Tuesday, 16 April 2013

The pen and where the buck stops

Every journalist knows to do a bit of research before heading out on the beat and covering a story. My shortcoming as a magazine writer was not doing my research on the industry I was getting into before delving into it. I knew well enough that it was advertisers who paid the piper, but I was naïve about the little bones that publishers would throw to their patrons.

Depending on the magazine and its own ethics, some of those bones would be small and insignificant (say, a product mention in the tech pages), or they could be quite large and meaty (a two-page article extolling the quality service at a dental clinic in exchange for a free emergency root-canal, which actually happened at one place I worked). I was aware that many magazines operated this way. Where I was oblivious was in thinking that there were many other publications that didn't scratch the backs of its advertisers in one way or another.

Much of this back-scratching happens in those "About Town"-type of items you see in the front of publications – 100-word blurbs about celebrity sightings or interesting factoids that don't warrant a full-blown story. This is where even the most ethical of magazines usually spit their loads after servicing their paymasters. For instance, that photo of J.K. Rowling at a book fair sponsored by Borders isn't really a celebrity sighting, but a little sucking up to the book chain, which is a "preferred advertiser".

I was fortunate enough to do my internship at that's Shanghai magazine, which, at the time, kept a firm line between advertisers and content. But even they had their "about town" pages, and one of my first assignments was to head into the city for a cocktails event one night.

This is what I filed:

City Scene
Caran d’Ache product launch party
146 Words

When the invitation for the Caran d'Ache product launch at the Shanghai Concert Hall landed on our desk, we were intrigued. If we hadn't known that Caran was the Swiss producer of absurdly expensive pens for those who wouldn't be caught dead with a Bic, we might have assumed they were watchsmiths. It was that vague.

We showed up for the mystery event promptly at 7:30 and were treated to an empty, flood-lit runway for 50 minutes. We passed the time wondering, how do you launch a pen on a runway? Finally, three sumptuous models took the stage to play air-violins to loungy classical chill-out tunes.

After their little dance-and-dash, we were again left with an empty runway and cocktails. Ten minutes passed before our curiosity was snuffed and we decided it was time to go. Life’s too short, and after all, it's just a pen.

Needless to say, my snide little masterpiece was not printed. It's worth noting, though, that it passed in silence and I continued to get assignments. I would have been fired had I filed that kind of piece with the Singapore magazine I worked for the following year. Although I had wised up somewhat, I found my non-consumerist mindset to be my Achilles heel in the magazine business. When I edited my company's annual Travel Guide in Singapore, I was tickled that the weak economy prevented the sales team from lining up enough advertisers to turn a profit for the publication. With hardly any ads, I got to stuff the glossy journal full of articles and photos with wanton abandon, and there were no PR hacks on my case to cut the Cambodia article in half so they could paste in an ad for diet pills. It was a dream come true – Conde Nast meets Foreign Affairs.

I sense now that my overall nonchalance toward the people who made my paycheque possible is what spoiled my relationship with that publisher, who ran the company's magazines like advertising catalogues. It was not my job to sell ad space, of course, but my indifference must have been palpable. The previous year, I had written an article about Singapore's cycling culture and quoted a bike-shop manager as part of my research. During that issue's post mortem, the editor questioned why I was giving free publicity to a non-advertiser. Perhaps if I had said, "Sorry, next time I'll check with sales first," that would have smoothed things over. What I did say  "I was just trying to write a good article" (with a shrug of the shoulders and face that probably combined puzzlement with disgust)  set me up for harsher consequences when my naïveté stirred trouble.

My aversion to advertising probably stems from spending my formative working-years at CBC Radio from age 21 to 29. When media is unmolested by the agenda of advertising dollars, its power to bring communities together and stimulate meaningful dialogue is unparalleled. Once you're a part of it, you never forget it. So when I had the chance to shape the content of my own magazines, my only goal was to make them as stimulating and interesting as possible. By the time I was working in Singapore, my ethic was so embedded that I had blinders on. Not only was this my first time working in private media, but also a first for me to be in non-union environments. Combined with the lack of labour laws and the different ways of doing things in a new land, these were more significant elements of culture shock than dealing with day-to-day minutiae in a foreign country.

Back to that's Shanghai. After my little disaster with the pen company, the section editor sent me on another City Scene mission, this time for a TV network. She gave me some gentle counsel: "Be nice to these people. They’re connected with the government."

The event was in a little tea-house, where a table setting had a card with my name on it … and a delicate red envelope containing three 100-yuan bills. Perhaps I’m the type of person who needs things spelled out for me, because, reminiscing on this particular instance, the little bribe made this bit of marketing feel so effortless. I even enjoyed making up the quotes!


Friday, 22 March 2013

The butcher on Hastings


As the owner of more than one hard-to-find Beatles record, I know a good deal (or a bad one) when I come across it. But rarely do I come across a deal that's blatantly suspicious. For instance, the other day, when I found myself staring at one of the rarest LPs in the world – one I have seen stickered at $4,000 and had to travel all the way to Tokyo to see – for $34.99. Yes, the decimal was in the right place.

There it was as I strolled into Beat Street Records on Hastings Street, the legendary "butcher cover" staring at me from the front of the Beatles rack. I knew something was fishy even before I saw the price tag. First of all, anyone who owns one of these doesn't stick them for sale in a record bin. You hold onto it at home and advertise for the highest bidder. And if you're the owner of a record shop looking to show it off to customers, you keep it locked in a glass case behind the counter. And if your shop is on Crack Row (Hastings Street), around the corner from Blood Alley (real name), you don't keep it in the shop at all.

So it was no surprise when I saw the "cheap" price tag, because I had already surmised that this was a reproduction. The only question left: was it an official repro or a fake?

