Voices on the New Diasporas - an MIT student journal

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Monkey Hear Monkey Do by Ellen Liang, Class of 2006

I

I remember my first concert. I was a junior in high school then.

The air was a smoky mixture of the stale smell of cigarettes and thesweet smell of marijuana. I sat in the balcony between my friends.The three of us passed around a set of binoculars, taking turnsactually seeing the concert. My friend on the left was singing along;she knew all the words. My friend on the right was equally mesmerizedby the music surrounding us. I felt as if we were in the middle ofthe music, but it came from a band so far away that we could barelymake out the peculiar motion of the lead singer: Dave Matthews.

I had been listening to Dave Matthews Band for not more than threemonths by then, and I had heard only their latest album. My friendhad always listened to Dave, but it was only recently, when shestarted driving and I started taking advantage of her newfoundmobility, that I began to notice her music selection. The new DaveMatthews Band album was the only CD she played in her car for months.This was my first insight in years into what people were listeningto. I took this cue and bought the album myself.

Unfortunately, I did not realize that Dave would not play mainly newsongs, but would fill the concert with old songs. I later found outthere were many albums preceding the one I owned and that they werevery popular. I had missed out on a wealth of information. I feltlike a child just learning to read. I was new to the world of musicjust as a child is once new to the world of books. I had no memory ofmy parents listening to American oldies. No one in the house everplayed Beatles. Instead I grew up on the crooning of Teresa Teng. Myparents never gave me a head start into the world of American popularmusic, so later I could never catch up with my friends in what theylistened.

II

I bought my first CD in middle school. My parents and I were atTarget when I decided it was high time I owned a CD. I chose aBackstreet Boys one; it seemed to be what everyone was listening to.I asked my parents if I could buy it, but in the same instant triedto slip it in unnoticed among their purchases. It seemed like arebellious act to me, buying a CD. Later, I listened to it with myDiscman, finding comfort in the privacy that headphones allowed me. Inever shared my slow and awkward introduction to American popularmusic with my parents. I never thought they would understand orapplaud it.

III

My roommate and I sit at our separate desks on separate sides of theroom we share. Each of us is connected to our own laptops byheadphones that stream music from different worlds. We use headphonesout of courtesy, but I am always curious and want to catchscraps—leftovers—of the sounds from her side of the room.Sometimes when she goes to the bathroom I can hear faint beatsleaking from her headphones, the electric guitar and drum setdrifting toward my side of the room. I always secretly liked thefaint melodies I heard from her headphones better than those I heardfrom mine. Not having my own favorite music— a musicalidentity—however, was like not having an identity at all. Inever wanted to give away my lack of personality, so I always stayedon my side of the room and on the outside of this new world of music.

Through the months, though, my roommate has introduced me to a randomassortment of the music she listens to. Every few months, we decideto go to a show, some band my roommate streams from her laptop. Shesends me the music and my education begins. By the night of the show,sometimes I even know the words to these new songs.

The venues were always hazy with smoke. On one occasion, we crowdedto the front, standing directly under the lead guitarist of ReadYellow. When I looked down, I saw the distinctive black canvas andwhite rubber of the Converse All Stars—the emo shoes. Allaround me people moved as if the music was running through them. Ilooked up to the band and was drawn in by their melodic screams. Icould become like any of the fans there at the show, but I was neverlike them. I knew the words to this band’s songs, but I did notknow any of the other bands that these same people liked. I had notentered my roommate’s world of music; I had merely lookedthrough a window.

IV

“What is your favorite band?”

“Barenaked Ladies.”

To my roommate, this had been a bonding ritual. I think she feltcloser to me, as if she knew me better, now that she knew my answerto this question that I have been forced to answer too many timesalready in my life. The truth was, I had one friend who liked DaveMatthews Band and one friend who liked Barenaked Ladies. Afterlistening to both, I decided that my favorite band was BarenakedLadies.

V

Being away from home makes you miss all the things you thought youhated about life at home. You always hear that, but you never believeit until that first winter break when you come home for the firsttime. The first thing I wanted to eat was chicken, made with gingerand rice wine, with all the bones there for you to work around, andcooked whole. I had enough my fill of turkey sandwiches, pizza, andtuna salad.

Later that day we were driving to the store when a crashingorchestra, nothing like the lyrical Mandarin of my childhood, filledthe car. The new music turned out to be a CD of the soundtrack fromPirates of the Caribbean. It was not until then that I beganto miss the Chinese oldies my parents always played. I had heard themso much from childhood that they had become gone, the elevator musicof my childhood. Now though, I yearned for the lyrical Mandarin. Ihad always been so busy trying to make up for the lack of Beatles inmy childhood that I never stopped and paid attention to the oldies ofmy parents’ youth. I now recognize this music as something thatis slipping away from me. In college, there is no one to sneakChinese music into the background.

VI

Chinese popular music blasts from hidden speakers. Brightly coloredCD covers line the walls. My cousin leads me around the CD store.Every few steps he deposits a CD into my arms. The pile in my arms isgrowing steadily; I will have to choose among these to make my pilemore affordable. The only clue my cousin gives to help me choose isthe commentary he spouts as he hands the CDs to me: “This isreally good,” and “Oh, but I like this one too.” Icannot even read the words on the CD covers. I do not know theartists’ names, the album titles, or the songs. This shoppingtrip will be as frustrating as it will be productive. When I turn toask my cousin to read the CD cases for me, he seems impatient. Iquickly glance at the CD cover designs as I make my decision, weedingout half my cousin’s selection. We make our purchases and leavethe store. Two days later, I leave the country, carrying this newselection of music across the ocean with me. The farther away inspace and time I get from that CD store, the more I seem to losetouch with the Mandarin lyrics I have been trying so desperately tohold on to.

Once in a while I hear about a new Chinese artist or group that Ihave never heard before, but I already feel very removed from that CDstore in Taiwan. I cannot just go to the CD store and buy the album.I cannot turn to a friend and borrow a CD. I cannot even always findthe music on the file-sharing programs I have come to depend upon.

VII

My side of the dorm room now is decorated with a lone Nada Surfposter; Nada Surf is my new favorite band, chosen as haphazardly asBarenaked Ladies. I go to Read Yellow shows now pretty faithfully. Ilisten to Postal Service in my room. I can be caught playing Damonefrom time to time. I just went to the Pretty Girls Make Graves showat the Middle East, my second time seeing them. I am really excitedabout going to see Death Cab for Cutie, which I heard about beforeit was mentioned on The O.C., one of the most populartelevision shows of the year. As much as I want to be a part of thisworld, though, I am not. If anyone tries to strike up a conversationabout Death Cab with me, I cannot say more than, “I am going tosee them on April 10th,” and “I like them.”I still do not know 80 percent of the bands my roommate listens to.When we go to shows and the band covers a song from another morefamous band, I have no idea I am listening to a well-known song. WhenI pick music to listen to in my room, I have an unexplainabletendency to move my mouse over the file titled “Chinese.”I have many CDs stored away in my room (including that firstBackstreet Boys CD), but the CDs that are neatly stacked on my desk,the ones I do not bother putting away, are my Chinese CDs.

I am more like my parents than I once thought. I will be a source ofconfusion for my children as they attempt to define their musicalinclinations. When the other soccer moms are listening to Radiohead,I will be playing Cai Yi Ling. My parents did give me that jump startinto music that I always thought I had lacked. Like them, I will wantmy children to develop the Chinese musical interest my parents jumpstarted in me.