Peking Man: All That Jazz

There’s no doubt Beijing has good music. There’s a lively rock scene, annual, precanceled music festivals, and some of the best Filipino cover bands this side of Manila. That’s not even counting the occasional big-name DJ or pop star dropping by on an Asia tour.

Beijing has culture. It’s what separates us from the Mammon-worshiping heathens in Shanghai. But as with any font of culture, the city attracts its share of pretentious artists.

Last year I went to see an experimental jazz band my friend was playing in. I usually avoid experimental music like I avoid experimental drugs, but my friend is an accomplished saxophonist so I thought I’d give it a shot.

The concert was in a hutong venue, of course. As I bought a ticket, the young woman at the ticket counter beamed.

“Aren’t you excited?” she asked.

Eventually the lights dimmed and the band took the stage. They looked like a legit jazz ensemble – bassist, drummer, flutist, and my friend on the sax. The band leader, an expat, was a keyboardist who had a mic set up in front of him.

The first number was pretty much what I expected experimental jazz to sound like – sparse and erratic. It was difficult for me to follow but I picked out elements of freestyling and call and response. But as the night went on, the pieces became harder to parse.

At one point the band leader said while introducing a song, “Not to sound pretentious or anything, but I once read this passage in a book – and I’m not going to tell you which book – and thought, ‘I just have to set this to music.’” And set it to music he did.

As the band riffed, he would spit out clusters of words with no discernible pattern or rhythm. It was clear he felt strongly about whatever he read because the arrangement was sharp and sudden, every note a knife in my ear.

After the mystery book song came another ponderous piece, where the flutist changed flutes twice and the band leader mumbled quietly into the microphone.

Now, I’m not a big fan of jazz or anything but I think I know what jazz is, or at least the scope of sounds that qualify as jazz. But I had never heard jazz like this.

I looked around the room. No one else seemed to be as distraught as I, or, if they were, they were all hiding it better. The ticket seller, however, was enraptured and shouted “whoo!” after every song.

As the night wound down, I could no longer distinguish one piece from another – the notes raining from their instruments became a flood of random noise. Although it was clear each musician was extremely talented, the parts just didn’t fit together.

At long last, the lead singer thanked the audience and introduced each player to cheers and applause.

“And I’d like to thank my girlfriend,” he said, at which point the ticket seller screamed, “I love you!”

In a city with this much culture, with this many people making art, there’s a following for just about anything. That’s one of the great things about Beijing. The band tried something new, and although it didn’t work for me, I think that others found some joy in it.

As I was leaving, the ticket girl asked, “So what’d you think?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said.

She asked me if I was leaving.

“Don’t leave, there’s one more act.”

I glanced at the stage, where a burly man was setting up a giant jug. He was preparing to play it.

I did not stay for the jug man.

Read previous editions of Peking Man here.
 

Photo: beijingtoday.com.cn