[風聲] 拷秋勤登上加拿大最大音樂報 Exclaim!
http://exclaim.ca/articles/multiarticlesub.aspx?csid1=146&csid2=779&fid1=48350
(誠徵超專業翻譯達人!!!)
Taiwan Rising
By James Keast
In the middle of an open field, you can hear music from everywhere,
particularly the DJ stage situated in the centre. Almost 200 bands
have gathered here to play on seven stages, each only about 100 metres
from the next, causing sound to bleed all over. For veteran music fans,
it's a familiar scene: scantily clad women offer Red Bull and vodka,
dreadlocked white hippies entrance themselves with their spin-dancing,
and if you don't like a given band, more options are only an aimless
wander away.
But this is not your typical summer music festival. Exclaim! TV producer
Sam Sutherland and I are at Spring Scream in Kenting, a tourist town on
the southern tip of Taiwan. We're here to scout independent Taiwanese
bands for a late-summer Canadian tour. But we're not finding much to
like. It's our second day, and we've heard more rap-rock, cheesy keyboards
and mainstream-aping radio friendly sounds than we've willingly exposed
ourselves to in years. We're alternately disheartened by a lack of
enthusiasm and shamed by the hardcore music snobbery we've revealed in
ourselves.
But high on a hill, one of the last shows of the night is the sound of
hope, of change, and of a future for independent music in Taiwan. The
sound is Kou Chou Ching, a hard-spitting hip-hop crew who built their
backing tracks not from vintage American R&B but from Taiwanese and
aboriginal music. As they rap in Mandarin and Taiwanese, we quickly
abandon attempted simultaneous translation, but one moment is striking.
Near the end of the set, Kou Chou Ching lead the gathered in an enthusiastic
chant:"Taiwan! Taiwan! Taiwan!" At the time, Sam and I see it as a curious,
perhaps anachronistic moment of nationalism, like American sports fans
who chant "U!S!A!" But we'll soon realize this is a powerful moment for
indie culture, for music, and for a country in transition.
Spring Scream was founded 16 years ago by North American ex-pats, Jimi Moe
and Wade Davis, as a party of and for friends. "Taiwan had a big music scene
in the '80s and '90s but it was all cover bands," Davis explains. "An
indie/underground music scene, like we were used to back home, was almost
non-existent."
"The first time we came down here, we brought a couple of other bands who'd
never left [Taiwan's capital Taipei]," Moe adds. "Every band had another
friend band, it ended up being ten bands and maybe 200 people." The event
has since exploded to the point that there were at least five other rival
music festivals around Kenting on this weekend ─ they're universally
referred to as "Spring Scream," although only Wade and Jimi's event retains
the untainted, DIY feel of its original inspiration.
"When we first started, there were maybe ten bands on the island who were
attempting to play original music," Davis says. "Now there are thousands.
We were able to watch and be a part of the music scene growing up here."
A brief historical overview is required to understand the context of Taiwan's
creative communities. Taiwan was ceded to China in a post-WWII agreement
with Japan, and was placed under martial law following the Chinese civil
war in 1949. It maintained a tenuous balance of maintaining economic ties
to China while preserving its own rich ethnic and cultural heritage, and
through lobbying and political agitation, Taiwan shed martial law and became
a democracy in the late 1980s. Yet Taiwan is not an independent country in
the eyes of the world, and remains unrecognized by the United Nations and
other Western powers; as a "nation" of sorts, they do have an international
presence, like in the Olympics, where they compete as the Republic of China
(not to be confused with the communist People's Republic of China). Taiwan
retains a significant amount of economic and political independence from
mainland China, but is in many ways a land without status. Among increasingly
politicized Taiwanese youth, these issues are prime ─ and they've got the
hands-on political experience to back them up.
The seriousness of these issues becomes blindingly clear when we return to
Taipei (about a two hour bullet train ride to the northern part of this
island, which houses Canada's population in an area about the size of
Vancouver Island) and sit down with Kou Chou Ching mastermind Fan Chiang.
Censorship of not just culture but free speech itself ended only 20 years
ago, within the lifetimes of most current Taiwanese musicians. "It's more
free now," Chiang tells us. "You can sing about whatever you want. But before,
if you sang about [Taiwanese political issues] you'd just disappear." In fact,
Chiang tells us that if he gave the same interview 20 years ago, not only
would he "disappear" immediately but as journalists from the West, so would
we.
Even the name Taiwan is discouraged by mainland China; that name ─ and the
name given to it by Portuguese settlers several hundred years ago, Formosa
("beautiful" in Portuguese) ─ Taiwan has become a shorthand for those who
fight for independence for this proud nation. Chiang encouraging that Spring
Scream crowd to chant "Taiwan" and "Formosa" was a more significantly
political act than we realized in the moment.
Chiang has an astute understanding of political hip-hop that mirrors our
own experience. "Now, it's the market that's suppressing this kind of
expression ─ people won't buy this kind of music. A lot of Taiwanese
bands are short-sighted ─ they don't see that in caring about social
issues, you can still be successful." He cites not only his own musical
inspiration, like Public Enemy, but other politically aware Western acts
like U2 and Bob Dylan.
