THE STREET SINGER

I first met Que Yao at a nightclub in 1995. We were both guest performers that night. I was a flute player and he was a pop singer. A friend told me that he was blind in one eye. That was why he wore a pair of designer sunglasses all year round, day and night. He looked kind of cool with his sunglasses, reminding me of Wang Kai-wai, the Hong Kong movie director, whose credits include In the Mood for Love. Que Yao sang like a woman in a pretentiously soft falsetto. I found his style repulsive, but the crowd at the bar swooned all over him.

In the ensuing years, I saw him perform at various venues and got to know him a little better. On a recent Saturday afternoon, I interviewed Que Yao at a teahouse near Chengdu's Huangzhong Residential District.

LIAO YIWU: Is Que Yao your real name?

QUE YAO: Of course. That's my first name. My family name is Qi. I was born on April 11, 1969, right after the Communist Party concluded its Ninth Congress. Chairman Mao designated Marshal Lin Biao as his successor in the new Chinese constitution. The whole country showed up on the streets to celebrate. To mark the occasion, my parents named me Queyao, or Leap for Joy, for Chairman Mao's choice of a successor. You know, it was at the height of the Cultural Revolution. Each time Chairman Mao issued a new edict or a quotation, whether it was during the day or in the evening, people had to go out into the street to celebrate with singing and dancing.

LIAO: I remember those days. Were they Communist Party officials?

QUE: No, far from that. They were ordinary folks—both of them were blind. For many years, I felt so embarrassed about my parents that I never talked to anyone about them. It wasn't until I turned thirty that I realized how stupid that was. I had a very interesting childhood. I grew up in a small town in Sichuan. My early memories were of sausages shuffling back and forth on a machine. I was three and my mother had me tied on her back. She worked at a sausage factory run by the local welfare agency. All the workers there were disabled—the blind, the deaf, and the crippled. Both my mom and dad were employed there. Between the two of them, they earned twenty-seven yuan [US$3.50] a month, barely enough to support a family of five, including me and my two sisters.

My parents used to be street musicians. My mom played the erhu, a two-string Chinese violin. My father was quite a well-known storyteller. His storytelling, interspersed with singing, was accompanied by the daoqin—a traditional instrument which has become almost extinct nowadays. It was like a drum, made from a meter-long thick bamboo cylinder, with the open end covered in pigskin. He would tap the drum, singing and talking to its lively rhythms. Most of his stories were taken from Chinese classical literature, such as “The Warrior Conquered the Tiger.” People loved the suspense and colorful descriptions. My father had had a large following. When the Cultural Revolution started, the government banned him from performing because his stories were considered feudalistic and anti-revolutionary. As a result, he and my mom were assigned to work at the sausage factory.

My hometown was situated along the Yangtze River in poverty-stricken Yunyang County, near Chongqing. Before the Cultural Revolution, people living in the remote, isolated countryside and small towns didn't have access to various forms of entertainment. Street performers and local operatic troupes filled the void. But, after 1966, street performances were declared illegal and local opera troupes were only allowed to stage the “Eight Revolutionary Model Operas” mandated by Mao's wife, Jiangqing. Apart from that, people spent their evenings attending Communist meetings. Sometimes, they might witness public executions of counterrevolutionaries or murderers and rapists. That was it. People were bored to tears.

Beginning in the early 1970s, there was a period of political relaxation. That was the time when Lin Biao, jealous of Chairman Mao's supremacy within the Party, attempted to assassinate our Great Leader. After the assassination plot failed, he escaped in a hurry to seek asylum in what was then the Soviet Union. But his plane crashed in Mongolia after running out of fuel. Do you remember that? Who knows how he died. Anyhow, the extreme days of the Cultural Revolution were pretty much gone. That led to a revival of traditional operas, music, and plays at private venues such as weddings, funerals, or birthday parties. The revival offered opportunities for former street performers like my parents. So, they organized a small troupe consisting of seven or eight blind musicians. The troupe would carry simple props and perform at private functions. They even traveled across the border to Sichuan Province and performed on market days in rural areas outside the city of Yichang. They could earn twenty to thirty yuan [US$2.50 to $3.00] a day. Sometimes, they might run into the local militia or members of the Market Regulatory Committee. When that happened, all their “illegal” income would be confiscated. They could be detained for a couple of days and had to attend public denunciation meetings. Somehow, they became used to the risks.

