Wuhan, breeding ground of punk and corona
No fear of contact yet: The Berlin band Bonaparte in Wuhan, 2013
Photo: Sebastian Mayer
Wuhan will not be able to shake off its image as a virus breeding ground, as the apocalyptic center of an epidemic, any time soon. Yet the industrial metropolis in the heart of China was long considered above all a hotbed of rebellion. If history-conscious Chinese had been asked about the significance of their hometown before the coronavirus, they would have told of the Wuchang uprising, whose shots sealed the end of the empire in October 1911. Music fans, on the other hand, would have shouted "Wuhan Punk City!" without hesitation, perhaps even raising their fists in the air. Because it is here in the city of eleven million that Chinese-style punk is said to have had its birth in the mid-1990s - much later due to the People's Republic's tough cultural opening, but just as rough, downright raunchy, as in the late 1960s in the "Detroit Rock City" of MC5 and Iggy Pop's Stooges.
Whether this is exactly true or whether pogo dancing first began in Beijing cannot be determined with any certainty. What is undisputed, however, is that the scene in Wuhan was more chaotic, but also harder and more authentic than in the capital. In contrast to Beijing, where the young punks often came from the middle and upper classes, those from Wuhan mostly came from the working class. Poverty and drug problems, especially with heroin, were not just a pose here. The first generation of punks looked like gangs with their holey clothes, bad tattoos and mohawks. Their leader, the "leader of the pack", was Wu Wei, who grew up in the Hankou district of Wuhan. His band SMZB, founded in 1996, is still one of China's most legendary rock bands, not least because no one has managed to silence Wu in the last 24 years. Even when there are police officers in the audience, he shouts against the state, against forgetting the Tiananmen victims, against surveillance and the communist personality cult.
"There is only one party here, and I am its enemy," says the song "Born In The PRC." And in "Waiting For This Day," Wu dreams of more democracy and the rule of law, accompanied by harmonica and sawtooth guitars. In the People's Republic's strictly hierarchical one-party system, this really has something of anarchy about it. Even during the current virus crisis, Wu, now 45, is firing shots at the authorities: "The government is responsible for allowing the epidemic to spread so much," Wu tells WELT AM SONNTAG on the phone. "The many inconsistencies are typical of this dictatorship, which does not care about human life or humanity."
When his hometown was locked down, Wu was traveling in Europe. Now he is stuck in Portugal and cannot return. "I'm worried about my friends and family. Even though I'm in a relatively safe place, I don't feel like going out or performing."
Of the idealistic old guard of the early 1990s, only SMZB is left in Wuhan, and no longer in its original line-up. Not all band members shared Wu's radical attitude. China's growing prosperity has also increased career opportunities for musicians in recent years - provided you don't offend too much. Today, many rock bands have made themselves comfortable in the country, which is like a "very spacious cage" or "a leash that is so long that you can sometimes almost ignore it," as Kang Mao, the singer of the Wuhan-founded band Subs, once put it. Just last year, alternative rock music in China experienced a renaissance in the mainstream thanks to the surprisingly successful casting show "The Big Band." In the show, sponsored by a yogurt manufacturer, old and new indie rock groups compete against each other; their sound is smoothed out, the roughness is glossed over, and the content is innocuous.
"I'm not interested in any of that," says Wu Wei briefly, without sounding too bitter. For him, music remains closely linked to social commitment, which is often sparked by concrete events in his hometown.
Living counterculture
In 2010, for example, Wu Wei and other musicians opposed one of the many "revitalization projects" with which the government in all major cities is pursuing urban profit maximization without paying much consideration to the residents. To prevent artists and students from being displaced by luxury hotels and shopping malls at Wuhan's Donghu Lake, Wu organized benefit concerts and information events. The atmosphere was so liberal that an autonomous youth center could be built around China's second-largest urban lake - the only one in the entire country. In the end, however, the activists had to give way to the plans of the city developers. Wu was interrogated by the police, who also showed him his private email and text messages. Like a drug dealer, he then got hold of several cell phones to avoid constant surveillance. "It didn't surprise me that the government got what it wanted. I knew from the start that this would happen. But I still wanted to say what I thought."
