Pop Report Vietnam: Saigon Supersonics

The Vietnamese singer Pauline Ngoc

The American armed forces' radio station had chosen Bing Crosby's "I Am Dreaming Of A White Christmas" as the secret signal for the evacuation. In fact, it was a rainy, humid spring day when the last representatives of the defeated world power made their escape from the roof of the US embassy in helicopters. When the Viet Cong marched into the South Vietnamese capital of Saigon on April 30, 1975, they not only chased away all the occupiers and their "collaborators," but also destroyed all the "neo-colonialist poison" that had come into the country with them. The Spiegel correspondent and later bestselling author Tiziano Terzani, who was one of the few Western journalists to experience the "liberation" up close, excitedly cabled his editors in Hamburg what this meant:

Whole piles of Playboy magazines, records and old American propaganda posters are making the garbage cans in the center overflow. In the evenings, the bars remain closed, the neon lights are unused, and no more pop music blares through the streets. There is no longer a curfew, but by nine o'clock the city is deserted. 

The architects of Vietnamese reunification had done a great job. In a very short time, the North Vietnamese communists transformed Saigon, renamed Ho Chi Minh City, into a metropolis worthy of a peasant state. Relics from the time of occupation were destroyed and banned by law, including Vietnamese rock and pop music, which had experienced a brief but fruitful heyday in the shadow of the Vietnam War. It was an idiosyncratic mixture that could only have emerged in a country like Vietnam, which had been under foreign rule for almost 100 years. The French, who established their first Indochina base here in 1858, not only introduced the grand boulevard and the baguette into Vietnamese culture, but also foreign musical styles such as chanson, rumba, bolero and the hot yéyé beat from Paris. After the French withdrew, Vietnam was divided at the Geneva Indochina Conference in 1954 into a western-influenced south and a communist north, which were hostile to each other. When the Americans sent large troop units to Vietnam in the mid-1960s to turn the tide in the proxy conflict between the Eastern bloc and the "free world", rock and soul music followed suit into the deeply divided country. In the chaos of the increasingly violent Vietnam War, music promised many city dwellers a bit of normality and also offered them the chance to feed their families. Many of the local dance bands that performed night after night in the bars and clubs of Saigon, or that entertained GIs on US military bases with cover songs, made little distinction between France Gall, Motown, Hendrix or Elvis. By the end of the 1960s, bands like the provocatively named Shotguns or the all-female combo Blue Stars had combined foreign influences into a unique style of rock 'n' roll that blared out of the amplifiers in a way that was sometimes nostalgic and yearning, sometimes wicked and cool. If Quentin Tarantino ever makes a film about the Vietnam War, he'll find more than enough for the soundtrack here. The Vietnamese press called the music "Kich Dong Nhac" - "Action Music" - due to its explosive quality. The government initially took only disapproving note of its effect on the population. "A beat pumps through the neighborhood. In the bars and nightclubs, our long-haired youth play instruments that were completely unknown to their parents' generation," wrote a state-run South Vietnamese newspaper in 1968, audibly irritated. 

One must not forget that the South of Vietnam was also structurally a dictatorship during the war years. Protests were not tolerated, and rebellious pupils and students were arrested without trial. At least the government, under the influence of the Americans, increasingly recognized the soft power of pop and rock music, which went so far that under the aegis of the Psychological Warfare Bureau In May 1971, a kind of Vietnamese Woodstock took place, with around 7,000 visitors streaming into the Saigon Zoo Stadium, including many GIs who, with peace signs around their necks and wildly picked grass in their pipes, made up for what they had missed in counterculture at home. Individual songs were also used to boost troop morale, such as "7 Old Tet Wishes", a New Year's greeting released in 1972, in which singer Ngọc Giau, accompanied by the plaintive sound of a Vietnamese Nhi violin, asks that the army of the South finally be given the strength to win. In most of the songs, however, the war appeared only subtly, for example as a love story between a soldier and a nurse (Kim Loan – Can Nha Ngoại O/Home In The Suburb) or as a dream of a final celebration among comrades when peace has finally arrived (Thanh Lan – Tinh Dem Lien Hoan/The Farewell Party Night). 