I went on tours with my parents at the age of four. Troupe members would carry their musical instruments on their backs while walking in a single line—one hand holding a stick and the other holding on to the shoulder of the person ahead of them. I served as their guide and led them from village to village. Can you imagine a four-year-old, with a shaved head, walking at the front of a group of blind musicians? I was often bored and tired, reduced to picking my nose and yawning. We would leave very early in the morning and walk ten to fifteen kilometers a day for a gig. On the way, our group constantly attracted the attention of adults and kids. They would follow us and poke fun at us. I felt so embarrassed and wished I could disappear. Well, most of the gigs were associated with funerals. It was a local tradition for rich people to have a lavish and festive funeral with bands and chanting monks. The event normally lasted from three days to a week, attracting hundreds of people from around the region. In a way, funerals provided a rare occasion for entertainment. At a funeral, the family of the dead would set up a stage in the middle of the courtyard, right next to the coffin. Various groups would take turns performing traditional operas or story singing. At a gig like this, my dad would do a dozen shows, each one lasting two to three hours. It was pretty challenging and could easily strain the performer's voice. But my dad had a voice of steel. He practiced long hours every day for many years. He could handle the long hours without any problems.

LIAO: Did they do it all night long, without stopping?

QUE: My dad would do three shows a night. There would be a two-hour break between shows. He would normally find a quiet spot and doze off a bit. All his shows were classic Chinese tales about the imperial court or touching love stories, which Chairman Mao called “historical trash.” But ordinary folks loved the “historical trash.” One of the most popular pieces that my dad performed was called “Courtesan Li Yaxian.” The story goes like this: In the Tang dynasty [618–917], a young scholar named Zheng Yuanhe traveled to the capital city of Chang-an to take his imperial examination. If he could pass, he would be eligible for a high-level government post. As he passed the prosperous city of Yangzhou, he visited a brothel and encountered the famous courtesan Li Yaxian. He became so infatuated with her that he decided to stay. As one might predict, Zheng missed his exams and squandered all his allowance. Seeing that he was penniless, the madam threw him out on a cold snowy night. Zheng had almost frozen to death when two beggars saved him. They took pity and taught him to survive on the street by singing the famous “Beggar's Song.” Meanwhile, courtesan Li was saddened and dismayed to see that her lover had lost his motivation to succeed in life. Li stabbed her eyes out and scarred her face so he would leave her to pursue his future at the imperial court.

LIAO: What a story, with all its ups and downs.

QUE: Many local opera troupes picked segments of the story and converted them into different operatic versions. For example, in Beijing opera, it was called “Beauty Stabbing Her Eyes to Motivate Her Wayward Lover.” In Sichuan opera, it had a different version, “Beggars Wandering the Street,” which focused on Zheng's life as a beggar. All these versions drew from the same story. For his own performance, my dad took the plot of the story and borrowed the librettos from various operatic versions. The result was a poetic masterpiece, with singing and storytelling. He dramatized every twist and turn and could hold people's attention for hours. Believe it or not, my dad was illiterate. He learned all the librettos by listening. “Temptation abounds in the vast expanse of the red dust / The lover's heart is entangled by all consuming lust / What is the meaning of life for butterflies and bees? / To be drawn to pretty flowers to fulfill their destiny and needs.”

LIAO:I'm amazed you can still remember those librettos.

QUE: As a kid, I didn't have any friends and spent lots of time hanging out with blind musicians. During those gigs, I would watch them until I dozed off. As time went by, I began to pick up a lot of the librettos. I once fantasized acting in one of the operas someday.

LIAO: Did you intend to inherit your father's trade?

