As the dust settles and the “new car smell” begins to fade after my arrival in China nearly two months ago, the reality of living here for two or more years starts to set in.
I think this is a good thing, as it allows me to focus on my work and my writing.
On the other hand, the end of the honeymoon period came about rather quickly and with some unnecessary consternation. It is easy for me to live in Shanghai, but to enjoy it is a different story.
I have come to frequent a jazz bar in the neighborhood where I live and work called Wooden Box. It is pretty much that, a single-story wood-enclosed structure with a small area for live performances. The first night I went there the remnants of a typhoon were blowing through the city, so the light rain and the wind contrasted with the warmth and jazz within the venue. I even went up and sang a rendition of the song Night and Day a la Frank Sinatra to a crowd of about five people. The intimate venue allowed me to speak with and interact with the musicians as well.
The jazz bassist Danny spoke of how it was becoming difficult for foreign musicians to stay in the country due to tightening restrictions on visas. For whatever reason, we also discussed where everyone was on 9/11 (Danny was working as a legal proofreader in New York at the time).
Another evening I was there, some Chinese (probably) musicians were performing bluegrass music. Yes, American bluegrass music. It made me think of a bluegrass festival I went to with my grandparents in North Carolina when I was young. As these things go, it made me a little sad, since the world and America my grandparents lived in is no longer in existence, and I really don’t know what to make of its replacement.
Jazz and bluegrass, bluegrass like what I heard on public radio when I was living in North Carolina, those haunting winter nights. Who put the record on every Friday? Someone has to keep the light on for the arts when the onslaught of now threatens to extinguish them. The songs my grandparents used to listen to, so many of them from the 30s, 40s, 50s, are gone with them. Someday, I too will grow so old that I won’t know any of the songs on TV, on the radio, on the internet, whatever will be the form of communication then. Telepathy for all I (and Elon Musk) know.
It’s a scary thought, which is part of the reason why I try to listen to new songs to keep up with whatever’s going on in music right now. But sometimes I still find some interesting bits, like an Apple Music album called 1930s Radio Show Classics. Live from the Hotel Lincoln, in New York City, is Artie Shaw and his Orchestra. Right now I’m listening to a song called Night Over Shanghai, about “pale yellow faces and sad old eyes.” Ha!
Actually, I doubt they will ever stop playing Beatles or Jimi Hendrix songs in my lifetime, so I might be safe there. And the artists like Beyonce and Taylor Swift will want to maintain their dominance for years to come (Note: I am not a fan of either). But in 2017 I remember watching the MTV awards, again with my grandfather, and there were quite a few artists and acts that I couldn’t recognize at all, until Jared Leto showed up with tribute to Chester Bennington of Linkin Park (the band’s lead singer who had committed suicide). Finally, some people I knew.
Where am I going with this…music, jazz, getting older, music will always be my refuge. But it’s what happens when the music ends, that’s the problem.
Until next time…