However, Vietnamese rock and pop music could never be properly exploited. On the contrary: pacifist songs such as "Ngu di con" by songwriter Trinh Cong Son and singer Khanh Ly, about a grieving mother, shook up the youth of Vietnam, in a similar way to how the music of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez made the protest movement in the USA question the sense of war. In addition, the places where they were performed repeatedly turned into battlefields themselves. On the night of April 8, 1971, a bomb planted in the hall of a concert by the hard rock band CBC detonated - just as the siblings had begun to sing the first bars of Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze". Among the dead was a 14-year-old girl who had sneaked in briefly to catch a glimpse of her crush, drummer Tung Van. Attacks like this one remained sad footnotes in a hopeless war of attrition in which over two million civilians lost their lives. "I was in Vietnam" has now become a catchy phrase in Hollywood films. In the country where it took place, the "American War", as it is called here, is still a poorly healed wound. It destroyed livelihoods and tore families apart. After 1975, over a million South Vietnamese had to flee persecution by the communists; hundreds of thousands of them risked their lives on the high seas as so-called "boat people", including many musicians who had just been cheered on the stages of South Vietnam. The fact that many songs written between 1955 and 1975 are still banned in Vietnam today must be seen in the context of this trauma: On the surface, they may only be about lost love, rainy days or the hope for the approaching spring - but between the lines, a Vietnamese person immediately hears the difficult, not fully processed history of his country. It is precisely the deeply felt melancholy and longing for better times that resonates in many songs that is still a thorn in the side of the socialist government, as it undermines the myth of the joyful liberation after 1975. 

"This music contains complicated feelings that you would rather keep under wraps," explains Jan Hagenkötter. The man from Frankfurt with the square glasses is one of the greatest Western experts in the field of so-called "Nhạc Vang" - the "Golden Music", as the very multifaceted rock and pop music of the Southeast Asian country released before 1975 is also called. For almost ten years, Hagenkötter has been commuting between Germany and Vietnam, always on the lookout for recordings that might have escaped the North Vietnamese purges. In the country's record stores, you will search in vain for vinyl by artists such as Khánh Ly, Hùng Cường or Mai Lệ Huyền (in sad contrast to albums by Modern Talking, whose “You're My Heart, You're My Soul” is a must at any Vietnamese wedding – editor's note.). Labels like Sóng Nhạc and Continental released new 7" inches almost every week. Due to a shortage of resources, the singles, which were often pressed on a colored vinyl-plastic mixture, were usually mini-compilations with up to four different artists. The only constant was the backing band, which was never pictured on the cover. Albums by a single artist were the exception at this time.

You have to dig deep to find the coveted collector's items that were produced for the domestic market at the time, says Hagenkötter. At first he went to nearby places like "Antique Street", a flea market in the center of Saigon. "Over time I had collected around 60 7" singles from there," he recalls the first stages of his treasure hunt. "But most of them were in a catastrophically bad condition. Most of them were so badly scratched that they looked like they had been deliberately destroyed." Hagenkötter rarely found a copy with the matching cover. Paper was a scarce commodity in the war-impoverished country until the early 1980s, and most sleeves ended up being recycled, which left the vinyl even more exposed to the elements. "You couldn't really listen to much of it." 

Hagenkötter, who has been running the new jazz label INFRAcom! in Frankfurt since the early 1990s, had a taste for it. He expanded his research to include online portals and Vietnamese classified ads, with his Vietnamese wife and his home base in Ho Chi Minh City helping him to overcome the language barrier. He found like-minded people like the Parisian lawyer Antoine Toussaint, who plays records in Vietnam under the name DJ Datodeo and who had also developed a passion for the vintage sound of the 1960s and 1970s. Together they set out across the country to search for collectors and music lovers who often guarded their intact records and reel-to-reel tapes like treasures. "You don't go there as a buyer and then disappear again," Hagenkötter sums up. "You get to know each other, have a meal or a drink together. And if you get on well and like each other, you might be able to buy something at some point.” 