QUE: When I was young, I was so ashamed of associating with blind musicians. My dad had forced me to learn the erhu. Under his instruction, I practiced for hours. My little soft hand hurt so much. But if I stopped, he would beat me. Since my heart wasn't in it, I only learned to play a couple of popular revolutionary songs, such as “Chairman Is the Red Sun.” Looking back, I wish I had persisted. My parents were born blind, but they were smart and highly motivated people. My mother could play five different types of musical instrument. During the Cultural Revolution, she was forced to read four thick volumes of Chairman Mao's Selected Works in Braille. Soon, she memorized most of Mao's articles and won a prize. As for my father, he became very popular in the late 1970s, after Mao died. Many traditional performances came back with a vengeance. My father was invited to work with several opera companies in adapting old operatic pieces and writing new ones. He even performed several gigs on the radio.

LIAO: So you didn't do too badly growing up among the blind musicians, did you?

QUE: Not exactly. I picked up a lot of bad things too. One time, I fell asleep at my parents' gig at a funeral. The host family put me on a bed next to the coffin. Then the bed began rocking and I woke up. The son of the deceased was having sex with a girl from the opera troupe. At the height of their passion, unaware that I was awake, the girl accidentally sat on my leg. I was so scared that I didn't dare to cry or breathe. My legs were totally numb. Also, I was only five years old when I learned that taking white arsenic could help a woman abort an unwanted fetus.

LIAO: That was quite an education you got. What has happened to your parents?

QUE: My dad died in 1980, when I was eleven years old. Like many people who grew up along the Yangtze River, he enjoyed swimming. Since he was blind, I had to accompany him all the time. I would either swim by his side or stand on the pebbled beach to help him with directions. For example, if I saw a big swirl coming, I would scream “Danger.” If he swam too far out, I would call “Turn around.” One day, while watching him from the shore, I became tired and fell asleep. I didn't hear his loud call for help. It turned out that he had had a cramp in the leg and drowned. When his body was pulled out, it was all black and blue, very ugly. I was very sad. All the onlookers pointed their fingers at me: This kid is so dumb. His dad called for help for a long time and he didn't even wake up. I remember that my mother and my twin sisters hunched over my dad's body and wailed for hours. I simply stood there, without shedding any tears. I felt so guilty.

After my dad passed away, my whole family collapsed. No matter how hard my mother worked, she still couldn't support three of us kids. So when I was fifteen, I dropped out of school and got a job at another local welfare factory for the disabled. Once again, I was thrown into the circle of the disabled. My job was to vulcanize a type of cheap but highly toxic rubber and then pour it into molding machines to make soles for shoes. The workplace was like a poisonous hell, but workers on the production line never had any protection. Each month, we were given protective gloves, masks, and jackets, but most of us sold them for cash. I was paid 120 yuan [US$15] a month, quite a handsome salary. But soon, I began to suffer severe upper respiratory problems because of that poisonous smoke we inhaled every day. I coughed a lot and my voice turned raspy and hoarse. Eventually I quit, joined a band, and sang at dance clubs. That's how I began my singing career. I guess I must have got the genes from my dad. I didn't have any training but I was quite good. Initially, I did a lot of popular love songs because my raspy voice was perfect for it. Later on, I began to sing rock. Around that time, I met a rock musician by the name of Chen. He had a big influence on me. He was in his thirties and performed electric guitar. I went to visit him in his apartment one day. There was no furniture, nothing, except a bed and a globe. He also had some copies of the travel magazine Windows to the World. When I commented on the absence of furniture in his apartment, he pointed to his head: All my wealth is inside here. He wanted to travel around the world. Chen always ganged up with other guys in stealing and fighting. His defense was that many Western artists lived similar lifestyles. He admired Bob Dylan and John Lennon. I totally fell for his crap. At the age of eighteen, I teamed up with some musicians and formed a touring band. We traveled all over China, from the cities of Guangzhou, Xian, and Wuhan, to Nanchang, Luoyang, and Urumichi in the far northwest. Wherever we went, we just performed on the street. I played guitar and was the lead singer. Initially, I was pretty shy at this new “venue,” but soon I started to like it. We did a lot of hard rock. The music was so loud that we were always surrounded by a large young crowd. We put a collection box on the ground. At the end of the day, we would split the profits. We didn't make too much money, but all of us had a great time.

