A Diary of the Millennium in Hong Kong and Taiwan
January 4, 2000: Kowloon
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Just another Kowloon weeknight, lights and customers spilling from the shops.
Two burly Filipino tourists walk past, in heated conversation:
This place is so fucking American. Land of the free, home of the fucking brave.
Two and a half years removed from the handover, an economic crisis later, Hong
Kong still dreams Western dreams. The new airport on Lantau Island, the Convention
Center which juts into Hong Kong Harbor, pick an overpriced hotel - they all recall
and reflect the cavernous efficiency of any number of U.S. cities. Still, one
can retire to a local food market, and earn a few shoves and choice epithets from
the proprietors. Or pay a visit to the local cinema and note the irritating phenomenon
of businessmen jawing away on their cellulars while the film is in progress (Martin
Scorcese's Max Cady would feel right at home). For overstimulation, no scene in
America can match the sight of a hundred Mongkok pedestrians bearing down on each
other across an intersection, and every corrugated street and overhanging sign
seems to utter imperatives: Shop! Eat!
But perhaps the Filipino visitors are referring to this region's entertainment
scene. Hong Kong has enjoyed a synchronicity of art and commerce which has rendered
it Asia's de facto pop culture capital for the past two decades. Movies,
music, style, it was all here, and so much so that it even shook Hollywood's foundations,
if only slightly - Chow Yun-Fat and Jet Li, a lonely Special Administrative Region
turns its eyes to you.
That manifest destiny is still apparent on the other side of the century: endless
aisles of pirated VCDs, the evolution of cellulars into fashion accessories, karaoke
as lifestyle rather than activity. Much like a southern Californian city which
shall remain nameless, Hong Kong is all about glamour and trendiness, a Fantasyland
in which America is not so much copied but distilled into its most rudimentary
forms: shopping, soap operas, music and movies. When VH1 diva Whitney Houston
showed up on Hong Kong Island for the New Year bash, it wasn't so much a surprise
as a fulfillment.
But while America is almost insufferably pleased with itself these days, Hong
Kong battles discontent, ennui. People point out the Chinese mainland immigrants
dotting every street, the intruders' accents and hairstyles and flamboyant tastes
in fashion pored over like code. Chief Executive Tung Chee-Hwa's popularity rating
is at an all-time low. Pollution records are broken every day in Causeway Bay.
Population predictions of over 10 million by 2025 are bemoaned. Smug arrogance
has given way to the fidgety feeling that perhaps history is touching Hong Kong
for the first time, or more accurately, swamping it and rushing onward, nary a
bubble in its wake.
Nowhere is this more apparent than on the cultural front lines. One need only
take note of the posters for the latest movie extravaganza: Rave, a "portrait"
of the new and exciting - hmm - rave scene in town (a recent China Morning
Post devotes an entire feature on how this "fresh" craze will likely
persist for the next few years). Yes, it's come down to this for a movie factory
which rivaled Hollywood for star power and populist appeal less than a decade
ago, but now seems resigned to drab "realistic" films and rote Boyz
in the Hood rip-offs. The handover and subsequent talent drain is a ready excuse,
but I suspect that the sober economic climate has more to do with it. Hong Kong's
whole point is excess, and in these more moderate, fiscally responsible times,
the territory's cinema is adrift, unable to fall back on the soaring hyperactive
comedies and action films it has long specialized in, unsure of how to "grow
up" in a convincing manner. The best recent Hong Kong movies such as Too
Many Ways to Be Number One (1997), a scorching parody of Hong Kong's position
vis-à-vis China and Taiwan, are fueled by this anxiety; the worst carry
on as if nothing has happened, and are obsolete upon completion.
The music scene is similarly tired. A local superstar like Faye Wong still dazzles,
but her latest release, the self-congratulatory Faye Scenic Tour 98-99
(1999, EMI) is a typical Hong Kong live album - performances so wispy that it
might as well be steam emanating from the stage. It says something when the highlight
of a concert is an insanely polite cover of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody."
At least one can still find pleasures in Wong's tightrope walk between karaoke-ready
music and something resembling, well, pop. Far less can be said for singer
"dragons" such as Jackie Cheung or Leon Lai, their music so reticent
it deprives one of the will to even criticize.