The fact that a lively counterculture was able to develop in Wuhan, in contrast to many other cities in China with a population of over a million, was due not only to determined locals like Wu Wei but also to "Vox", one of the longest-running concert halls in the country. Founded in 2001 by Zhu Ning, the drummer of SMBZ, it also put Wuhan on the map for foreign bands. Punk veterans like Sham 69 have played here, as have innovators like Bonaparte from Berlin. "We've already had to move twice because the audience kept getting bigger," says Li Ke, who has managed the 600-seat club for ten years.
The banner on the back wall of the stage still proclaims the motto of the early days in large letters: "Voice of Youth, Voice of Freedom". For the past five years, this has also included a label, Wild Records, which has released compilations of local musicians under the title "Voice Of Wuhan" and has signed one of China's most famous young rock bands, Chinese Football.
Since the outbreak of the coronavirus, however, the entire business has come to a standstill: "It's not just us, all music venues in China have closed," says Li. "Thousands of gigs have been cancelled. We have no idea when we can reopen." "The Chinese concert industry has been hit hard by the virus," says Xu Bo, singer and guitarist of Chinese Football. "That's tough because gigs are pretty much the only way to make money as a musician these days."
Last resort live streaming
His band was supposed to set off on its first European tour soon. That will probably not happen now. Xu Bo is stuck in Wuhan, his bandmates, who had visited their families for the Spring Festival, can no longer enter the sealed-off metropolis. Wuhan has been under a complete curfew since last week. For fear of becoming infected, Xu Bo hardly left the house before: "I play the guitar a lot and upload videos of it to the Internet.
According to the China Association of Performing Arts, around 20,000 performances have been cancelled or postponed since the coronavirus outbreak. In the oppressive and sometimes extremely boring confinement to one's own four walls, many artists have turned to live streaming. They give living room concerts or talks via platforms such as BiliBili or Douyin, which we know as TikTok. Labels such as "Modern Sky" from Beijing or clubs such as "All" from Shanghai have recognised the trend and are organising "cloud music festivals" and bedroom DJ sets, where performances are streamed one after the other from different apartments. The comments of the viewers, who are often suffering from the curfew themselves, run directly across the screen. You can also transfer real money to the artists, also in real time via a gift function connected to the virtual wallet. The virtual performance becomes an intimate community experience, a private party with thousands of like-minded people.
"Thanks to the widespread use of online gaming and mobile apps, China is at a point where such scenarios can be easily implemented," says Katy Roseland. The American, who has lived in China for ten years, runs the experimental streaming platform "Shanghai Community Radio". Her team has just invited two musicians from Wuhan to a virtual discussion. For over two hours, the two told the moderators about their impressions, fears and routines in the middle of the isolated epicenter. When they admitted that they hardly read the news anymore in order not to lose their minds, many users flooded the comment section in agreement. This is probably also a reason why the Chinese are still relatively calm despite the draconian quarantine: the immediate knowledge that they are not alone with their worries. Influencers, e-athletes and tech entrepreneurs are also sharing their lives more than ever in this virus crisis. The live streaming business in China has already produced its own stars, from the farmer's wife who stages idyllic farming in a remote province to the queer product tester who manages to sell 15,000 lipsticks in five minutes. However, it has so far been difficult for indie musicians to gain significant attention, let alone a substantial income, through streaming.
Until the bans on events are lifted, which could take months, the hat that is passed around digitally at least provides some financial relief, and on top of that the reassuring feeling that the fans have not forgotten you. Xu Bo: "I am very happy that so many people are becoming active online and raising their voices themselves, whether as an emotional outlet, as praise for the medical staff on the front lines or as criticism of the government. For us musicians, it is important that we are heard."