One day, I met a college student who watched me perform and really liked our band. When he learned that I composed my own songs, he was impressed and strongly recommended that I attend a music academy to have some formal training. I was seduced by the idea. So our band stayed in the same city for a long time. The college guy and I started hanging out together. Since it cost a lot of money to attend the music academy, he figured out a way to help me save money. He asked his parents to set aside a room for me and I moved in. Each time I earned some money on the street, I would hand it over to him and he would put it away in a bank. Since I didn't smoke or drink, I did save quite a bit. But then I realized that having money was not enough. To enroll in the music school, students had to take the National College Entrance Exam. I was a high school dropout and there was no way I could get in. But I didn't regret my efforts. At least I got to fantasize.

Later on, I continued to travel. In each city I passed through, I would always see a church. Out of curiosity, I walked into one and stayed through a service. I was touched by the sound of hymns. Before I left, I stole a copy of the Bible. I read it and was really into it. So I began to dream of going to a divinity school and becoming a composer serving God. I could write all sorts of hymns, you know.

LIAO: I assume that the door to God's service should be open and free to all. At least you don't have to pay tuition.

QUE: Well, I began to read the Bible and write hymns in my spare time. One day, I summoned enough courage to set up an appointment with a young minister. When I showed him my work, he glanced through it and handed it back to me with a look of contempt. He said: We have many beautiful hymns already written by grand masters. Your job is not to compose, but to learn. I wouldn't give up. I cleared my throat and sang a hymn that I had just written. But he wasn't impressed.

LIAO: Didn't realize you turned yourself into a gospel singer and writer.

QUE: I was pretty persistent. I met another minister in Yichang, Hubei Province. He was touched by my sincerity and piety. He recommended that I apply to the Jinling Divinity School in the southeastern city of Nanjing. I got the address from the minister and went on the road again. I felt very motivated. Four months later, I finally arrived in Nanjing and met with the school president. I told him about my family, my childhood, and my experience with God. I also asked for advice on my plan to receive education in Christianity. The president kept a stern face and seldom looked at me throughout the conversation. Occasionally, he would force a smile out of politeness. After my presentation, he said coldly: This school is the most prestigious Christian higher educational institute in China. To get in, you need to go through political background checks. Also, you have to pass the National College Entrance Exam. Then, if you meet these two requirements, you will need to work here as a volunteer for two years before you can officially start.

LIAO: Political background checks? I guess the government wants to make sure you are patriotic and support the Communist government.

QUE: I begged him, saying: Can I work here as a volunteer and take classes while you go conduct my political background check? The president said that he couldn't allow such a precedent. He also shared with me his concern that many people had attempted to attend the divinity school and used the experience as a springboard to go abroad or to marry a foreigner. Their motive had nothing to do with serving God. While he was lecturing me, I felt so uncomfortable. It was true that I had other motives. I wanted to change my life as a street musician. Was there anything wrong with that?

LIAO: Did he point out a new path for a strayed sheep like you?

QUE: Well, he told me to go back to Yichang and discuss my passion with the local church belonging to the Three-Selves Patriotic Movement. In China, the Party has created its own “Catholic” and “Protestant” churches in every city. They are called the Chinese Patriotic Catholic Association and the Three-Selves Patriotic Movement, which is Protestant.

LIAO: Yes, I'm aware of it. It's strange that the Chinese Catholic church does not listen to the Vatican, but to the atheist Communist Party.

QUE: It was understandable. Since nobody in China believes in Communism anymore, our leaders fear foreign religions could threaten the Party's rule. Let's not get into a political debate about it. Anyway, I followed his instructions and went back to Yichang. I sought help from an official of the Three-Selves Patriotic Movement. He said he could offer me the opportunity to volunteer in his church, but I had to get official approval from the Yunyang county government. I asked if the church could issue an invitation letter, but he said he couldn't. So the road to God was blocked. My passion for religion was officially over.