This was the first time I had encountered any form of the butcher cover in Canada. In Japan I saw three. Strangelove Records in the Shinjuku district had a butcher cover behind the counter. It wasn't for sale, but the clerk took it down and let me hold it. That alone was a thrill. Vinyl Records nearby had a prime specimen on the wall, going for C$4,000 (the shopkeeper wouldn't let me photograph it). The RecoFan outlet in Shibuya had one with a big rip through John Lennon's face (pictured), a sign that this was a "bad peel job", as they call it in butcher-collector circles. Some of the butcher covers had been "corrected" by Capitol records by pasting the new cover over the old one. Those who bought a paste-over inevitably would try to steam or peel it off, usually ruining the product altogether, but not to the point of making it worthless – this "peel job" in Shibuya was being offered for C$2,500.

Capitol's recall letter; click to enlarge
I should back up and tell you what makes this cover such a prize. To begin with, this wasn't even a formal Beatles record. The group had always taken great care in sequencing the songs on their British LPs, giving good value for money with 13 or 14 tracks. However, the American label that had rights to the songs on this continent – Capitol Records – would issue the LPs a few tracks short, then collect the missing songs onto compilation records, of which this was one. When Yesterday and Today was ready to hit the American marketplace in June 1966, Capitol called up the group's management to request a cover. This is what they got. The fact that Capitol even used the image was out of character, as the American label had a habit of tarting up and dumbing down the arty British covers by adding garish colours and simple-minded photos to make them more consumer-friendly. Capitol realized their "mistake" on this one and recalled the album after only a day on the marketplace. The fact that some retailers refused to stock the record helped them with the decision. Those who actually bought this one-day-only record landed themselves a rarity.

The album was re-released the following week with a new, innocuous cover, one showing the boys huddled around a steamer trunk.

Many fans theorized that the submission of the original cover was the Beatles' way of protesting Capitol's "butchering" of their records. That would have made a great story had it been true, but sadly this wasn't the case.

At Beat Street Records, I approached the gangly, middle-aged clerk at the cash desk. I don't want to knock the guy personally, but, although he fit right in with a Hastings five-and-dime, this wasn't the font-of-all-knowledge used-record-store-clerk I was familiar with. I'm used to bantering with record-shop clerks who regale me with stories about whatever piece of vinyl I approach them with. Sometimes these guys are entertaining and informative. Sometimes they're pricks. (See the film High Fidelity for some hilariously piercing portrayals.) Either way, these guys know their stuff.

Except at Beat Street.

"This is a reproduction, right?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah. That's part of the catalogue re-mastering they just did."

No, the recent catalogue re-issues comprised all the British LPs, not the American ones, and certainly not with this out-of-commission cover. So I explained the history of this particular record.

"Yeah, I can see that," he said, starting to grimace. "I never really looked at it, but yeah, it's kinda weird, right? Like, what does all that have to do with the title? Like, Yesterday and Today and slabs of meat? That's just demented, man."

I took the LP out of the sleeve for examination. Not only was it in beautiful condition, without any evidence of being pre-owned, it was on 180-gram, marble-blue vinyl – the kind of refined touches marketed specifically to collectors. So, for the moment, a seed was planted that this might be an official re-issue of some kind. Bootleggers would never go to such lengths, would they?

Despite how much I loved the record, though, I was apprehensive. I put it back in its place and left to do some online research. No official pressing for sale on Amazon. Nothing on the Beatles collectors' websites. Googling "butcher cover re-issue" and such came up with evidence of a limited re-pressing in Japan (on red or sky-blue vinyl, not the marbled light blue I saw), but this was just unofficial chatter on message boards, and others were replying that the Japan pressings were unofficial. Regardless, I figured I'd go back to Beat Street and pick it up. The mystery made it more appealing.

A different clerk this time, someone more High Fidelity and less straight-outta-rehab, but still not all that up to speed on his stock.

"What's the deal with this record?" I asked. "Who re-issued it?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "It was in the last shipment from the distributor."

"Yeah, but is it an import? Did it come from Japan, or what?"

"I dunno. It was in the box the distributor sent."

I was taking the evasiveness as a sign that I was likely about to purchase a fake. But it's a beautiful fake. Despite the flawless sound, there is one giveaway upon playing the record that this is not a genuine article. The sound mix is in mono, as the label states. However, the manufacturers of this piece used the stereo mixes and folded them down into mono, rather than using the original mono tracks. (The backwards guitar on "I'm Only Sleeping" differs between the mono and stereo version, a noticeable tell for collectors.) An unfortunate oversight, as the mono tracks have been readily available on CD since 2009.

