Musical America Blogs

by Ken Smith

I was already committed to seeing opening night of the Chinese premiere of Tan Dun’s Tea last Wednesday when tickets were circulating for a “special preview” of the Olympic opening ceremony at the National Stadium. Nah, let’s be honest — I would’ve never gotten a ticket. “We didn’t invite any media guests,” an outraged Beijing Olympic spokeswoman insisted after a two-minute preview of the festivities appeared on South Korean television. But I did have plenty of spies there.

Forget the Paris-based composer Chen Qigang’s intentions to “create something original,” or the New York-based choreographer Shen Wei’s goals of “presenting Chinese culture in a modern way.” Despite having a few genuinely striking moments – two scenes, one with 2008 Chinese drummers and another with presumably the same number of martial artists, are apparently highly effective – the rest of the events unfold (according to a friend who emailed me immediately) in a bland musical wash of “Chinese elevator music” featuring a few traditional instruments and a “speck on stage” at the piano that may or may not have been Lang Lang (The pianist was in Beijing that day, incidentally, to promote the release of a new compilation CD for the Chinese market).

Any pretense to art at the opening ceremony was apparently thrown out the window after an earlier rehearsal on July 16, when uncomprehending senior officials ordered the more esoteric moments removed, leaving the musical team scrambling to re-record their portions of the program. (There is never live music on CCTV; nothing is ever left to chance in the Chinese media.) Apparently, very little of Shen Wei’s influence remains in the show (In this respect, he can commiserate with the Shanghai-based choreographer Duo Duo Huang, who suffered a similar fate at the hands of the same director, Zhang Yimou, with Tan Dun’s First Emperor at the Metropolitan Opera.)

Incidentally, without the athletes’ entrance or the fireworks display, the musical portion runs only about 75 minutes.

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Getting back to that news leak on Korean television, the Chinese have been treating this literally as a violation of national security. From the beginning, any breach of confidentiality among those involved in the opening ceremony was punishable by up to seven years in jail. Since the leak, Chinese media have, in no uncertain terms, been ordered to “stop all speculation” about the opening ceremony. All mainland Chinese websites carrying footage of the event have been ordered to delete it.

The footage has also disappeared from Youtube, which cites “a copyright claim by a third party.” It reappeared briefly on Liveleak.com, with the heading “the video you weren’t supposed to see,” but has been removed there as well.

At least for the moment, you can still see the Korean footage here. The Beijing Olympic Organizing Committee for the Olympic Games (BOCOG) has already threatened legal action against the broadcaster. They haven’t seemed to acknowledge postings that originated from thousands of invited guests, the vast majority of them carrying mobile phones capable of shooting video clips.

As promised, more on Alex’s New Yorker piece. I was heartened to see someone else seeking out some of the same people in China I find interesting (Alex and I have been the only Western journalists granted interviews with composer Chen Qigang, the music director of the Olympic opening ceremony, recently of Boosey & Hawkes) and picking up on the naked nexus of Culture, Politics and Money that is today’s China. Not that this intersection doesn’t occur elsewhere in the world, but other places have a bit more decorum. In China, the components scream out in capital letters.

Not only did I see items I’d first reported cropping up in The New Yorker (Alex graciously acknowledged me later on his blog), but also fresh stuff that Alex dug up reappearing a few days later in Mark Swed’s review of Lang Lang in the Los Angeles Times. At least the content was still valid. Usually, the second time someone quotes something about China it’s already out of date.

Which brings me to one particular phrase that keeps coming back to haunt me: that China is the sole remaining growth market for classical music. I’ve made that statement a handful of times and I’ve read it under dozens of other bylines, usually as part of some sweeping generalization. Alex, for his part, had “serious doubts about China’s putative lock on the musical future” but admired the “chaotically rich” soundscape of Beijing, which only goes to show how hard it is to make a sensible statement about China in a single paragraph. (At least Alex has enough space in the magazine to befit his optimistic ears and skeptical wits.)

I first used that line in the Financial Times, where explaining “growth market” would be like explaining “tonality” in Gramophone. I still stand that original assessment, but I realize it needs more clarification. Technically, “growth market” refers to an increase in demand for something over time, but most of us in the West have a rather domesticated concept of the term.

In the broader context, growth markets are where, instead of a measly 4 percent a year, you can double your investment (or, conversely, lose it all). Growth markets often don’t take American Express. Growth markets probably don’t even have flushing toilets. China is a growth market precisely because it has so much room to grow.

This is what makes reviewing concerts in China a challenge: How to be fair both to China and to readers in the West? The average performance level in Beijing or Shanghai – making allowances for a few truly outstanding events – is nowhere near as consistent as New York or London. And yet, people appear on stage night after night doing the very things that got many of their parents thrown in prison.

In China, a “growth market” means that a concert is often not just a concert; any given event can still be a pioneering model for other presenters to build on.