 |
In Search of True Singers' Spirit
Yang Yi is a Beijing-based folk singer. In May 1994, while he was doing field work, Yang met Li Shengcai in Shaanxi Province, a man whose love for folk songs and purity of voice deeply influenced Yang's musical life. Yang shares in the following article his memory of the extraordinary, yet unknown, folk song singer, and his own thoughts about Chinese folk songs, China Daily reports.
I often hear about the "field work" of some music researchers, who go to the countryside and interview officially well-known folk singers through the introduction of local cultural departments, hoping to pick up some material for their own compositions or theses. I doubt very much whether such researchers care about the fate of our folk music.
I would rather do my field work on my own, looking for folk singers in the way miners dig for gold in remote mountains. Although I often end up with nothing, I believe there will be a time when I find gold.
People say every one in northern Shaanxi is a singer. Actually, this is not true. I often meet people who say £º "Oh, I haven't sung for years," and then hum some broken lines. I feel very disappointed on such occasions and wish I could meet a real folk singer at my next station.
I believe it was no accident that one day, in the village of Hujiata in Zichang, northern Shaanxi, I found the most valuable folk singer I have ever met in all these years - Li Shengcai.
That day, I took the long-distance bus from Yan'an to Zichang. My research trip had until then been fruitless. I was looking at the disappearing cave dwellings and villages when I decided to go to more out-of-the-way places. Driven by such an idea, I got off at a crossing before Zichang and walked along the small road at the foot of the mountain.
"If there is a road, there are people, and if there are people there are villages." Such is my experience. I walked randomly for about two kilometres before a tricycle came up behind me. I waved my hand and got on the tricycle.
There were already several villagers on the tricycle. From them I learned that in the village there were three old men who could sing. One of them was an especially good singer.
After about an hour's bumpy ride, we arrived in the village of Hujiata. Some warm-hearted villagers led me to the singers' homes. I met two of them in the afternoon and filled two tape cassettes with their songs.
However, the best singer was not home. People said he was working in the fields. I had to wait patiently until he came back at dusk.
It was Li Shengcai, an old man with a distorted face and mouth. When he understood my intention, he warmly invited me to his cave dwelling and began to sing with all his instruments.
On a 60-minute tape cassette, I recorded what was an unforgettable night in my life. It was on that day that I heard for the first time these traditional folk songs£º "Painting the Fan," "Ten-part Tune," "Collecting Wild Jujubes," "Little Widow Visits the Grave," "Bachelor Cries for a Wife" and "Zhang Liang Buys Cloth." He also sang some songs he had written himself, such as "Donkeys Beside the Yangma River."
In Li's singing I felt for the first time the depth of folk songs. Behind the songs, I saw how a singer looks for spiritual happiness in a barren land.
He was already in his sixties at that time, but his passion when singing "Ten-part Tune" and "Moving Troops," songs lasting seven or eight minutes, was like a youth's.
From his crooked mouth emerged sounds that could only come from a perfect soul that loved his land and its music. His singing was deep, sad but energetic, full of the flavour of farmers' lives and longing for happiness.
A singer of great vitality, Li enabled me to see what separated him from the mediocre singers I had previously come across.
Years of learning
In the following six years, I learnt things from Li that deeply affected my singing and research. Whenever I face the various temptations in city life or feel depressed and lost in harsh reality, what I think of first is always the old man who sings on the loess plateau. The memory of Li always lightens my heart.
From him I learnt why we have so much resentment, weakness, anger, complaints and artificiality. The answer is very simple £º we are too far from the land and labour.
Over the past six years, I have continued to sing, write songs and travel around China to look for more folk songs and great singers. These travels never resulted in much.
Maybe it is because China is too big. Moreover, I focus on the folk songs of the Han people, which prevents me from getting to know singers of other ethnic groups. Perhaps also, the efforts of one person is not enough when it comes to collecting folk songs.
It is not too difficult to find out the musical structure, melodic idioms and progression styles of the folk songs of a place. One can easily attain such goals through reading related reports or taking a trip to the place. However, such theoretical things do not inspire much in people.
For the past six years, I never stopped missing Li. Everything had changed in cities, but what had become of the unknown folk singer £¿ Perhaps he was aging and dying.
Realizing this, I decided to visit Li again.
Return to Yan'an
On July 26, 2000, I was in Yan'an again. Yan'an was very different from the first time I had been there six years before. It is probably the same for any city in China. With flashing neon lights, Yan'an was replete with high buildings, hotels and prostitutes. The term "northern Shaanxi folk songs" sounded as remote as dinosaurs there.
On the morning of July 27, I got on the bus heading for Zichang. I tried to recollect my feelings and mood of six years before, but found it impossible. The condition of the road was much better than before. I was not sure that I would be able to find the crossing where I got off last time. The bus driver was unsure as well.
It took only three hours to cover what had before taken five or six. At a crossing that I did not recognize, the driver said £º "Maybe here."