I'll chalk it up to kismet that I discovered this just a few blocks from Vancouver's east-side institution, Save-on-Meats – an ideal locale to find a butcher cover for only $34.99.

~~~~~~~

Here's what to those who knew best had to say about the most infamous album cover in pop-music history (quotes from Anthology, published in 2000, with a wee bit of paraphrasing):

George: An Australian photographer called Robert Whitaker came up to London. He was avant garde. He set up a photo session which I never liked at the time. I thought it was gross and stupid. Sometimes we did stupid things, thinking it was cool or hip when it was naïve and dumb, and that was one of them. It was a case of being put in a situation where one is obliged as part of a group to co-operate. Quite rightly, somebody took a look and said, "Do you think you really need this as an album cover?"

John: By then we were really beginning to hate photo sessions. It was a big ordeal and you had to look normal and you didn't feel it. Robert Whittaker was a bit of a surrealist and he brought along all these dolls and pieces of meat, so we really got into it. I don't like being locked into one game all the time, and we were supposed to be sort of angels. I wanted to show that we were aware of life, and I really was pushing for that album cover, just to break the image. It got out in America. They printed about 60,000, and then there was some kind of fuss, and they were all sent back or withdrawn. Then they stuck on that awful-looking picture of us looking deadbeat.

Paul: We'd done a few sessions with Robert Whittaker before and he knew our personalities. He knew we liked black humour and sick jokes. I don't know really what he was trying to say, but it seemed a little more original than the things the rest of the photographers were getting us to do.

Ringo: I don't know how we ended up sitting in butchers' coats with meat all over us. The sleeve was great for us because we were quite a nice bunch of boys and we thought, "Let's do something like this." What was crazy about that sleeve was that, because it was banned, they glued the new sleeve over it and everyone started steaming it off. They made it into a really heavy collector's item.

Monday, 11 March 2013

The Eno record I owned without knowing


Brian Eno changed the way I listen to music. His 1974 record Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy) was my first foray into his large body of work, and music hasn't been the same for me since. (Must be said that this introduction came in the early 1990s; someone as avant garde as Eno wasn't exactly on every teenager's Walkman when I was in high school.) 

What makes Eno such an engaging figure, and what makes his music so inventive and inimitable, is that he pays attention to the way music is changed by elements not related to the music itself. That could mean the shape of the room it was recorded in, the mood of the artist creating it, the mood of the listener, the quality of equipment the record is being played on, accidents and happenstance with the instruments being used. Even the titles and the album artwork affect our perception of the sounds inside the package. Eno is known as the pioneer of ambient music, but even in his straightforward pop compositions, there's a sense he's more interested in the sonic nuances rather than the craftsmanship. Eno once offered up a method of jerry-rigging "surround sound" before the concept was even marketed, except his technique only involved a third low-fi speaker and a bit of wire. The instructions he gave on the back of his album sleeve were simple to follow and I still use his method today.

We know how certain songs are coloured by our memories of the times and places where we first heard them. What if someone could record an album that has those discretionary emotions built into it? It's that sort of question that Eno would ask and then attempt to pursue in his music.

Here's how Interview magazine put it: "If humans were able to hear light and parse the poetry of the spectrum, then perhaps there would be no need for Brian Eno, who seems to do it effortlessly. While the rest of us are generally content to hear sound, Eno can clearly see it. How else to explain the elaborate sonic color fields and glowing soundscapes that he creates, which feel as much like floating shapes and waves of light as they do music?"

It's not that I was never aware of these qualities in music, but now I was thinking about them in more active ways. Getting acquainted with Eno gave me a deeper appreciation for other artists who pursued music with a similar ethic – The Beatles, for instance, when John Lennon asked his engineers to make him sound like the Dalai Lama chanting from a Himalayan mountaintop in "Tomorrow Never Knows", or Brian Wilson trying to capture the mood of lost innocence on Pet Sounds. While Eno's approach to music isn't entirely unique, he's been able to pursue his ideas further than any other pop artist by eschewing commercial expectations. (As inventive as The Beatles were, for instance, they still had to churn out singles for radio airplay and abide by contractual obligations.) You listen to Eno's body of work over the past 40 years and it's hard to find anyone comparable who's created such a wide-ranging catalogue of music that is exhilarating in its invention, both cerebral and unpretentious, all of it having miraculously found its audience with no mainstream radio airplay.

And I heap that praise without really liking most of his work. The albums I do enjoy are just that much more special, because I approach them with no expectations, ready to be grabbed (or sedated) in unlikely ways. The albums of his I don't particularly care for are regardless full of wonderful ideas that are likely to be inspirational to someone else with a different perspective.

I vaguely recalled that Eno pulled the name Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy) from the English translation of a famous Chinese opera, which brings me to the ostensible point of this post. Having held this and other Eno albums in high regard, it was hard not to smile when I serendipitously discovered that I have actually had the original Chinese opera in my collection for the past six years – and I had, in fact, written about it on my blog a few weeks ago, completely unaware of the connection. A friend, with my previous blog post fresh in his mind, sent me a link to a record-collector website where he had been browsing for Eno rarities. My pal stumbled upon an LP that looked a lot like one from the collection of Chinese revolutionary operas I picked up in a Shanghai antiques market.

While the covers were distinctly different, the painted figures on both were alike, with their capes and pistols and feisty poses. The title, though, took me aback:Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy: Modern Revolutionary Peking Opera. Looking carefully at the Chinese writing on both this cover and my own, it looked like I had a match. I just had to figure out if the writing was indeed the title, and not something generic found on all Chinese records at the time, such as, "Another fine platter of clanging and caterwauling presented to you from Chairman Mao's personal collection," or "Stereo, also playable mono."

A bit of crowdsourcing on Facebook confirmed it. A couple of the translations offered up by friends were Taking Tiger Mountain by Wisdom and Taking Mighty Tiger Mountain by Wit.

Realizing that I now had both Tiger Mountain records, I pondered that aspect of Eno that makes him and his work so admirable – his authenticity. His own experiences and dreamlike perception of the world are at the heart of all his music, and I like to imagine that his own story of coming across this title might be as memorable as my own. 