LIAO: If you really had a passion for God, why didn't you join the hundreds of underground churches? You could compose hymns for them.

QUE: The government has banned the underground churches. Many people have been arrested. It's too risky.

LIAO: What happened after your spiritual pursuit ran into obstacles?

QUE: Life went on, without God. After a while, I felt tired and decided to settle down. First, I stayed in Chongqing. On October 8, 1992, I played a gig under a viaduct in the Shapingba district. My singing attracted quite a large crowd. But then, little did I know that the performance on that day would “throw me in a sewage ditch.”

LIAO: Isn't that the code phrase for “got busted by the Municipal Regulatory Agency?”

QUE: Yes. Every street performer can tell you about their experiences with MRA. I had been busted before and always managed to get away with minimal loss. But on that day, things were quite out of control.

LIAO: I've heard many stories of corrupt MRA officials.

QUE: They are like state-supported robbers. Vendors need to bribe them big-time to get a permit. If you don't have a permit, they smash all your equipment during their regular checkups. Since we used expensive sound equipment, the damage could run up to several thousand yuan.

LIAO: You were certainly much better equipped than your parents' band.

QUE: Our income was proportional to our investment. We wanted to make it big and make more money. But when the uniformed MRA robbers showed up that day, they shattered all my dreams. This is how it all happened. As I told you before, my hoarse and raspy voice was perfect for the new Chinese rock songs. My favorite was “Descendants of the Dragon” by the Taiwanese composer-singer Hou Dejian. In the 1990s, that song was very popular. The majority of the young folks wouldn't know the first two lines of the Chinese national anthem, but they could sing every word of “Descendants of the Dragon.” So, when I performed the song that day, several hundred people immediately gathered and began to sing along. It was quite a spectacle. Soon, the crowd was getting bigger and our collection box was filled with one-yuan and five-yuan bills. After I finished, people applauded and requested three encores. As I was enjoying the moment of success, loud sirens could be heard all over the area. Then, several police cars and jeeps pulled in under the viaduct. Over twenty MRA officials and police jumped out of their vehicles. Since we had a huge crowd, which was wildly excited, the police and the MRA guys had a hard time dispersing them. The audience became really unruly. I could see the police were mad as hell. They accused me of instigating trouble and began kicking at the speakers and microphones. They smashed the drums and came to get my guitar. Since I had a brand-new guitar, I was stupid enough to clutch it to my chest and not let go. Two policemen tried to punch me and seize it. Several onlookers saw this and began to throw beer bottles at the police. That really incensed them. Soon, four or five police joined forces and began to hit me and other people with batons. I fell to the ground, with blood all over my face. My guitar was broken into pieces.

After the crowd was finally dispersed, the police handcuffed and threw me into the back of a car, and then locked me up at a detention center.

LIAO: What about the other people in the band?

QUE: They were detained for a day or so and then released. Since I was the head of the band, they charged me with “resisting arrest and instigating trouble.” One officer said I deserved severe punishment.

LIAO: How did they treat you at the detention center?

QUE: At first, I was locked up with thirteen other guys in one room. I was still recovering from the bad beatings. I had a fever and lay on the floor, totally delirious. On the second day, two bastards saw that I was getting better. One guy pissed in a big bowl and then came over to me. He and his friend pried my mouth open and fed me the urine with a spoon. I spat it out but they kept slapping me. A guard heard my scream and stopped by. He yelled: You bastards, what are you doing to that guy over there? The guys immediately got up and stood at attention: Sir, we are feeding him Chinese herbal soup. The guard got curious: What kind of herbal soup? They answered: It's urine from a virgin boy. You know that a virgin boy's urine can help heal the body's injuries. The guard burst out laughing: You guys are virgins? Hope you don't pass on your STD to him. Then he walked away without stopping the torture.

LIAO: That was so disgusting.

