Beijing's Bruce has the blues

Rock writers around the world have raved over China's Cui Jian, comparing him to Bruce Springsteen. But few in China can make such calls; most have never heard this invisible rock star, since Beijing rarely allows him to play.

By Ron Gluckman/Beijing

HE'S CALLED THE BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN OF CHINA, and it’s well-earned praise. No musician in China has rocked harder, struggled longer or shown more commitment to the soul of rock-and-roll than Cui Jian.

And no one has risen to the heights of popularity against such a dramatic backdrop — the Tiananmen democracy movement of 1989. But because of that background, Cui Jian has had perhaps that most difficult time moving on.

Cui Jian came of age with much of his generation at Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, during the mass demonstrations of 1989. Until its tragic end, it was in many ways like a mainland Woodstock, a revolutionary few days that rocked a nation.

Tens of thousands of people, led by students, came out on the street to call for democracy, freedom of speech, lower prices, less corruption — a myriad of causes. It was defiant and political, but it was also euphoric.

Cui Jian, sporting headband and strumming guitar, defined the spirit in the square. Even if you couldn’t see him for the tanks or turmoil, you heard Cui Jian. His song, "Yi Wu Suo You" (Nothing to My Name)," became the movement’s anthem, played over speakers, on tape players, and sung by others.

At the time, people compared Cui Jian to Bob Dylan, but comparisons to Springsteen stuck, perhaps because it made more sense in musical terms. With a raspy voice, Cui Jian belts out basic rock, spun around lyrical sax lines that recall Springsteen’s funky early-version E-Street Band.

But the Bruce of Beijing is hardly known for the kind of marathon live shows that took Springsteen from cult status to super-stardom. Instead Cui Jian’s concerts are legendary because there are so few of them.

Indeed, fame — especially Cui’s association with Tiananmen — has often been as much a hindrance as a help. While most of China, Cui Jian included, long ago moved beyond the tragedy of Tiananmen Square, China’s elderly leaders have not. And that makes eking out a living as a musician in Beijing even more difficult than it normally would be.

~ CHINA'S FAMOUS INVISIBLE MUSICIAN
Cui Jian was all set to rock Beijing in late May 2000. Newspapers hailed his first stadium show in seven years. One headline in Beijing Scene summed up the excitement: "King Returns."

 Later came announcements that the show was cancelled. It wasn’t, but Beijing had simply banned its native son from the line-up once again.

It’s a familiar story in China, where Cui Jian is the most famous Chinese rock star that few in his own country have ever actually seen. Last year, he played nine shows in the United States. That’s about as many as he managed to play for the first half-year of the new millennium in China. And most of those appearances have been in small clubs, often unannounced.

"There was never a direct ban on playing Cui Jian," says Zhang Youdai, 32, China’s most popular DJ. "There were never any rules. But you knew you could never play Cui Jian. It was impossible. His lyrics were considered too political."

~ WHERE ROCK IS A DIRTY WORD
Youdai’s popular New Rock Magazine show was launched in 1993, and is still running. Early on, it was called New Music Magazine. Back then, rock ‘n’ roll — yao gun — was a dirty term. "You couldn’t even say the words in Chinese on the radio," says Youdai, chuckling at the memory.

But times have changed, at least for some in the mainland's problematic music business. Nowadays, Youdai — his name is a clever play on the Chinese phrase "have tapes" — travels abroad and spins discs in fashionable clubs in London. He makes appointments on a new mobile phone. On weekends, he joins friends for secret raves atop China’s Great Wall.

"China has opened up considerably," Youdai concedes. "But for Cui Jian, it’s still the same."

The link between Cui Jian and the Tiananmen movement made him into an international celebrity. "The foreign press wrote about Cui Jian. They still do, and always about Tiananmen," said Youdai. "It’s an unshakable association."

As a result, the unofficial ban stands. "We still can do shows, but Beijing is tough," said Chen. To Beijing’s staid officials, Cui Jian has too much baggage.

~ GROWING UP WITH MUSIC, POLITICS

Not that things are all bad for Chinese rock star Cui Jian, now 39. Deprived of the opportunity to play live, he spends much of his time tinkering in his home studio. He records on state-of-the-art equipment that didn’t exist in China when he started out. He listens to the latest tracks from Europe and America.