One video, two songs: "Under" (1993), "Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy)" (1974):


Saturday, 26 January 2013

China at 33⅓ revolutions per minute



It was while browsing the antiques market in Shanghai that I found a new way to marvel at the invention of the vinyl record.

LPs have captivated me since infancy. I was making futile attempts at playing records before I could walk, throwing Beatles 45s like Frisbees into the console player, and of course forever ruining them. When I became successful at crawling up on a chair to watch the turntable spin, I'd stare enraptured at the needle as it gradually made its way across the spinning black plastic. I noticed the shiny bits of the vinyl where the music would go quiet, and the blacker patches where one could expect a song to explode into cacophony. I could tell so much about the tracks by looking at a record album in my hands. That song is short and loud. That fat one that goes dark at the end must be Hey Jude.

To this day I admire how simple but mysterious a record is – how there are rich, human voices and glorious sounds buried into the near-invisible grooves on a plastic disc. Even when the speakers are off, spin the record with your finger and put your ear up to the needle just to hear the clanging guitars and miniature people shouting "She loves you, yeah yeah yeah" from the flimsy surface. It's physics doing its thing before your eyes and ears. Try getting an iPod to do that with a dead battery.

It wasn't until I found myself staring at a wind-up gramophone in Shanghai's Dong Tai Lu street market that I saw this simple contraption as something more profound. Here is an invention from the 1880s, a time we'd think of as a technologically primeval era. Electricity and the lightbulb were perhaps the major innovations of the time. And here I was looking into the horn of this beautiful gramophone and imagining the era in which it might have been constructed. Virtually none of the technology we have today was around at that time, and yet the sounds of entire orchestras could be captured and reproduced.

This must have been a more surprising achievement than some of history's greatest breakthroughs. Manned flight, which came about 15 to 20 years after the gramophone  that was predicable. The principles of aerodynamics had been obvious since da Vinci dreamed up the helicopter 500 years ago. But recorded sound – who would have guessed that its future would lie within microscopic bumps embedded in wax? If sound recordings hadn't been possible by the time computing technology had been developed, surely people would have been able to foresee a time when digital information would be able to reproduce sound. But these wax cylinders, and later shellac and vinyl LPs, came decades before we envisioned computers. And for that, I find the invention of the phonograph to be one of the most offbeat and unpredictable of any modern advancement that we enjoy today.

Calling Dong Tai Lu (or Dongtai Street) an "antiques" market is a bit of a stretch. It's filled with Mao kitsch, trinkets, and all sorts of musty memorabilia. There are antiques to be found, for sure, but even then you have to beware of the plethora of counterfeits. For me and my friend David, Dong Tai Lu was one of those curious things we had to see, but without any intention of buying anything.

Until I saw the records.

As anyone who knows me is aware, I love records. I'm not the world's most avid collector, but I do enjoy coming home with some rare and novel vinyl pressings from wherever I visit. I didn't expect to find any extraordinary Beatles LPs, as you might in Japan or Europe. Given how closed off China was during the most interesting parts of the 20th-century (not to mention that pop music was just plain illegal in the Communist bloc), there was no chance of stumbling across an obscure pressing of A Hard Day's Night on some defunct Beijing record label.

But I was dumbstruck by what I found in the cramped little shack beside the stall with the gramophone. Here the old vendor had piles of 10-inch records containing operas from the Cultural Revolution. It wasn't the music I was after. It was the covers that were astonishing – vivid and dramatic paintings of revolutionaries and army soldiers striking heroic, inspiring poses. When it comes to collectible vinyl, here were items I would not find at my local used record store in Vancouver – or anywhere else in the world, for that matter.

What makes an antique precious is how much it tells us about ourselves and our own time outside of the object's own history. Any collector of old things will not just be able to regale you with tales of where his collectables came from and their worth, but what his own relationship is to the antiques. Yes, these old records contained a story about China in the 1960s. The unexpected story that struck me, though, looking at the propaganda records and the gramophone outside, was how important and universal this technology was in shaping the world on both sides of the Red Curtain.

In the Western hemisphere during the 1960s, you had the vinyl LP emerging into an art form. No longer just a medium for distributing frivolous pop songs, comedy sketches and radio shows, The Beatles (along with the folk singers who preceded them, and Bob Dylan as their contemporary) legitimized pop music as a way to express complex, personal ideas, sequencing songs on each album to fit themes and moods. Not to credit The Beatles and Dylan for everything, but together they created an environment that made it safe and commercially viable for other musicians, singers and rock bands to take stands that were both personal and political, and to influence the way an audience  thinks. The Summer of Love and a revolution of sorts were in the air.

While The Beatles were singing a song called "Revolution" in 1968, Mao's Cultural Revolution was happening in the Eastern hemisphere. At that time in history, nothing of significance about China was really known to us in the West, and it was obvious that however fast our own society was changing through the sixties, nothing about our culture really was known or shared with the Chinese, either.

Seeing these records in the Dong Tai Lu market, however, suddenly made one thing obvious to me – we may not have shared the same music, but the same technology played a vital part in how our societies were shaped. We all listened to records. The vinyl LP was essential in disseminating the propaganda of hippies and the avant garde on one side of the world, and the propaganda of the political elite on the other side. We all had our lives influenced by records.

Ruminating on all this while flipping through the loot outside the merchant's shack, then going inside and displacing stacks of 10-inch vinyl around the cramped shop and stirring up decades-old dust and mould, I picked out a few specimens to purchase. This is where things got a bit sticky.

The stall owner, a spry old man whose deep wrinkles were like the history of China etched into his face, pulled out his calculator to type in the price (easier than speaking English). Five records, 500 yuan (C$80).

Every guidebook I had picked up, every "old China hand" that I spoke with, even the helpful Projects Abroad staff who helped with the logistics of my Shanghai work assignment, all of them had one essential piece of advice for shopping on Dong Tai Lu – Bargain! Do not pay the first full asking price of any item offered in the market. Haggle, pretend to be disinterested if you must, but never, ever pay the hyper-inflated asking price of any of the merchants. We were guaranteed by all sources that we could haggle down as much at 75 percent.