The crossing was not as lonely as the one I recalled. There was a new gas station there. I took out my photos and went to ask the tricycle driver waiting for customers at the crossing. The answer was confirmative, Li was still alive. This was an exciting answer. I took my baggage from the bus and got on the tricycle.
The road to the village was dusty. For the mines of Hujiata, people were widening the small road, which used to be nothing more than a stoney track. The shady riverside scenery no longer existed. If it had been like this six years ago, I would not have stopped. I began to feel afraid that all the changes also meant that folk songs were disappearing in the area.
When the tricycle arrived at Hujiata, I could not wait to ask for the folk singers with my photos. From the villagers, I learned that two of the three folk singers of the village had died. The distorted-mouthed Li was still alive, but no one knew where he was. I could only wait in a small restaurant as some children went to look for him.
In the six years, Hujiata had gone through some changes. The coal mine was being fully exploited. From time to time, coal trucks passed by. Some truck drivers were also having dinner in the small restaurant.
Only old people and children were left in the village. Young people from other places came here to dig and transport coal, while local youths had left for bigger towns and cities in search of jobs. Their poverty had forced them to leave their homes. When can people get some rest £¿
As I was wandering in my thoughts, I heard people say Li was coming. I hurried out of the restaurant and saw Li walking towards me. My heart beat as fast as it had six years ago. I held his hands excitedly and said, "How are you, Mr Li £¿ Do you remember me £¿" Li took a look at me and said quietly£º "We've met before."
In the small restaurant, we talked about northern Shaanxi folk songs. I sang some paragraphs of "Painting the Fan" which I had learnt from him. He sang along with me. Like a student handing in his homework, I sang to Li all the northern Shaanxi folk songs I knew. We drank and sang, and afterwards he took me home with him.
In Li's home, I took out my recorder and asked Li to sing. As natural and leisurely as before, Li began to beat his bamboo plate and sing "Ten-part Tune," "Peony Flowers," "Embroidering the Pouch," "Wine Song," "Collecting Wild Jujubes" and many more.
After all those years, Li's memory was still as strong as before. He never stopped singing. Again, he consolidated his status in my heart as a master of folk songs, and again I was treated to the profound humanistic flavour and austere but poetic lyrics of his songs.
These songs, full of the purity of humanity and happiness of labour, were born of the land and nurtured on it. There is no artificiality in such type of music.
These songs are about the insects' singing on summer nights, the blossoms of spring, the happiness of harvest in autumn and the warmness of family in snowy winter time.
In this land, the singers sing about the process of weeds sprouting, about family harmony in making the fire and meals, about the simple and plain love between men and women, about life, aging, illness and death and about the historical legends of heroes and beauties.
Northern Shaanxi folk songs contain the testimony of life and history.
Great singers come from the land. They grow, work, sing and disappear silently, leaving only their works blinking like stars in the night sky. In the darkness, they lighten the hearts of followers and help them to see the most essential and valuable things about life.
I was lost in thought as Li sang, until he showed a little tiredness. It was already dark. He had sung too much and needed rest.
He took out a bundle of what he called "ai cao" and lighted it, saying it served to ward off mosquitoes. Smelling the burning grass, lying beside Li and listening to the singing of insects outside the cave, I felt as if I had returned to my childhood.
Farewell, my friend
It rained the next morning, swelling the river and making the earth smell alive. When the rain stopped, Li swept the yard and prepared breakfast.
All his sons worked in the town. His wife had passed away many years before and he lived by himself. I brought a little company into his quiet life. It was hard for him to find someone who appreciated his music.
Knowing I was leaving, Li made a good noodle dish for me. We ate the farewell breakfast silently.
After breakfast, Li went outside to wait for the tricycle for me, and told me where to get off.
Upon my request, he sang a farewell song to me £º "Take a big road, don't take a small road. You'll find more people on the big road, and you'll meet robbers on the small road. Eat a hot meal, don't eat a cold meal. Your stomach hurts if you eat a cold meal, and I'm the one who knows you. Stay at a big inn, don't stay at a small inn. You'll find more people in the big inn, and "Lan Hua Hua" £¨a traditional folk song from North Shaanxi£© will remove your worries."
As he sang this song called "Going West," I heard and saw Li's implicit melancholy. Life is full of uncertainty. We did not know whether we would meet again. Thinking about this, I was sad too.
I might have many years to go and many songs to sing. I was lucky to meet Li. What I learned from him was not only the melodies and structures of northern Shaanxi folk songs, but also the spirit of a true singer. I learned how to love the land, labour, life and the immortality of song.
This has made song my belief, and it will lighten up my whole life.
Life is a process of looking for one's homestead, and pure song is a long road that leads to one's spiritual homestead. It is a life-long road, an immaculate pursuit filled with love.
Farewell£¡ My singer. Despite our farewell, we are together.
In This Section
|