China's Little Punk Rock Club That Could
charles saliba
The WSJ has written about the closure of our little club...
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204301404577170323678131402.html?hat_input=
OPINION ASIA JANUARY 19, 2012, 10: 04 A.M. ET
China's Little Punk Rock Club That Could
Bidding farewell to the club at the frantic
heart of the country's nascent alternative
music scene.
Asia Edition Home
Article
By RON GLUCKMAN
Beijing
On stage, big hair bounced wildly as bass, guitar
and drums pumped out hot rock beats. Up
front, heads banged, kids pogoed shirtless and
much alcohol was consumed. The music was
loud and frantic. It was just like any other night
at D- 22, Beijing's seminal punk nightclub.
Except it was the last.
"We don't give a f—!" shouted Tsogt, lead singer
of Mongolian band Mohanik, at the final show
last Friday night. It was a fitting mantra for the
amazing club that was, from the moment it
burst upon the alternate scene in 2006, a
supernova of musical energy and post- teenage
angst.
D- 22 wouldn't have seemed especially cutting
edge in San Francisco or Berlin, which isn't
surprising since so little in China at the time was.
Still, night after beer-soaked night, musicians
and fans packed inside to savor a kaleidoscope
of sound. It could make you wince, or hurt your
ears, but in the People's Republic of Pop
Conformity, D-22 was anything but more of the
same.
Modeled on seminal New York punk hot spot
CBGB, the club emerged at the perfect time, says
Jonathan Campbell, former Beijing- based writer
and musician, and author of "Red Rock: The
Long, Strange March of Chinese Rock & Roll." "It
was pre-Olympics , when everything was really
going into extra-super -high gear, and there was
a general vibe of exciting times," he says,
praising owner Michael Pettis and his partners
for bringing international attention to Chinese
music and musicians.
Everything about the hole-in- the-wall club in
Wudaokou, on the northern edge of the city,
was a delightful contradiction. A poster tacked
to the front door advertised: "Welcome to Hell
City." Inside, it was anything goes. Whether
China tightened the screws on Internet
censorship or jailed dissidents didn't matter
here. Every night was raucous, crazy, amp-
screeching and experimental sound.
From day one, D- 22 was outrageous by design.
It was the brainchild of Mr. Pettis, who ran the
SIN (Safety in Numbers) club in New York City
before launching a career as an investment
banker. A widely quoted economist on China
monetary matters and occasional contributor to
this op- ed page, Mr. Pettis came to Beijing in
2002 to teach finance at Peking University. His
passionate involvement in the local music scene
—he also invested in music label Maybe Mars—
could hardly be described as curriculum-
suitable, since neither turned a profit nor were
ever expected to.
Instead, returns accumulated in ways that
former colleagues at Bear Stearns might
struggle to understand. "Some of my friends
have Ferraris," Mr. Pettis explains. "Well, this is
my Ferrari."
Even so, he had no qualms about shutting the
doors— it was time. "When we started D- 22, the
music scene was totally different in Beijing. It
was a big city, but there really wasn't a music
scene. The purpose of D-22 was to put the
focus on local musicians and give them a place
to play and interact."
That was a nightly occurrence at D- 22, where
sessions included such favorites as Zoomin', a
weekly experimental music showcase. The entire
pantheon of modern Chinese rock has passed
across the stage, from stalwarts like Carsick Cars
to proto-punk outfit Residence A. Actually, the
big party was on Jan. 10, announced as the
closing date. But Mohanik, a group of 23- year-
old Mongolians making their first tour of China,
inadvertently planned to come after D- 22's
shutdown. Rather than jilt the lads, another
finale was added for Jan. 13. It was that kind of
place.
"D- 22 was at the epicenter of the alternative
music scene in China," notes Matthew
Niederhauser, an American photographer who
documented the scene in his book "Sound
Kapital: Beijing's Music Underground." A large
portion of the photographs were shot at the
club.
"It was simply an amazing venue, one of the
best places for live shows that I've ever been in.
I saw hundreds of kids get on stage. Anyone
and everyone could play there. That's what is
really amazing, to allow all those musicians to
get on stage and take that creative leap," he
says.
Perhaps the quirkiest act of D- 22 was closing at
its peak of popularity. That will only add to its
legend. Initial reports blamed notorious rents,
which double overnight in Beijing's hyper-
heated property market, but Mr. Pettis
maintains it was the plan all along. He wanted
to highlight local talent at D- 22. Now, he says, it
is on to the next step, focusing on recording and
promoting the Maybe Mars stable and other
Chinese acts at home and overseas.
Local music fans await D- 22's successor, a new
club that "will focus more on experimental
bands, on the avant-garde ," as Mr. Pettis puts it.
It should open within a few months, he
confirms, with space for band rehearsal and
recording. And it will be closer to the center of
town, joining venues like Yugong Yishan and
Mao Livehouse.
One knock on D- 22 was its distance, a long cab
ride to the outskirts of Beijing. But that made
the shows all the more rewarding for the hard
core. "The closing is still sad," reflects Mr.
Niederhauser. "D- 22 was an important
launching pad for so many bands, but as they
say, it's better to burn out than fade away. "
Mr. Gluckman is a writer living in Beijing.
--sent from my android phone.