So I grimaced, hummed and hawed, and put the records down. I took his calculator and presented a counter offer. 300, I typed in. I thought I was being generous, considering all I'd heard. I expected the shopkeeper to say 400 yuan, and that would be that. But no. He typed back 500. " Tài guì le!" I cried ("Too expensive!") and walked away. I was anticipating the old man calling me back to negotiate. But I kept walking. And walking.

Could I not afford $80 for this extraordinary find? At this point it wasn't a matter of what I could or couldn't afford. All things considered, 500 yuan was well worth it. But if everyone from Lonely Planet to the crazy auntie at the pirate DVD table outside the supermarket were screaming for me to BARGAIN! in Dong Tai Lu, well, how am I supposed to feel when the old man in the metal shack with all the old records won't play ball? Despite their value to me, I was starting to imagine that this collection of old Cultural Revolution operas – from a painful time in history that most Chinese would rather forget – was the Shanghai equivalent of a flea-market stall full of scratchy Captain & Tennille records. Seriously, $80 for five Captain & Tennille albums?

Having spent the afternoon in the market, David and I were ready to leave. But I wanted to back-track. I tell David I'm making one more pass at the records. The old shopkeeper is sitting outside. I walk by slowly, hoping he call me over to make a sale. We make eye contact. I nod. He smiles and nods back, arms crossed. I'm desperate and I want to make a fresh start and just hand him five 100 RMB bills, but I'm too ashamed to lose face.

Some days later, I realized my folly and found my way back to the market on a rainy night after work. In the darkness and pelting showers, I found the shop. I flipped through the stacks and picked out five records. Some were the same ones I selected before, others I didn't recognize, but I liked them all. "Duōshǎo qián?" ("How much?") I asked. If he wasn't going to haggle before, he had no reason to negotiate now – I'm the one who returned. 500, he typed on the calculator. I swallowed my pride and considered writing a letter of complaint to Lonely Planet.

On my way out, happily carrying my new purchases in a plastic bag, a merchant across the way noticed my interest in the old records and called me over to look at some of his own. I hadn’t noticed this stall before. Now, it might make a funny ending to the story to tell you that he had a much better selection that he was willing to part with for pennies. But in fact this guy didn't even have the facility of a metal shack like his competitor. This collection was in a box under a table, covered poorly by paper bags, half exposed to the rain and soaking. They were ruined. I shook my head and walked away.

The only other question I thought about when considering the purchase was: Are these records real or counterfeit? Considering how much it would cost to press a vinyl record and re-print its cover, and then fake years of wear and tear, it would likely be more profitable to find and sell the real items, which I'm sure circulated in abundance.

Back in Canada with my loot, the first order of business was putting one of these platters on the turntable. The noise from the scratches and decades of grit that accumulated in the grooves was the real music to my ears. Sure, the crunchy sound prevented unadulterated enjoyment of the shrieks and clangs of opera as only military propagandists can write, but that's what made these records authentic. The music tells one story, but the surface noise tells the tales of the generations of families who mishandled these records. Maybe one of them was a little boy who tried throwing them onto the spindle of his father's gramophone.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

Chinese characters and the link between language and culture




Written in 2011, while I was studying Mandarin Chinese in Taipei:

Learning to write Chinese was not my priority when I came to study in Taipei. My purpose in learning the language (or what little of it I could absorb in three months) was to converse; to speak some Chinese and develop some listening comprehension. The intricate characters themselves just seemed too dense and problematic to put any real effort into. I thought this aspect of the course, learning to read and write the characters, would have to be tolerated but would provide no joy.

Somewhere along the way, perhaps in the first week of my course, I felt my interest shift. Writing Chinese characters, which I first thought would just be a pain in the ass, has been an enriching and emotional experience. Not to say that learning speaking and listening skills hasn't been meaningful. But, despite how much time is required to memorize the characters, I've found a certain meditative peace in reading and writing, whereas the other aspects have provided as much frustration as reward.

Much has been written about the connection between language and culture, and certainly the best way to understand that connection intimately is to learn a language that uses a character-based system. Compared with the grace of Chinese writing, the alphabet used in English and other Western societies feels downright clinical.

Learning to write Chinese characters (I know about 300 now) has infused me with certain cultural predispositions in ways I couldn't have predicted. Specifically, having learned Traditional characters has now created a bias within me against Simplified characters. But there is no way to develop an affinity with either Traditional or Simplified without also forming attachments to the cultures in which they're used. Consider this: the Simplified system was developed primarily (though not completely) by the Communist regime of mainland China to improve literacy rates. The Taiwanese have proudly held on to Traditional characters as much for cultural as political reasons.

Those who are from mainland China would counter that Chinese characters have been evolving through different forms for thousands of years, and that Traditional writing is simply an arcane system that is impractical in the modern world. Considering that those who use each system are from specific geographic areas with their own political sovereignty, for me to express my own preference for Traditional script is bound to imply that I also carry certain political or cultural biases.

And it's somewhat true. As I think about continuing my Chinese studies in Vancouver, the one aspect I dread is that I will have to re-learn my characters in the Simplified format. The thought of abandoning the style of characters that I've been steeped in is offensive. The culture that has passed this knowledge to me has done so with a certain pride and appreciation. For me to abandon Traditional characters for Simplified would feel like a betrayal of sorts, not just to the culture that taught me, but toward my own attachment to the characters, whose strokes have left indelible impressions on my psyche.

These 300 characters that I know are 300 little pieces of Taiwan that are in my heart. But as the personal is also political, certain other biases start to creep in. I write the character for "Love", for instance, knowing that each part is related to love – the top represents "accept" while the middle is a "heart" and beneath it "perceive". However, the heart is omitted from the Simplified form. Leave it to the Communists to have no heart! And there I go, letting my love for the writing transfer some of its cultural and political biases. It's one thing to just prefer one script over another, but try to defend Simplified to a Taiwanese, or Traditional to an average mainlander, you will be in for an exchange of heated words rooted in homeland pride.