Kou Chou Ching make a political statement with their music by using
traditional Taiwanese and aboriginal music in their production; they're
the only Taiwanese hip-hop act doing so, and it's challenging for two
reasons. "Taiwanese music is constructed totally differently than Western
music," Chiang explains. "It takes time to understand the story within the
music, and a lot of bands don't spend the time to unravel this. A lot of
bands try to add traditional elements, but they're still thinking of a
Western musical structure and adding Taiwanese elements like a traditional
trumpet on top."
The other challenge is directly tied to the period of Chinese martial law,
when the ruling class tried to abolish evidence of Taiwanese culture,
including forcing the Taiwanese education system to teach only Mandarin.
Thus finding source material to sample is itself an immense challenge.
"Because of government censorship, a lot of traditional Taiwanese music
recordings were destroyed, so it's difficult to find this original music."
Taiwan has long had a huge and successful domestic music scene, but it's
dominated by Idol-style corporate creations that serve up easily digestible
nuggets of pop confectionary. The DIY scene is tiny and marked by the
enthusiasm and hard work of a handful of individuals so dedicated to music
that they can't imagine doing anything else. Ground zero for these bands is
White Wabbit Records in Taipei, which is where we meet Wu Yi-Chun (Brian,
to his Western friends), the mastermind behind Aphasia, one of Taipei's best,
most interesting bands.
Walking into White Wabbit Records is weird and disconcerting; it looks like
Soundscapes or Zulu or any number of hip, independent Canadian record stores.
Not the Taiwanese equivalent ─ actually one of those stores. They stock
Planet Smashers vinyl and the new Gentleman Reg album. Joanna Newsom posters
hang from the wall. Less than two percent of their stock consists of bands
from Taiwan. It's a store and a label owned and operated by KK, who also
plays bass in Aphasia. Having grown from its roots (taking over a bathroom
next to one of Taipei's few live venues, the Wall), they've expanded into
this second location. They moved from selling second-hand CDs to importing
music from around the world, and after befriending Canadian label Arts &
Crafts, they helped bring Broken Social Scene to Taipei for the first time.
They've stocked the store with music they read about in Pitchfork and Exclaim!
and their whole approach is pure DIY ─ there are no precedents in Taiwan
for indie labels or small-scale record stores. They're doing what they want
however they can, but without mentors or guidance, as summed up by this
exchange I have with KK during our interview: Is it common for bands to
form a label to release their records? "No." Are there any others? "No."
Do people think you're crazy? "Yes, many people say so."
KK defers Aphasia questions to Brian ─ "He's a legend," she says ─ and
when he shows up, he shows us a scrapbook of himself as an activist teenager
at free speech protests from the late '80s. Aphasia are an instrumental
post-rock band in the vein of Explosions In the Sky. Brian writes all the
songs, and records them in his basement studio, where he also produces
and records the majority of Taipei independent bands. "Because Aphasia are
an instrumental band, we don't reflect our political thinking in the lyrics,
" Brian explains. "Through simple notes, we want to stimulate people's
thinking, instead of telling people how they should think."
Aphasia is a brain condition that takes away a person's ability to speak;
when I first heard them (before coming to Taiwan), it seemed like a clever
pun for an instrumental band. But after speaking to Brian ─ seeing evidence
of his political past, and hearing about the social context of Taiwan ─
Aphasia (or "voiceless-ness") has a much more political meaning than I'd
initially understood.
In addition to the band and the studio, Brian mans the soundboard at the
Wall, one of only five venues (in a city the size of Toronto) that books
original bands. (Illustrating the close-knit nature of the scene, the venue
houses the original White Wabbit Records store, and was co-founded by Spring
Scream's Jimi Moe.)
Brian is like many of the successful indie bands we meet in Taiwan, a veteran
of the scene who grew up under martial law and who appreciates the freedom of
expression they now enjoy. But what makes Taiwan unique is that everyone in
the scene ─ every original song, every record, every show ─ is one of the
first of its kind. DIY culture was not only implausible 20 years ago, it was
impossible, not to mention dangerous. So Taiwanese bands grew without heroes,
without mentors and with very few indigenous examples around them.
One of those pioneers is Sissey Chao, who founded his band Double X nearly 20
years ago. "At that time, there was a lot of government control and censorship,
" Sissey explains. "Everyone seemed very serious and uptight; we felt we
really need to break that mould ─ to jump around on stage, not just stand
there and sing." The first Double X album, Sissey explains, was "a concept
album, from birth to death. And in between, sex. I was the first to sing
about sex in Taiwan."
That album, whose title translates as Put Myself Out, was banned immediately
after its release on a small independent label. "They thought I'm gonna pull
my dick out," Sissey explains about a misunderstanding derived from the
album's title. "It's not ─ it's put my soul out, put my inside out."