The stories he and his friend heard on their exploratory tours were often at least as exciting as the musical discoveries. "Once we were in Hanoi visiting an older collector who had a house full of records," Hagenkötter remembers. "We had been sitting together for a good two hours listening to music when it suddenly emerged that the man had once served as a highly decorated general in the Viet Cong! That was a fascinating experience for me because it showed me that music can overcome old divides." Because the label maker regularly visits Vietnam with his family anyway, an idea began to grow in his mind: shouldn't this music be made available to a wider public? Shouldn't young Vietnamese in particular have the opportunity to catch up on the lost chapter of their pop history? Hagenkötter decided to release the songs he had uncovered on his search on a compilation. It quickly became clear that the project, for which Hagenkötter chose the title "Saigon Supersounds", would be a nerve-racking, mammoth task. "I must have listened to 200 singles and 400 albums during this time - and certainly put my fellow people to the test of patience in one way or another." Patience was the key word from the start, which was mainly due to the pitiful state of the records. The dust that had penetrated deep into the grooves and scratches often made one-to-one digitization impossible. "Sometimes the records only froze after I had removed the dirt," says Hagenkötter, laughing. Often only individual passages within a song were audible, so he had to find several copies of the same record on a whim in order to then put the whole thing together on the computer from various sources and decipher it. He usually had no alternative to the costly restoration: almost all studios were expropriated or destroyed after 1975. Today, there is no trace of the master tapes. It is also almost impossible to identify the rights holders of the pieces. "All of these structures no longer exist," says Hagenkötter. "The labels have disappeared. There are no contracts."

In case the collectors did not want to hand over their pieces, Hagenkötter often traveled with a laptop and preamplifiers to digitize them on the spot. But even transferring well-preserved copies was no walk in the park, he explains. The records often showed varying degrees of wear and tear and had different material compositions, which is why he had to bring a whole arsenal of different needles into position. "The records are mono. They were not made for high-quality record players, but for portable players. They are not high-end products, quite the opposite. I had to experiment a lot with elliptical and spherical needles to get the best sound," he remembers. 

In rare cases, Hagenkötter also found something on eBay. Particularly in France, the USA and Australia, the countries where the largest Vietnamese diaspora lives, extremely interesting pieces kept appearing on the Internet, often at prices between 130 and 260 US dollars. Hagenkötter suspects that some of these are records that refugees smuggled out of the country with their few belongings, or those that later arrived in their new homeland as part of family reunification. "These singles are guarded like family photos and are usually much better preserved than what you find in Vietnam." For many Vietnamese living abroad, songs like Y-Vân's

 “Sài Gòn” are still hymns that contain all the homesickness for a country that has disappeared forever. Hagenkötter also thought of these people when he launched his compilations. And he thought of his children, who might one day ask questions about the turbulent history of their grandparents' generation. 

“Saigon Supersounds” was not officially released in Vietnam. To this day, all cultural assets that are published in the communist country are meticulously checked by the authorities. Even though his Frankfurt label is beyond the reach of the censors, Hagenkötter struggled for a long time about whether he should include historically particularly charged songs on the record, such as “Song Cho Nhau”, a hymn to the military operation “Passage to Freedom”, in which the US Navy helped hundreds of thousands of North Vietnamese to escape to the south between 1954 and 1955. In the end, however, the desire for completeness prevailed and he decided to put the piece of contemporary history on the first page. “A lot has happened in the four years that I worked on the compilation,” explains Hagenkötter. “Again and again there were pieces that were suddenly allowed again, but also ones that were suddenly banned without any reason being given. The question is always: will something like that be enforced or not? You never know exactly where the line is.”

Since the publication of his now two-part series, he has not had any problems, neither at customs nor at his DJ gigs, where he plays the old records in small bars. "On the contrary, the reactions were consistently positive," says Hagenkötter. "Once an older woman came to the DJ booth with her daughter and explained that she never thought she would ever see young Vietnamese dancing to this music again. That was a very emotional moment for me." The "Saigon Supersound" albums have also opened many doors for him among collectors. "The Vietnamese are proud that their music is also being received outside of their country."

