive. There’s a reason that “Zhong Nan Hai” became such an anthem in today’s Chinese youths beyond its unique style to “[build up] a perfect, instantaneously catchy [tune], and [then] detonating [it] midstream amid a howling wall of guitar noise” (RoC, Carsick Cars). Its lyrics are very simple:
| 中南海，中南海 x3 中南海，中南海 抽烟只抽中南海 中南海，中南海 抽烟只抽中南海 中南海，中南海 生活离不开中南海 中南海，中南海 生活离不开中南海 中南海，中南海 x3 谁抽了我的中南海 (“中南海”) | Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai x3 Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai Only smoke Zhong Nan Hai Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai Only smoke Zhong Nan Hai Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai Life can’t be without Zhong Nan Hai Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai Life can’t be without Zhong Nan Hai Zhong Nan Hai, Zhong Nan Hai x3 Who smoked my Zhong Nan Hai? (“Zhong Nan Hai”, Carsick Cars) |
(The left side is the original lyrics, and the right side is my translation)
A foreigner looking into this set of lyrics probably will be unimpressed at best. But the ingenious trick here is the double identity of Zhong Nan Hai. It is both a brand of cigarette and the name of the building that houses the Chinese Communist Party, akin to the White House. The former has a history of being specially made for party elders, and later trickled down to the Beijingers as a commodity of the rich (CCTV, 2008). The latter has a reputation of remaining obscure to people outside of the top exclusion of CCP. Hence the first is a symbol for the success of capitalistic reform while the second is a symbol for the opaque, and perhaps whimsical, workings of the CCP (which, of course, equals the central government).
Let’s trace the implication of “Zhong Nan Hai”’s the first meaning, as the overall frame of the lyrics would at first suggest. The song then seems to celebrate the cigarette. In translating “抽烟只抽中南海” to “Only smoke Zhong Nan Hai” I have left the structure of the original sentence as is in English. Without a subject written down, the implied subject may be “I,” “we,” “you,” or “they.” Thus the ambiguity induces a sort of universality. Then the sentence boasts of the wealth of the new Beijing, whose citizens are now able to afford such a luxury product. The next phrase ending “Life can’t be without Zhong Nan Hai” starts to sound awry, as “we” become addicted to Zhong Nan Hai --- or the newfound materialism. Finally, the last phrase ending “Who smoked my Zhong Nan Hai?” hints at the narrator’s accusing somebody of stealing. Chaining these together, we see a progression from economical success, to materialist immersion, to materialistic obsession. Remarkably, in the short stanzas Carsick Cars has embedded a farsighted warning of the capitalist excesses Chinese culture is saturated with right now.
Now let’s take the other interpretation of Zhong Nan Hai as the headquarter of CCP. “抽烟只抽中南海” (“Only smoke Zhong Nan Hai”) then suggests a different translation: “Can only smoke Zhong Nan Hai.” Immediately the sentence becomes somewhat of outcry against CCP’s tight control. The next phrase ending “生活离不开中南海” now seems to translate to “Life can’t get rid of Zhong Nan Hai,” bearing a critical connotation similar to the previous sentence. Finally, “谁抽了我的中南海” pivots its meaning on the word “抽” and the historical significance of “中南海.” “抽” means “to smoke” when grouped with the word “cigarette,” but also “to draw, to suck” as a common verb. 中南海 (Zhong Nan Hai) used to be an imperial palace before the end of Qing Dynasty, hence loaded with ancient Chinese essence. Zhang thus rhetorically asks “who took away our Chinese spirit?,” pointing at the violation of morals in contemporary China, looking at the CCP elders sitting inside Zhong Nan Hai.
Hence, even though the sound and texture of Carsick Cars may seem cosmopolitan and unobtrusive, its core remains fiercely, intellectually, and complexly critical of the Chinese society in the form of loaded lyrics. As such, it stays true to Cui Jian’s defining of rock:
Interviewer: “Why have you said rock is the most serious music? Is there a more concrete explanation for your remarks about yourself as ‘confident, free and natural’?”
Cui Jian: “Because rock has social responsibility. First, regarding the emergence of this form, rock is born out of opposing society’s traditional ideology. It absolutely is not an art form that can bring happiness to everyone in society. Second, every society has its problems, any rock should sharply criticize these social problems. The only difference between rock and other forms of critique is that it uses musical forms to express the dissatisfaction people feel about these social problems.” (Xue, trans. Jeroen Groenewegen)
In this paper, I explained the gap between Cui Jian’s and Carsick Cars’ musical styles through the evolution of nationalism and the change in Chinese pop. Nevertheless, they both still bear the responsibility of social critique despite these differences. The “rock ideology” still remains intact across the gulf of 21 years.
In this light, “[Tiananmen] was a hopeless square” probably does not mean Carsick Cars’ denouncement of the rock legacies of 1989. Rather, it is the band’s affirmation of the legacy of intellectual criticism, as it lashes out against the surviving student leaders for failing to carry the efforts of 1989 on to the present, that the idealism of 1989 in the end is devoured by “hopeless[ness]” at democracy.
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