(Ironically, the label was called NC-18, after the ratings system in Taiwan;
the label folded soon after.) The ban stung for Sissey, whose intentions
were far from political. "I was never against government or anyone. I was
never really anti-establishment. It got pretty rocky [after the ban] ─ I
had to go find a job. I quit music for a while."
Sissey wears a Lone Ranger style mask on stage, as well as during interviews;
when he first started, he used to wear make-up, "but it's too much trouble,"
he explains. He uses the mask to distinguish his on-stage persona from his
everyday life. "I don't want people to recognize me." That quest for
anonymity was heightened during his early days, when his album was banned.
"I could feel this endless fear, the pressure that something could happen
to me. Even my record company told me to watch out, to be careful."
After that experience, it would be totally understandable for him to walk
away from music. "I tried to quit but I couldn't ─ songs occur in my mind
every minute, every second. Now I want to create music that's more peaceful
and calming instead of rebelling and hating each other. I think we're flowers,
we're loving seeds from heaven. [Music] is probably more spiritual for me now."
While I'm focusing here on the bands touring Canada this summer, we
experienced a broad range in style and approach within the Taiwanese indie
scene, ranging from the well-oiled machine of Taiwan's most successful
export, metal band Cthonic, to the balcony-and-bedroom "amongst friends"
approach of label A Good Day. We talk to the founder of another venue, Geddy
Lin, who built his stage in order to have a place to jam on the fusion jazz
he fell in love with during time in California. We sit in the sophisticated,
professional studios of Wonder Music who believe that a lo-fi approach is
detrimental to independent music's potential success. And we chat with plenty
of aspiring bands like Windmill (who works at White Wabbit), 1976 (who are
fanatical and knowledgeable sports fans) and Cherryboom (an all-girl band we
loved at Spring Scream, who are ready-made rock stars who give us their
autographs without asking).
There are two commonalities that most musicians we meet share: the average
age is mid-30s, and most of them have few illusions about music being
anything more than art for art's sake. And despite our fascination with the
dedicated activism of Kou Chou Ching and members of Aphasia, mainstream
Taiwanese culture is in no way defined by harsh political split with mainland
China; in a recent poll, almost 80 percent of Taiwanese citizens supported a
political "status quo" ─ Taiwan as a democracy, but with strong economic
and political ties to China.
Most Taiwanese citizens are of Chinese or Japanese descent, but there's a
significant minority population of aboriginal islanders who've also fought
to maintain their own unique history, traditions, language and culture.
Matzka is one of the rising aboriginal bands in Taiwan, and they've latched
onto a different musical tradition that they see as a natural fit for this
island nation: reggae. "Taiwan is a southern island," says Matzka frontman
Song Wei Nun. "We have sunshine and beaches and waves and plenty of wine."
When I point out that unlike the Caribbean, Taiwan is strictly anti-drugs
and thus pot culture isn't part of Taiwanese reggae, Song Wei Nun laughs.
"We have betel nut," citing the popular South Asian plant that's also a mild
stimulant. "You should try it."
Matzka formed in 2008 in order to enter an aboriginal music contest, which
they won. Nun didn't know a lot about reggae culture, but it proved to be a
perfect fit for singing in his native aboriginal language. "Our aboriginal
background offers a lot of cultural references and folk stories that we can
express in reggae."
He has a positive view on the challenges of making music in Taiwan as an
aboriginal band. "Being aboriginal ─ because we're not usually well off ─
we don't have as good equipment or venues to practice in, but because of that
disadvantage, it allows us not to be as distracted by the material world. It
keeps us focused on creating good music. But otherwise, I don't think there
are any other challenges being an aboriginal band."
We experienced this kind of upbeat approach throughout our time in Taiwan;
Cherryboom cited no sexist attitudes in the music scene, only that they
disliked lugging heavy equipment. Bands are experiencing the same erosion
in CD sales as the rest of the world, but everyone we spoke to was upbeat
about the prospects of Taiwan's music culture. Taipei is a huge, clean and
prosperous city that has limited options for young bands to cut their teeth,
but what opportunities they do have are staffed by hard-working musicians
like Brian behind the soundboard at the Wall, or Geddy Lin's Riverside ─
people more dedicated to art and building community than an economic bottom
line.
As lifelong music fans, we're keenly aware of significant moments in music
history, when social and economic forces meet communities of dedicated
musicians and that spark creates art that has an impact well beyond their
small circles: the Southern U.S. of the 1950s, New York and London of the
mid-'70s, Seattle in the late '80s. But this is the first time we'd ever
felt like we were witnessing the beginnings of such a movement. Not all, or
even many, indie bands in Taiwan are great. Perhaps none of them will
revolutionize music as we know it. But the act of creation ─ writing a
song, learning an instrument, performing for the first time ─ is a fresh
mark in the unwritten future of Taiwanese youth culture. They're just now
breathing in the opportunities afforded by freedom of expression that
Canadians take for granted. Through music, Taiwan is finding a voice.
--
http://www.kou.com.tw
[拷秋勤] PTT版名 KOU
~一面跳舞，一面思考~
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