Encouraged by the success of the two samplers, Hagenkötter took on another project close to his heart: As manager and producer of the band "Saigon Soul Revival", he is trying not only to revive the songs of the golden era, but also to transport them into the present in terms of sound. "The 60s and 70s were groundbreaking years for pop culture in many countries, including Asian countries like Indonesia," says Hagenkötter, explaining the idea behind the project. The band can convey an idea of what Vietnamese pop could sound like if the songs from back then had not been erased from collective memory.

Hagenkötter had met the group, which consists of four young Vietnamese and a native Cypriot, through their mutual friend Antoine Toussaint and hired them for the release parties of his "Saigon Supersounds" series, which soon led to a close collaboration. Their 2019 debut "Hoa Am Xua", released on Hagenkötter's label, is clearly in the legacy of the 60s and 70s - the title means something like "old harmonies" - but modernizes the sound with reggae, jazz and funk influences. Six original compositions and five covers are featured on the album. However, they blend so seamlessly into one another that the layman cannot hear any difference. The band was even able to engage Mai Le Huyen as a guest singer for "Giay Phut Cuoi Tuan" from 1970, which was rearranged as a ska piece. The musician, born in 1946, was a star in the heyday of Vietnamese rock 'n' roll and was known for her dry humor and daring stage outfits. "Hao Hoa," a classic from 1971 that has been covered hundreds of times, is getting a surprising update from Saigon-based rapper Blacka. "One day he came to one of the band's gigs and grabbed the microphone during "Hao Hoa" and just started rapping," Hagenkötter remembers. "He has loved the song since he was a child. It quickly became clear to all of us that it had to be on the album."

In Vietnam, which survived the corona epidemic well despite having a population similar to Germany, Saigon Soul Revival can now perform again. When you see the accomplished live band with their twist-dancing singer on stage, it all really does seem a bit out of date. After the so-called "Doi Moi" reforms in the mid-1980s, Vietnam, like many other so-called "panther states" in Asia, underwent rapid modernization. Cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City are now emulating the futuristic skyscrapers of China. The growing middle class is served by a massive entertainment industry, with casting shows, soap operas and V-Pop, the local equivalent of South Korea's K-Pop stars. Artists of Vietnamese descent are also making waves internationally, such as the rapper Suboi, who releases on the hip New York label "88rising", or the writer Viet Thanh Nguyen, who won the Pulitzer Prize in 2016 for his Vietnam War grotesque "The Sympathizer". In such a present, is there any need to connect to times long past? "I don't want to presume that the songs contribute to reconciliation with a difficult past," says Hagenkötter. "I see the band and the samplers more as a contribution to a process of self-discovery - back to a handmade, very unique pop culture that has never existed anywhere else in the world."

interview with Pauline Ngoc:
“Our concerts were often interrupted by Viet Cong shelling”

As the daughter of a black Frenchman and a Vietnamese woman, Pauline Ngoc has not had an easy life since childhood. Nevertheless, the singer with the soulful voice managed to become a star in her homeland in the shadow of the Vietnam War. When the Vietcong conquered Saigon, she had to flee headlong like so many others. After a detour, the musician finally ended up in the Palatinate, where she suddenly found herself on stage in front of American soldiers again.

When the Vietnam War was raging, you were a well-known musician in Saigon. How did you experience the mood between 1965 and 1975? How important was music for you at that time? 

Music was and still is my life! Back then, it was the only chance of survival for a dark-skinned girl like me and, moreover, the only

Opportunity to earn money in this atmosphere of fear. My longing for freedom was my driving force and my voice was my capital to leave the dreary environment behind me.

At that time, you performed in the city's nightclubs with the girl band "Blue Stars", including in front of American GIs. What was it like for you to be on stage as a musician in such an atmosphere? 

