“Great, another clichéd Western interpretation of the Chinese music tradition!” I think to myself as I draw the record for this week’s review: Vangelis’ 1979 album China. “Now I’ll have to sit through 40 minutes of pentatonic scales, gongs, bamboo flutes and strings.” And yes, that is part of what China offers. But there is one little adjustment I should make to that first sentence: The attribute ‘clichéd’ should be redacted.
Reading up on the recording background, the novelty and experimentalism of this record most certainly must be acknowledged. 1979 is a time where Asia definitely was at the forefront of the Western news, but not at the forefront of Western pop culture or more specifically, music. It is therefore a surprise and a smart choice for Vangelis to use traditional Chinese music as an inspiration only, and not as a blueprint. Playing with the sounds rather than copying them saves the record from becoming a gimmick, a joke or at worst, a prime example of cultural appropriation. Although the sounds are anything but daring for today’s cosmopolitan audiences, considering the unfamiliarity of Vangelis’ himself and his contemporary audience with the source material, they certainly used to be.
The album’s first song Chung Kuo does not present one of the most interesting opening bars to an album I’ve ever heard. Quite the opposite, the clashing synthesisers and percussion remind me of Pink Floyd’s Welcome to the Machine, released four years prior. What saves the track is the transition to the repetitive synthesiser theme in the background, masterfully matched with a simple keyboard melody. It’s a smart choice on Vangelis’ part to keep the song’s basis rather minimalistic, allowing the electronic melody to shine in all its simplicity and really set the tone for the entire album. Overall, it is a simple and satisfying start.
The Long March is an interesting transition piece, introducing a comparatively Western sound with its neo-classical piano ballad mood, however in comparison to the third track, The Dragon, it completely fades into the background. This masterpiece is easily the best song on the entire album. Not only does it assert a clear thematic and sonic connection to the record’s Chinese inspiration, it is also able to translate its traditional imagery into a modern and interesting sound explosion. The track has a movement, a strength and an urgency to it – very much in tune with the titular mystic creature. When listening to it, I see smoke rising from a vast landscape, floating in the air like a veil. The ascending scales of the synthesisers in the background, the booming yet subtle strokes of the gong, the percussive nature of the keys – there is nothing boring about this track. Its sound is somehow ancient despite its obviously electronic sources. Tradition and innovation blend together in a truly one-of-a-kind sonic experience.
Moving away from the bombastic nature of The Dragon, the fifth track The Tao of Love feels almost too sweet, too innocent, too traditional. Its lullaby-like nature misses the point and is more drowsy than soothing. More sleepy than sincere. Especially in combination with the following track, The Little Fete, which is equally simple and meditative in character, it becomes too much. Tao of Love’s sickly-sweet resolution is its ultimate downfall, dragging the idea of meditation and transition beyond its breaking point. The Little Fete however succeeds in its mission to create a moment of peace and quiet. Featuring the only moments of spoken word on the record, it creates an interesting turn away from the overwhelming synthesisers of previous tracks (only to allow those to return in Yin & Yang) and allows the listener to focus on the meditative nature of its Chinese inspiration.
Overall, the B side of the album – beginning with Yin & Yang – is much weaker than the A side. The album’s longest track, Himalaya, reintroduces the sonic width of The Dragon, yet is not able to live up to the movement and tension created in the previous tracks. It is a good song. There is no doubt in that. But the material employed to create the vastness and greatness of the Himalayan mountains is not new. Every sonic trick used has already been played on the album before, undermining the novelty of this 10-minute expedition into the heights of Asia. Its imagery works and to its contemporary audience, this track might have been the pinnacle of synthesiser magic – but to nowadays’ ears, it’s nice, yet underwhelming.
Taking inspiration from other cultures’ musical traditions is a tricky thing to do well. It means walking a fine line between tradition and innovation. It means finding your own sound while at the same time highlighting a century old practice. To put it bluntly: it means taking a huge risk. Vangelis’ risk taking has paid off. Not only in the short run, by creating a novel sound at the end of the 1970s, but in the long run as well by showcasing a sincere and inspired interest in other cultures, making China a truly cosmopolitan record ahead of its time.
Want to explore more non-Western inspired music? Give Karunesh – Nirvana Café a try!
The Dad Anthology 