It's obvious that I have my preference. If I had learned Simplified first, I'm sure I'd be loyal to that system and would feel relieved that I didn't have to go through the hassle of learning the more complicated, repetitive-strain-inducing Traditional characters. But it didn't happen that way. Every traditional character I write is now infused with a fragment of a memory – of sitting in the NTNU library for hours scribbling in my notebook as I prepared for dictation tests, of my teacher, of my classmates, of overcoming my struggles, of the friends and people who helped me study, of practicing my Chinese with Tzuching's family, of my daily life in Taiwan. Each character is like a Rorschach inkblot, conveying its own personality and significance.

Anyone can make a good argument that Simplified characters are more logical, easier to write, and that the Traditional system is full of redundancies. But if the moment comes that I have to write 喜歡 as 喜欢, or 電視 as 电视 , it will not be a relief but a sense of loss.

If I feel that way after only three brief months of study, it gives me a flicker of understanding about how deeply, significantly personal these writing styles are within the people who were born into them.

Both the Traditional and Simplified systems have interesting arguments for and against their usage. For a better understanding, read here: Wikipedia: Debate on traditional and simplified Chinese characters

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

How Singapore helped me love Joni Mitchell (more than I already did)



One of the sweetest memories from my earliest days in Singapore involved finding a connection to my Canadian heritage in the room where I first stayed.

Having landed in Singapore on a friend’s invitation, I arrived at the family estate and was shown my way to the room of my host’s brother. The absent family member, working abroad, left behind enough personal effects to give my lodging a refined sense of home. This was no mere guest room.

The ledge that lined up alongside the bed held books, family portraits and personal photos; the shelf above the desk stacked with cassettes and CDs and musty issues of Vogue going back through the 1980s, all of which imbued a bit of the personality of the missing tenant. To this day, he’s the only member of the family I haven’t met, but I’m grateful to him for the room and the chi he left behind. For my first taste of a new country, feeling the surroundings in a local home was impressionable.

This was my first afternoon in Singapore, fresh off an 18-hour journey and a taxi from the airport. I’d barely unpacked when I found a copy of Joni Mitchell’s Hejira among the compact discs. Nothing should have been surprising about it, but it did seem out of place to the child in me – the child who grew up in the frozen Toronto winters, hearing Joni’s tunes drift out of my sister’s room on a winter’s afternoon, thinking of the singer as a distinct personification of Canada.

The Canada of my youth, from my perspective in suburban Toronto, was still just an idea – the loneliness of the prairies, the mountain towns of the Rockies, skating on a river at Christmastime, tapping a maple tree in a snowy forest. For most Canadians, those of us who lived in cities rather than the towns and villages of our folklore, it was a country more evoked than seen. It was our artists more than our experiences that gave us our sense of place: the Group of Seven painters, authors like Margaret Atwood and Mordecai Richler, CBC nature documentaries, the poetry of Pauline Johnson… and our singers, foremost among them Joni Mitchell.

Now, to imagine the Peranakan descendants of Chinese emigrants having their imaginations touched by the same soundtrack to my own snow-covered Canadian childhood, it was all so contrary.

I slipped the CD into the multi-disc player and listened to Hejira for the first time. Blue, Court and Spark, The Hissing of Summer Lawns; those albums I knew. This one, though, was not one of the Joni Mitchell records in my sister’s collection all those years ago. Hearing it for the first time so far from the landscape it depicted – the coyotes and motel rooms and seedy jazz bars and the long lonely roads stretching across a frozen prairie – it was as all so incongruous with the heavy tropical air and the cicadas whistling outside the window.

Hejira provided a pleasant solace during the vacation, in those quiet moments between making plans and doing them. What was special was how the album brought back memories as if it had always been part of the backdrop to my own childhood, as if it had been something heard a hundred times before. It became a little slice of home to comfort me throughout the day. Yet, despite how unmistakably Canadian this music is, it eventually impressed upon my memory the humid, languid days among the colonial shophouses and tropical greenery of Singapore. 

Today it wells up a melange of emotions and memories from both my Canadian childhood and my Singaporean adventures. As someone who is often guided (and misguided) by emotion, the sound of mid-1970s Joni Mitchell records now cross the wires of reminiscence, calling me to return "home" to a Singaporean childhood that exists in a false memory, a time of my life that I can sense, even though it never existed.

I will always treasure the way Hejira conjures impressions of the endless cycle of hot days and warm nights that were unconstrained by seasons; the palm trees and the pool outside the window; the sound of Joni singing about the Bay of Fundy and the “refuge of the roads”, with her voice echoing through the large but modestly furnished room, surrounded by foreign books and faded photos of the Peranakan relatives.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized that Hejira has almost no percussion. Its beauty and passion emerges simply from layered, jazzy guitars and a melodic bass. What a peculiar soundtrack to a Southeast Asian holiday. But then, maybe certain lyrics called out to me, foreshadowing the life that this impressionistic vacation would inspire me to follow:

The drone of flying engines is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you.
Then your life becomes a travelogue of picture-postcard charms…
People will tell you where they’ve gone, they’ll tell you where to go
But until you get there yourself you’ll never really know.


Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Race, class, and the civil society: a comparison of my two home cities

Recently there was a strike of unionized bus drivers in Singapore. In any other city, a strike by civic workers would have no other significance beyond labour negotiations and public inconvenience. In Singapore, however, a recent string of otherwise benign incidents (subway malfunctions, a traffic accident, now the bus strike) has underscored how race and class are tied in the city-state.

My first impression of Singapore, based on my first few travels there between 2003 and 2006, was that the city was culturally diverse and racially harmonious. In that respect, it reminded me of my home city, Vancouver, and that parallel was one of the main lures for me to eventually live there. But something gradually started to feel amiss. Among all the people I met – mainly ethnic-Chinese Singaporeans – it seemed that all of them had prestigious careers. It was only natural that I'd meet my fair share of bankers and IBM and Microsoft executives. After all, Singapore is a major banking and tech hub. But those who didn't have traditional careers in commerce or computing were in one kind of creative field or another. Never had I met so many singers (opera, jazz, pop), authors, composers, architects, graphic designers, publishers, historians and scholars. I came from a culture where mothers would tell their daughters, "Not every little girl can grow up to be a ballerina." In Singapore, the sad alternative little girls have to settle for is being the ballerina's publicist.