My performances with "Blue Stars" were my happiest moments. The clubs we performed in were like melting pots; they dictated the cultural life and the GIS were grateful for entertainment and music. Money was not an issue for them. Of course, the clubs were not safe places for women. However, as my fame increased, I had a different status that also offered me corresponding protection. Unfortunately, not all female musicians had that. Women were not socially respected in Vietnam at the time, and especially during the war.

Which song best sums up this time for you?

It is difficult for me to reduce this time to one song. The requirement in the clubs was to

To entertain soldiers with re-enactments of hits. In the clubs that the GIs frequented, we played the Top 40, i.e. CCR, the Beatles with "Hey Jude" or "Don't let me down"... but also, and this suits my voice, "Respect" by Aretha Franklin or "Only You" by the Platters. In these clubs we also sang anti-war songs like "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down", often together with the so-called "Barefoot Queen" Khanh Ly. Such songs were of course strictly forbidden in the officers' clubs. 

Have you ever been afraid that a bomb might go off in the club, as has happened from time to time, including at a performance by the band CBC? 

I was constantly very afraid, but I learned to live with it and to integrate the fear into the performance process. Our concerts were also frequently interrupted by Viet Cong shelling of American camps near Saigon. That was the signal for all of us to flee to the bunker. As soon as the sirens signaled the end of the attack, we continued playing. 

Your mother was Vietnamese, your father was a black Frenchman from Madagascar. Were you an outsider because of the color of your skin?

Of course, I was an outsider. Shortly after birth, my mother

and grew up with my grandmother in very poor conditions. I

attended a French school, and here too I was excluded,

teased and humiliated. Only as a singer could I breathe a sigh of relief and found in Saigon

as “Black Pearl -Ngoc Den” acceptance. In Vietnam at that time, I was unusual and exotic.

After 1975, like so many other South Vietnamese musicians, you had to flee the country. How did your escape go? Were you able to take personal items such as records with you?

After the Vietcong took Saigon, all my books,

Records and cassettes destroyed. The Vietcong were there without compromise. My music was banned. I couldn't save anything. I tried to escape several times, but I didn't succeed. Thanks to the help of President Giscard D'Estaing, I was finally able to leave - first to Marseille, then to Paris, where I was able to work as a singer again. I have French citizenship. At that time, many dark-skinned people were flown out because it was assumed - rightly - that the father was a French or American soldier.

After a few detours you ended up in Germany. How did that happen?

I lived in Paris for a long time, but also in Africa and the USA. The presence of the Americans in Kaiserslautern, or more precisely in Ramstein, was a reason for me to come to Germany. Kaiserslautern is the most American city in Europe - that was also a decisive factor. Germany is now my home base. I have lived and worked here as a singer for 32 years. I met my husband here, got married here and

Having children. I have redesigned my life here. Nevertheless, I feel

I was also drawn to Paris, as well as to the USA, for example Orange County, where many

South Vietnamese live.

In the Palatinate you performed in front of GIs again. Did that bring back memories of your time in Saigon?

No, no memories came to mind. Soldiers who are at war are

cannot be compared with the forces stationed in Germany. This is very

civilized and peaceful. Soldiers in war are killing machines, and so they behave

Life is not worth much there. Women's lives even less. There is no respect. 

You are still working as a musician and have released albums of chansons. What projects are you currently working on?

I have my own chanson series called "Nuit de la Chanson", which has been running successfully for 6 years. I also support my fellow countrymen in Germany, France, the USA and Canada with music at their events. I also travel a lot around the world. I am currently working on a new CD - "Tears&Smiles" - which is being produced by Wolfgang Dahlheimer from the Heavytones. It is due to be released in the summer. I have also written a book about my life called "Black Pearl, Ngoc Den". There is also a screenplay that is still looking for a producer...

Do you still listen to and sing the old hits from the Vietnam War era?

Yes, I still have some songs in my repertoire. When I sing them I will

still sentimental and thoughtful.

When was the last time you were in Vietnam? Has the country changed for the better?

The last time I was in Vietnam was in 2000 – the country was more beautiful than before,

louder than before, but the old Saigon was gone.