"Electronic music. Experimental stuff," he said. "Some of it is so new, there is really no name for the style." Access to this material is rather revolutionary. When Cui Jian first fell in love with rock, it was listening to illicit tapes that friends had copied in Hong Kong or Bangkok, and smuggled into China.

For generations, such subterfuge was a way of life. Cui Jian was born into a musical family. Among the large community of ethnic Koreans in China, his mother was a member of a Korean dance troupe, and his father was a professional trumpet player. "I grew up surrounded by music," says Cui Jian.

For years, during the many China’s political campaigns the entire repertoire of musical groups was limited to a few officially-sanctioned operas and classical works, plus marching music. Like many artists of the time, Cui’s father listened to illegal jazz on the sly.

Cui Jian started playing trumpet as a teen, and soon joined the local symphony. With some of the other young members, he formed Seven Ply Board, a seminal Beijing band that played local pubs in the 1980s. Listening to the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Talking Heads, he started writing, mainly soft rock and love songs.

~ SUDDENLY IN THE SPOTLIGHT

Musicians hustle for recording gigs, but often have to pay all recording and release costs themselves. Without much profit potential, most consider recording to be practically pointless. That’s what makes the ban on Cui Jian so cruel.

"Nobody in China expects to make any money from albums," says Kaiser Kuo, 34, a Chinese-American from New York who played lead guitar for Tang Dynasty, among the mainland’s most successful hard-rock acts. During its heyday in the early 1990s, the band played sold-out stadium shows of 40,000 people, and sold millions of records.

Even as stars, Kuo says Tang Dynasty’s final recording contract in 1998 gave the band just 20 cents per copy. Besides band members, the manager, roadies and all expenses were paid from that tiny sliver of royalties.

"Nobody in China makes money from record sales," says Kuo, who still wears his hair long, but now works in Beijing as an internet editor and incisive rock commentator. "You support yourself by playing."

~ KEEP ON TRUCKIN'
Yet China's regularly undermined rock star has few regrets. In fact, he’s busier than ever. Cui Jian is currently working on a score for a new ballet and this piece has a good chance of being performed. "Show Me Your True Colors" has been commissioned by a Hong Kong group to be staged in 2001 during the Chinese New Year.

Cui Jian is also working on a pair of book projects. And Pulay, which has put all his compositions on a Chinese-English web site (www.cuijian.com), plans to re-release his old discs next year. Not that Cui Jian wants to trade in past glory.

"With my last album, I was a little disappointed with the reaction," he says. "Even some of the journalists didn’t like it. They seem to want the old Cui Jian, the old sound.

As for the Springsteen comparisons, he says, "It’s an honor, of course. But I want to try new things. I want to make people think. I put my soul in my music."

Actually, the times demand a new sound. Cui Jian has been criticized by some of his contemporaries for not moving on, for not changing, even for remaining too political at a time when many Chinese people are uninterested in politics. "Cui Jian is like Bob Dylan. But times are changing," said Youdai.

Cui remains surprisingly unfazed by the restrictions, even by the name-calling, with one exception. "I don’t want to be known as the ‘grandfather of rock in China.’ That just makes me feel old," says Cui Jian. "I feel like I’m just starting."

Ron Gluckman is an American reporter and former rock critic who has been based in Hong Kong since 1990, when he began visiting China for a wide variety of publications and media, such as MSNBC, which carried this story during the summer of 2000. 

PS: In September, Beijing held its largest stadium concert in 10 years, featuring "all of China's top bands," according to the promoter. But not Cui Jian, who originally had been announced, but then pulled from the billing. "Of course not," he told this reporter. "It's impossible to book Cui Jian. If we put him on the show, it's cancelled. There is no way for him to play Beijing. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

PPS: Ron did another story on rock 'n' roll and China\s Woodstock for the wall street journal in 2001.

PPPS: In the latest news, Cui Jian says he has three dreams, to perform in Beijing, to see the Rolling Stones perform, and to perform on the same stage with the Rolling Stones. In March 2003, the Rolling Stones announced plans for shows in Shanghai and Beijing, with Cui Jian on the billing! The bottom picture is of Cui Jian at the press conference for those shows. Check back to see whether Cui rocks Beijing with the Stones.

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