I made this observation to a friend, and I asked, “Who picks up your garbage and bags your groceries?” He said, with a straight face, “Malaysians.”

Although Singapore had gone to great lengths to accommodate the mosaic that makes up the nation (mainly Chinese, Malay, Indian and Filipino), there remained obvious class divides whose borders were defined by race. About one quarter of Singapore’s population is made up of foreigners who perform the blue-collar work and manual labour that Singaporeans themselves don’t. While the far lower wages foreigners demand is part of the reason, a recent survey of employers also revealed they’re preferable because they “are flexible in taking up jobs locals avoid.”

Then there are the white Westerners, who are almost without exception paid above the average wage of the locals, excessively so in most cases.

When I moved to Singapore in late 2007, some of Singapore’s façade of racial harmony was starting to crack. It was first noticeable when rents and property values skyrocketed. A friend of mine with a two-bedroom apartment had to move in early 2008 when his lease was up because the rent was about to jump from $2,500 a month to $4,000. Stories like that were suddenly commonplace. Why? Because of all the rich Westerners flooding into Singapore who were willing to drop a sack of money on anyone who’d give them what they wanted. So the backlash against the whites began.

Next up it was the workers from China. They were in demand for their willingness to work hard for very low wages. Around the time I arrived, I was reading letters to the editor from angry locals going on about not getting restaurant service in English. The complaints were contagious and I’d hear mutterings once in a while about the “China people” changing Singapore’s landscape. My own ethnic-Chinese landlord came home one day in a fury because the 7-11 clerk spoke to him in Mandarin. “Well, you speak Mandarin,” I said. What’s the problem? “Singapore’s national language is English! These China workers are eroding our way of life,” and on he went. It wasn’t the last time I’d hear such complaints.

The peculiar icing on the cake, however, was that the complaint a few years earlier was the opposite: that Singapore was becoming too Westernized and losing its Chinese identity. The government responded with a Speak Mandarin campaign that featured local celebrities on billboards urging people to not lose their mother tongue to English. So in 2008 these Speak Mandarin ads were all around Singapore at the same time as everyone was complaining about too much Mandarin being spoken. It seemed to me that Chinese Singaporeans cherished their heritage until real Chinese started showing up and not acting British enough. Hence, a Speak Good English movement competed for billboard space at the same time as the Speak Mandarin campaign.
 
Other divides became easily apparent. At one job interview, an employer mentioned out of the blue that she could never trust an Indian’s resume: “They all lie.” Likewise, my first landlord told me I was welcome to bring home friends, “Just no Indians.” When I searched for new accommodation, I was frustrated by how many ads stated, “No cooking.” There was one room I really liked, but I wasn’t fond of the cooking ban. I asked the landlord if he was really strict on that; after all, there was a kitchen in the flat. “We just say ‘no cooking’ to keep the Indians away,” he explained. “They love to cook, so they won’t look at a place with a no-cooking rule. But you can cook, that’s okay. Just no curry.” (I didn’t rent that place.)

Any other races or nationalities looked down upon? Well, yes. Malaysians. A thread commonly whispered was that Malaysians were less employable in professional positions because they were lazy or not as well educated. And don’t get me started on what I heard about Filipinos.

This isn’t to say that racism was rampant in Singapore. Practically none of my close friends thought along those lines. But the fact that these sentiments were so easily come across was evidence enough that there were racial troubles brewing under the surface of neat-and-tidy Singapore.

Which is why the bus strike, the first labour walk-out in Singapore since the mid-1980s, did not surprise me. Here’s why – it was over a hundred drivers from China who refused to go to work that morning in November. Many of them have since been deported, and a few of them jailed. The trade union that supposedly protects its workers has an entrenched policy of paying China citizens less than Malaysians, who are paid less than Singaporeans. The China workers were fed up with the pay discrepancy, as well as their dormitory living conditions. The media and the blogosphere were set alight.

Finding a voice sympathetic toward the drivers was rare. Most of the comments I came across online and reported in the media were mostly hostile toward the drivers; sentiments along the lines of "go home". That, too, didn’t surprise me. When the MRT (subway) had a major rush-hour breakdown earlier this year, the press reported members of the public blaming the influx of foreigners placing too much stress on the system (a complaint that conveniently ignores the fact that foreigners occupy jobs that would otherwise be held by somebody else, so the trains would still be carrying the same number of passengers going to and from work regardless of where they came from). Then there was the car accident where a Chinese citizen ran a red light (admittedly at horrific speed) and killed three people. Rather than being reported as an isolated tragedy, the public wilfully ignored the hundreds of Singaporeans killed by other Singaporeans on the roads every year, and latched onto this one incident as an excuse to heap scorn on foreigners. The parliamentary elections that followed shortly afterward saw the ruling party’s vote-share drop to a historic low based on sentiments that the government was allowing in too many foreigners, who were killing citizens on the roads, destroying the MRT, and generally ruining Singapore’s clean and efficient way of life. And now look at them, going on strike and paralysing the bus system!

But here is the unfortunate reason why Singapore has settled into this race-based class system: without the cheap labour provided by foreign workers, the cost of living would be unacceptable. Bus drivers paid liveable, equal wages would result in higher fares. Getting good, English-speaking service in retail and F&B establishments would require hiring Singaporeans, who would command better pay, raising the price of eating out. The same for getting Singaporeans to work in construction or other kinds of manual labour. Imagine the cost of HDB flats built not by Bangladeshis, but by Singaporean workers who demanded professional construction salaries. I know that Singaporeans think their city is already too expensive, but I don’t think they truly appreciate how the high level of cheap foreign labour keeps their cost of living from going up to London or Manhattan levels.

Any Singaporean who has read this far will want to debate my presentation of the facts. And there is a lot of room for debate and alternative viewpoints within what I’ve written. What I’m sure everyone will agree on, however, is that the problems I talk about do exist.