QUE: At the end of the first week, the guys in my room found out that I was a singer. They were thrilled. One guy, who was the head of the gang in my cell, immediately put me to work. He ordered me to sing any songs that he requested. For a whole afternoon, I performed over forty songs. I almost lost my voice, and those bastards still wouldn't stop. Eventually, they all began to sing along. The whole detention center became a festive concert hall. I became a pop star among detainees. The “celebrity” status enabled me to dodge many of the physical attacks inflicted upon new arrivals.

The head of the gang was a well-known underworld assassin. Before his arrest, he had been hired by many businesspeople to go collect debts. For those who refused to cough up the money, he would cut off their ears or chop off their hands. People were really scared of him. He made me his perfect bitch. After he got tired of my singing, he came up with new ideas. In the evenings, when the guards were away, he would force me to dress in drag. A guy made a wig out of straw. Another one tucked two bowls into my shirt as fake breasts. Within a few minutes, they turned me into a bar girl. I used a tube of toothpaste as a fake microphone and was ordered to do strip dances. I was also forced to perform oral sex on him several times. Luckily, I was only detained there for two weeks. Then, I received an official notice from the court—I was sentenced to two years at a youth reeducation camp on the outskirts of Chongqing.

At the camp, we planted rice, tended orchids, and picked tea leaves. The hardest part was carrying buckets of human manure on shoulder poles from the delivery trucks to the field. My daily quota was fifty trips. Since I was short and thin, the job was killing me. So one day I talked with the camp director and asked if I could use my singing skills to educate and motivate other detainees. In return for my services, I could be spared some of the shit-carrying jobs. He thought it was a good idea and agreed to let me carry the manure three days a week rather than six days. He gave me a whole list of songs to perform. Among them were “Turning a New Chapter in Your Life,” “Physical Labor Is Glorious,” and “Socialism Is Good.”

LIAO: You told me that you lost one of your eyes at the camp. How did it happen?

QUE: One day, I didn't fulfill my manure-transporting quota and had to work extra hours. At about 8 p.m., I was getting really tired and dizzy, but I continued without taking a rest. Then I collapsed and fell on my face. I felt a sharp pain in my left eye. I realized that a piece of rock had pierced it. I screamed and passed out. When I woke up the next morning, I was in a hospital. They operated on my eye and took the eyeball out. At that time, I was three months and four days away from my release from the camp. Because of my injury, they let me go earlier. So I was back on the street, half blind and penniless. I thought about my blind parents. Could it be some sort of inescapable fate?

LIAO: Do you believe in fate?

QUE: I was only in my twenties when that happened. If I had resigned myself to fate, I wouldn't have had the guts to change and survive.

LIAO: Well, you've changed. You are quite an established avant-garde street musician.

QUE: My music has a lot to do with my life. The most important accomplishment for me is that I have rediscovered myself. In the past, I was embarrassed by my parents and never bothered to delve into their music and their art. Life behind bars and performing on the street have given me a new appreciation for street music. I have found street life a rich source of my musical inspiration. I constantly bring a tape recorder with me and record the clash of street sounds and noises. I then add this lively mix into my own singing.

LIAO: I listened to the CD you sent me. I have to say it's a very interesting concept.

QUE: I'm back with the people whom I knew the best. In the summer of 2000, at the Sichuan Folk Art and Music Festival near the Big Buddha Temple [Dafosi] in Chengdu, I had the opportunity to perform on the same stage with Zou Zhongxi, a master in folk music. He was already in his eighties and completely blind. Like my father, Master Zou was also a storyteller-singer, but he played a three-piece wooden clicker called a jinxianban. The clicker snapped and flew between his fingers, and the variations on the rhythms enhanced his storytelling. My father used to be a big fan of Zou. He would carry a radio and listen to Master Zou's performance for hours. On that day, I played my father's daoqin and then Master Zou performed “The Warrior Conquered the Tiger” with his jinxianban. When he was recounting the part where the warrior finally tamed the fierce tiger, he was so emotionally charged that I could almost see light shooting out of his blind eyes. That was really amazing. After the performance, I went to my father's tomb. I felt that I had finally done something that would make him proud.