The Car Ride Home
April 29th, 2019. My school term has ended, but I have two weeks before my internship starts in another city, and my dad is driving my back home to hang out for a while in the meantime. As is tradition for I suspect possibly a lot of CBCs like me, the best of Teresa Teng, a 70s Taiwanese superstar, is being blasted at full volume inside the car.
âI think I first heard these songs when I was the age that your brother is now,â he tells me, for the first time. Henry is finishing up 10th grade right now. Heâs gone nocturnal in recent years and is just beginning to think about summer jobs and what university he wants to go to. âIt was the first time Iâve heard music that wasnât communist propaganda. I immediately fell in love with her.â
I mull this around in my head, integrating this tidbit into the rest of what I know about his childhood.
Falling in someone without seeing their face, but because of their voice and because of what they were singing sounds. Sounds romantic, sounds pure, sounds like something that isnât possible now.
âSo did every boy I knew who listened to any of her songs,â he continued. Heâs in a chatty mood, which I always enjoy. âI would always feel a little guilty listening to her though, because I was committing a crime. Her songs were banned on the mainland; it was illegal to enjoy something so bourgeoisie.â
Itâs sad to think about, what it would be like to live in a society where romantic love was considered decadent and sinful. To me, Teresa wasnât really singing about anything that was like, Rich Kids of Instagram worthy. She was singing about the soft, tender feelings that emerge when you do something like waiting for a boy to return to you. Is my distinction of the two just a sign that Iâve lived too long in the Decadent West?
After a few more songs where I ponder this, I resume the conversation. âDad, if her songs were illegal, how did you get a hold of them in the first place?â
I admit, I was kind of imagining a literal black market, a nightly enterprise operating from the hours of midnight to 3am, with sketchy vendors in darkened stalls hawking their ill-gotten wares under the moonlight. Even as I generated the image I felt a little silly, and yet-
âI recorded it from a friend,â he told me. I deflated a little bit, but he didnât notice. âMy parents bought me a cassette player for ninety bucks, because English classes began in middle school. We used this tape called â900 English phrasesâ to practice diction.â
He goes on, already knowing what question I was going to ask next. âNinety bucks would be what your granddad and grandma makes in a month, combined. But there werenât a lot of expenses then, either. The apartment we lived in was collectively owned, so rent was five dollars a month.â
I try to think of how much that is in terms that are useful to me, but then realized that that would get depressing real fast and stopped.
âSo I would go buy some blank cassettes, and go to a friend who already had some songs, and get them to play it, and record it onto my own tapes to take home.â
âHow was, uh, how was the quality?â
âHa! Utter crap. The chain of recording could have been 20 people deep for all I know. The genuine tapes were rare; youâd need to be a fairly high up bureaucrat to get it across the border.â
I listen to the crystal clear recording that we have on with a newfound appreciation. âWhen did you finally hear it the way that it was meant to sound?â
âBy the time I got to university, there were vendors selling tapes that were advertised as being recorded from an original recording, but the quality was still kind of bad. I donât think I listened to a genuine recording until after I started working. I would have been older than you are now.â
I try to imagine what it would be like to hear something with crystal clarity for the first time, after 10 years of waiting. The album ends, and loops back to the first song. We drove on, appreciating the music.