What are the solutions? As someone who loves Singapore and feels it is "home" in many ways (yes, I'm thinking of returning), I view its race and class relations through the lens of my experiences growing up in a city that had its own landscape changed by immigration, where today half our population is made up of visible minorities. I was born in the 1960s. Vancouver was a very white city during my youth, and I witnessed the city's reaction to the influx of Asians through the 1980s and 1990s. There were the typical blue-blood cries and moans about immigrants and their lack of respect for our values, the death of English, crime committed by "Asian gangs" and so on. The right-wing editorials in the press back then would be horrifying and unpublishable by today's standards.
 
But we got over it. And I'll illustrate why.

In Vancouver, among my friends are three bus drivers, two grocery-store clerks, a bank teller, a landscaper, two Starbucks baristas, a gas-station attendant, two warehouse shipper-receivers, and a few retail clerks. And then I also have friends who have professions that might be considered status jobs: architects, urban planners, police officers, doctors, government workers, graphic designers, and the like. Whether we are blue-collar or white-collar, we socialize together, equals among friends.

And here’s another thing: none of these professions, from the bus driver to the architect, are exclusive to or dominated by any particular race or nationality. We have locals who pick up the garbage, and immigrants who become their bosses – and vice versa. It's difficult to pick on foreigners for "taking our jobs" when we all serve each other, or to blame them for "changing our way of life" when the changes immigrants make become our way of life.

Many of my friends came to Canada as immigrants. Not one ever had to live in a foreign-worker dormitory. Not one was explicitly paid less for his work because he came from a certain country. That, too, makes a huge difference in a sense of equality and belonging to a place.
 
In justifying the lower pay for China workers, the bus union’s representative said that foreigners are less likely to settle in Singapore and make long-term contributions to society. But this is a Catch-22. What incentive does a bus driver from China have to settle in Singapore when he is paid and treated as a disposable member of the country he lives in? When he is given a wage ($1,075 a month) that does not allow him to get out of the foreign-worker dormitory? 

An ad in Singapore for white
chrysanthemum tea
It must seem odd that I, as a white Westerner, would be so engaged in these issues. In Singapore, I was considered to be among the privileged class – the “ang mo”, as Singaporeans called us whiteys. We were far removed from the problems of the foreign workers, and in fact benefited as much or more from their services. But the fact that white people are so privileged in Singapore is one of the problems contributing to Singapore’s race/class dysfunction. Even without a university degree, I could command a higher salary than a Malaysian with a BA. In a truly healthy society, no race, no nationality should be considered better, worse, more powerful, less important, or less valuable than any other.

One of the complaints in Singapore that I haven’t touched on is about the behaviour of the China nationals who migrate to that city. It’s not just the language issue (“I can’t get service in English”) but the fact that the rapid influx has brought “mainland manners” (shoving in queues, spitting, and a general abrasiveness) to a society that has been born and bred with an antiquated politeness inherited from austere British colonists. This culture clash is at the heart of Singaporeans' complaints about the mass migration. Understandable, I suppose.

But then I have to wonder: Vancouver has experienced the same influx of mainland Chinese and we don’t have nearly the same problems here. About 40 percent of our population is Asian (and another 10 percent other visible minorities). One of our suburbs, Richmond, is famously 60 percent Chinese. Some racial tensions do surface from time to time, but nothing to the extent where a single traffic accident causes a xenophobic outburst on the front pages. (The Singapore media dubbed it “the Ferrari crash”, I assume to underscore the wealthy driver’s sense of privilege. If he had been driving a Corolla, how much do you think the press would have enjoyed calling it “the Toyota crash”?)

Another reason there are more culture clashes in Singapore, I believe, is because the foreign workers, being paid less than Singaporeans and housed away from the locals, are not instilled with any sense of belonging or responsibility toward the country they live in. Even for those who are wealthy and in professional positions, such as the Westerners (and even some from China, as the Ferrari driver was), Singapore makes it more conducive for them to stick together among their own national enclaves and not mix with the society in which they serve. As a result they don’t adapt their attitudes or expectations. The Singapore government is quite complicit in fostering these attitudes as well. Not only have they pitted foreign workers against the locals by providing them with lesser wages and living conditions, they have also pitted their own people against wealthy migrants by classifying them as "foreign talent" and essential to sustaining the nation. Locals rightly feel annoyed and offended by that arrangement; their own government doesn't believe they alone are talented enough to sustain the country?

The reason, I believe, that Vancouver doesn’t have the same magnitude of ethnic clashes is because the cultures here mix and must work together to get the benefits of the society – both socially and in the workplace. An immigrant from mainland China, for instance, not only has to get along with Caucasians, but others from Taiwan, Malaysia, India, Korea, Iran, etcetera. They all tone down any national characteristics that might cause friction amongst each other, because they're here for the long term. They also have the carrot of citizenship dangled in front of them, so there’s more feeling of belonging and civic responsibility. They are treated by our governments as potential Canadians (whether a janitor, construction worker, nurse or executive), not divisively pigeonholed as transitory "labour" or high-class "talent".

Singapore has prospered well under the tacit segregation of foreign labour, but I have a feeling that the cookie is starting to crumble. I can only foresee more issues of discord and unrest relating to race-based inequality. Singaporeans talk about limiting foreign migration as a solution, but I think the solution needs to look at a larger picture. The society has to become more egalitarian. It would take completely different policies from the government to attract foreigners for very different reasons than they do now. At present, Singapore makes it very attractive for foreigners, rich and poor, to stay for a few years, make some cash, and leave. They have not created a fabric of society that actively encourages people to immigrate and take citizenship. To do that, Singaporeans would have to shift their own thinking and accept a higher cost of living, and young Singaporeans would have to enter occupations they normally wouldn’t engage in. It would require a massive shift in thinking that could take generations.

If the government and the people aren't willing to do that  to essentially enter an era of first-world thinking with regards to immigration, equal pay and human rights  then they should expect the same social clashes to surface time and time again.

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Further reading:
The problem of a racialised mindToday newspaper, Singapore: Oct 11, 2012
Foreigner issues garner most feedback this yearToday newspaper, Singapore: Dec 14, 2012
Ferrari Crash Foments Antiforeigner Feelings in Singapore, Wall Street Journal, May 25, 2012