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Give the Hong Kongers credit, though - as their local entertainment scene has
been threatened with irrelevance, they have expanded their horizons. J-pop is
now the thing. Teen phenom Utada Hikaru is ubiquitous, and the only topic discussed
more often than her music is how much she is really worth (a Hong Kong friend
claims a magazine said around ten billion U.S. dollars, but I suspect the decimal
point was in the wrong place). Utada's debut album First Love (1999, Toshiba-EMI)
is the kind of snazzy East-West hybrid other Japanese chanteuses such as Namie
Amuro have pursued for so long, a marriage of homegrown NYC beats with canny songcraft
and perfectly enunciated English lyrics such as You are always gonna be the
one ... Her latest single "Addicted to You" leans even further toward
the getting-down-with-it side of the dial, and is virtually indistinguishable
from a Stateside jam but for Utada's candy-pure voice. Here's hoping she maintains
the balance.
But rather than becoming the latest mass market for all pop artifacts Japanese,
it is very apparent that Hong Kong's major value in the coming years will be as
a repository of international culture. Offbeat music stores like the Rock Gallery
in Wanchai (Emperor Group Centre, 288 Hennessey Rd.) offer classic Hong Kong flicks
on DVD for US$8 while still making room for rare U2 concert bootlegs and other
import CDs. Another locust of hodgepodge influences is the Broadway Cinematheque
and neighboring POV Bookstore in Kowloon (Prosperous Garden, 3 Public Square St.,
Yau Ma Tei). This week, the former features Zhang Yimou's latest film Not One
Less as well as Korean crowd-pleasers (Christmas in August) and Japanese
fare (the wonderfully comic-deadpan Great Teacher Onizuka). A visit to
the latter lands a colorful tome on the Beijing underground rock scene, The
New Sounds of Beijing (Hunan Literature and Art Publishing House), and hard-to-find
British essay collections on Alfred Hitchcock. Perhaps the city's artistic survival
will hinge on combinations such as these; as long as it mixes and matches these
"foreign" influences - a concept mainland China has yet to fully embrace
- then there is the possibility of hybridization, outright theft and rejuvenation.
History does repeat: the recent "golden age" of Hong Kong cinema came
about through the aping of Hollywood models.
January 8, 2000: Taipei
Under the Taipei train station, seemingly continents
away from the humid slabs of sidewalk and barred windows above, the corridors
stretch for over a mile. The walkways are part of the just-completed subway line
connecting this town's east and central sections. Someday they will be an underground
city, but at this time one sees only ceiling-to-floor windows, crosses of scotch
tape, a few scattered shards of plaster. Still, it's easy to imagine a hive of
well-lit restaurants and overpriced boutiques. For a city which can be described
as Blade Runner minus the heaven-high skyscrapers, it's the logical next
step.
At first glance, Taiwan - specifically Taipei, which for better or worse has become
a stand-in for the rest of the island - is an unlikely place for a pop culture
capital. Outwardly, it is a miasma of noise and dust and confused traffic. The
facelessness of the architecture and the lack of an urban focal point has generated
a landscape in which one must meander, discover isolated pockets of life, much
like enduring a stream-of-consciousness novel.
Those with patience are rewarded by discovery: the classy cafe in that lane off
that alley off that little-used street; the curio shop whose owner specializes
in rock photography and handmade computer desks; the snug jazz club where amateurs
strut their stuff and pretension is in short supply. Establishments which would
otherwise be derided as crass commercialism - McDonald's, Circle-Ks, 7-Elevens
- are treated as landmarks, meeting spots. History shadows everything, much more
so than in mainland China. Every street contains reminders of past eras: dilapidated
roofs, no-filter cigarettes, taxi drivers wearing slippers, the daily burning
of paper money for the dead, teapots and temples and ink blocks. The modern pokes
through in garish splendor: book superstores, cineplexes, multi-level shopping
centers. This is the true urban jungle - no one can tell where the past and present
end, where natural earth and building rubble begins. The recent earthquake? A
mere dent compared to the construction upheavals which mark this city.
Regrettably, some of this city's more unique characteristics - the fresh food
stands which used to dot every rickety street, for example - are giving way under
modernization's onslaught. The absence is most apparent in the Hsimenting district,
which aspires to be a Shinjuku Square for the Taiwanese young and hip, but merely
regurgitates chain music stores and fashion emporiums. Two years ago, open-air
restaurants here offered greasy Chinese soul food and deserts of ice, gelatin
and fruit syrups - they have all been replaced by T-shirt and trinket shops.
Taipei residents and all those who live here for an extended period respond to
these headaches in the most logical way - they stay locked in their heads, going
about their business and nothing much more, regarding the mess around them with
a tired petulance. Walkmans and headphones are rampant. Off-work activities are
mostly limited to home entertainment systems. During my visit I have stayed with
an American expatriate who has lived here for over ten years; over this period
he has accumulated thousands of jazz CDs, to the point where his apartment is
encased in them, museum and mausoleum.
