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Posted by
yum yum saint hamilton June 19, 2010 -
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No one asked for it, no one wanted it, but here it is anyway. Adventures in Beijing punk rock. Twisted tales, savage nights, leather, studs and bad tattoos. Punk rock madness in the back streets of Beijing.
Cat meat, the Chinese new year, and liters of light beer.
It's a strange moment indeed when one finds Burzum on a chinese kids ipod (almost certainly a copy of an ipod, mind you), sandwiched between Britney Spears and some canto pop. Ah yes, Norwegian satanic metal, how far is your reach? Fairly damn far if it reaches a kid sitting in a Beijing cafe who can show it to me at 2 am in the morning. We are both a bit drunk, but I think this kid is a little drunker than me. He and his three friends have a alarmingly large collection of empty bottles under their table, and it is growing. It is a sign of face to the these kids to show how much beer they can drink. According to the amount of beer, they are doing a good job. It is only light beer at a level of 3 percent but the sheer volume that these kids have drunk surely accounts for the low alcohol content. One beer, one litre.
All three have near identical Beatle haircuts which are basically bob bowl cuts with a straight fringe, tight jeans, converse. They look like the Ramones. It is Chinese new year this week; the 11th of february 2010, the year of the tiger, so help us all. And the city is empty. Or emptying. the train stations are full of enormous hair cuts, dangerously flammable perms and hair dye, high heels, pristine nike basketball boots; kids on their way home to the rural country side looking as badass big city as their budgets allow. It is a strange turnaround. As an outsider, to me these kids look like the shit; strange glamorous fairies and cartoonish pop figurines. To the locals I am told, they are the quintessential farmers. The eternal migrant working force; the floating people as the locals refer to them. And its not an endearing term. The locals are harsh and incredibly judgmental; one might even dabble with the term racist to describe their views on the rural inhabitants, but that might be taking it a step too far. Or not. To be called a farmer in this city, is as nasty an insult as you can throw at someone. Expect reprisals if you lay that on a drinking buddy late at night. I certainly wouldn’t call my three Indy friends farmers. They would be insulted no end.
They are 100% urban Beijingers. Indeed, it is part of a sweeping orientalism that had formed part of my preconceived notions of what I though China would be like. “Watch out for the cat industry”, my mother told me before i left. “The eat a lot of cat down there so look out for it in your food while you are there.” “Cat?”, I responded. “Jesus”. “yes”, says my mother. “I read it somewhere recently”. I find myself looking into my bowl of noodle soup (not particularly seriously) waiting for a cat paw to come floating to the surface. Of course it doesn’t happen. If I asked these kids about cat meat, I suspect they’d think I was insane.
They are remarkably frank in their opinions and outspoken to a degree which I find, frankly, disquieting. “What do you think of China?”, one of them asks me. This kid is my favorite. He looks like johnny Ramone. “I like China.” I reply. And I genuinely do, but I am aware of the political implications of the question and I am equally aware that my opinions aren’t worth a spent piss in this place for the reason that it is simply not my place to pass judgement. I don’t know enough. For now, “I like China”, is as far as I am willing to go. These kids have no problems or hesitations in expressing their opinions. “China needs more freedom”, this kids states; outright, dead serious. “We need change”. His friends nod in agreement. Now, it has to be noted, I didn’t instigate this conversation and I am a little alarmed by the direction it has taken. What do you say to something like that without sounding like a dick? Best stay silent and listen. Nice kids. They give me a Chinese name which stokes me out.
