Pining for Mandopop hunkered down in the troubadour shop
We all remember our teens. By that I don’t mean the seven years we snarled at the world and haphazardly took our parents for granted — all part of a rite of passage, no doubt. Though those who endured us during those years might have hoped more for a Rite of Spring. (Hint, it didn’t end well for the young girl in Stravinsky’s work of that name, subtitled: Pictures of Pagan Russia).
By “teens” I mean the Teens, ie: the years 2013-2019. Which followed the Naughts (2000-2009). By the way, there’s no official temporal designation for the years 2010-2012, but let’s stay outta the weeds, dear busybody reader!
Now, back to the Teens. Notice they end in the seminal year 2019. As does COVID-19 (if only!) as the tail end of that year, or decade, was when the current manifestation of the coronavirus first started infecting our conversations.
There have been countless casualties from the contagion, most cataclysmically the human toll which I won’t depress you with here. Another virus victim suffered collateral, though arguably mortal, damage from the pandemic. Yes, airlines, hotels, restaurants and Twister Tuesdays all took big hits, but they have since come roaring back.
But closer to home for 20-something crooners like me has been the pandemic pummeling a la Pompeii (79 AD) that karaoke parlors have endured since masks became de rigueur. By the way, as I write this, the year is 2022 AD, that is, the Twenties, so we’re all in our Twenties now, including me, right? Well, I spent more time than I care to admit during the Teens in KTVs, an alternative moniker and more Sinicized alternative to “karaoke” — which originated in Japan in the 1960s from the words kara (empty) and okesutora (orchestra).
Mostly calling Shenzhen, Guangdong province, home during these years, the KTVs of the old town of Luohu beckoned on Friday and Saturday nights from seemingly every other intersection within the district’s bustling gnarled thoroughfares. Qiangui (Cashbox) was one of the more upscale chains, usually frequented by businesspeople looking to impress clients, colleagues or CEOs. But some of the stand-alone mom and pop songster shops were right up my miserly alley. They were also more likely to turn a blind eye to my friends and I smuggling plenty of spicy snacks and potent potables via backpack into the more affordable canary cages.
This was all before December 2019, of course. After the contagion arrived, KTVs were among the most obvious initial casualties. Unmasked crooners cloistered in crowded cubicles were a recipe for cross infection, so the singing seemingly — and seamlessly — ceased overnight.
Well, you may know I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Because I could — at the time at least. But now I feel silly singing a cappella in my living room. We’re given a pass in the shower, right? Ah, those were the days … The convivial companionship, the cacophonous camaraderie, and the Mandopop music rocking the room was a great way to spend a weekend evening.
The nights reverberated with at least a couple danceable numbers from Jay Chou, known as the “king of Mandopop” with over 30 million records sold. In fact, the first Mandarin-language concert I attended had Chou headlining. It was in December 2014 and halfway through, none other than Jackie Chan walked onstage to belt out a few ditties. Chou’s hits Yi Fu Zhi Ming (In the Name of the Father), and Niangzi (Wife) come to mind during that bygone group-singing era. For the ladies there was Jolin Tsai with her Ri Bu Luo (Unsetting Sun) and Wu Niang (Dancing Girl).
I look forward to a future rebirth of the KTV culture, if for no other reason, nothing says “post-pandemic” better than a crowded room of maskless microphone-hogging merry minstrels Mandopopping the night away.