But this increasingly blandified environment also means the Taiwanese are connoiseurs
of music and movies. Not surprisingly, they are obsessed with Japan (the island
was under Japanese control for half of the 20th century). In the urban palette
of rust and claustrophobia and washed-out architecture, the blatant rainbows of
J-pop and soap opera serials are not just an antidote but a necessity, the yin
to the yang of everyday life. The island is infamous for its rampant pirating
of Japanese music and videos, but major corporations in Nipponland have taken
note, and officially-endorsed albums are now more prominent than their poor bootleg
cousins. For an additional $7, you can get the original album artwork and Chinese
translations of the lyrics, and who wouldn't spring the extra bucks for that?
Taiwan will never match Japan's factory-like productivity in terms of music, but
there are more signs of life here than in Hong Kong. Of particular note is the
Magic Stone label, which seems to have cornered the market in edgy, melodic rock.
Old favorite Wu Bai still churns out sinewy Mandarin and Taiwanese-language albums,
while newcomers like Yang Nai Wen parade a feisty attitude quite foreign to Asia's
candified singers. In her latest album Silence (Magic Stone, 1999), Yang
comes off as a more committed Faye Wong, and while the music is a hodgepodge of
not-quite-original alt-pop, Yang's keening delivery holds an angst strangely evocative
of present-time Taipei.
Remember this area: Hsuchang Street, directly opposite the Taipei train station
and one block south of Chunghsiao Rd. For a telling example of Taiwan eclecticism
and breadth, a visit to Hsuchang Street is mandatory. In this bustling warren,
one finds the two poles of teenage life: bushibans and other exam preparation
centers mixing it up with music stores such as Tachung Records (24 Hsuchang St.)
or Tayi Records (28 Hsuchang St.), or even Rose Records just around the corner
(22 Kungyuan Rd.). Brave the youthful masses, struggle through the store aisles,
and one is rewarded with a dazzling array of music, videos and general insanity.
The inevitable japanese pop idols, heavy metal, jazz selections which would shame
any self-respecting U.S. chain, electronica, oldies, soundtracks, polka ditties
- name it and they have it. Upwardly mobile Hong Kongers share Westerners' distaste
for fecund chaos; the Taiwanese revel in it.
Whitney Houston can screech on to her heart's content; the true past and future
of Taiwan (and Asian) pop culture is on full display tonight, as the Japanese
trio Dreams Come True, augmented by an eight-piece band and breakdancers, puts
on a two-and-a-half-hour extravanganza at the Taipei Municipal Baseball Stadium.
It's a standing room-only crowd, and from my vantage point the band is about as
large as my thumb, but it doesn't matter, this is an event.
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Dreams Come True aren't quite as high-profile as they used to be, thanks to an
ill-fated 1998 American marketing campaign (one of the saddest sights in recent
memory was watching them karaoke along with their newest single to a near-empty
Tower Records store in San Francisco), but they still have a hefty following in
the East. The band's latest release Monster (1999, Toshiba-EMI) doesn't
qualify as a truly exceptional album on the level of 1991's Million Kisses
or 1995's Delicious (both Sony Music), but it's a nifty introduction to
their stew of pop, funk, and plain goofiness, as evidenced by past song titles
like "A Salad for You" and "Go For It, Monkey Girl!"
Live, they're still a spectacle, blending arm-waving ballads with exuberant funk-a-thons
and a healthy sense of the ridiculous. It's truly a time warp and a trip to see
coy-brassy singer Miwa Yoshida roller-blade among the audience in between her
half-dozen costume changes, or witness the Taiwanese audience vocalize in accurate
Japanese to the band's signature song "Love Love Love." By the end,
as the inevitable flower bouquets litter the stage, Yoshida tears up for a moment
- but only for a moment - before making a last run around the stage, surging to
a feel-good finish. A nostalgia exercise? Perhaps. But there is magic and a sneaky
sense of innovation in the band's deviations into drum-and-bass and trip-hop.
Like Taiwan in general, Dreams Come True acknowledges its past with a cheerful
tear and rollerblades into the future.
America may never get Dreams Come True, but if they can play to sold-out Asian
audiences, is American domination so important? In Taiwan and Hong Kong, the imperialism
of American culture persists, but its hold is slipping. New pop forms are emerging,
mosaics of nationality and identity and tastes whipped and pureed, an aesthetic
distinct and separate from the calcified US of A. McDonald's and Starbucks may
press in for the kill, but being exactly like the most powerful nation in the
world doesn't seem so urgent any more. Long live the new hybrid.