Quãng 8 - Saigoneer

Mèow Lạc on Growing up in Hanoi Rock City and Giving Voice to Cats

2025-05-09T10:00:00+07:00

Having just finished recording their new album, Mèow Lạc is temporarily taking time apart to focus on individual development so that, when they regroup, fresh ideas can come through.

Mèow Lạc consists of four members: keyboardist Hoàng Phương, Tô Ra on drums, Nguyên Lê the frontman, and Nguyên Vũ on bass. They revealed to Saigoneer that Mèow Lạc is currently a passion project, and to support this passion project, all of the members are working various side-jobs. While Tô Ra teaches drums and Nguyên Vũ teaches bass, Nguyên Lê works his magic behind the scenes at Hanoi Rock City as a sound technician.

“Mèow Lạc” translates to “Lost Cat.” When asked how that came to be, Nguyên Lê and the band's manager, Hoàng, who have stuck with the band the longest, both laughed as they reminisced about how it took two months for them to finalize something. They share: “Mèow just means cat, everyone here likes cats. But Lạc can be broken into three meanings.” The first definition is being lost: “I feel like our music often gets lost from one universe to another in the same song, or even the same verse,” Nguyên Lê explains.

The second meaning came from the Sino-Vietnamese word “lạc quan,” which means happy. This perfectly encapsulates the band's musical personality: playful and optimistic.

Lastly, “lạc” also means peanut. Though it isn't necessarily deep, this one feels like their personal favorite. “‘Peanut’ works very well when we want to design a poster or a logo. We can just draw a cat hugging a peanut and that will make Mèow Lạc. It’s a terrible pun, but it works!” they assure.

Music of boundless creativity

Mèow Lạc’s music is youthful, fun, and disruptive. Never committing to a solidly defined genre, they envision an endless creative boundary. “The coolest thing about our music is that it is a mixture of so many genres and influences. While I am heavily influenced by Twenty One Pilots, Nguyên Vũ gears towards funk and fusion; Tô Ra plays all kinds of genres because she has a very strong foundation in music. Lastly, Hoàng Phương fan-boys Jisoo from Blackpink!” Nguyên Lê cheekily shares. In their latest single, 'Hikikomori,' bits of jazz, alternative, and funk were effortlessly combined to portray a buoyant life in quarantine. The lyrics read: “Life is great when you get to be yourself, not having to worry about anybody judging. Life is great when you get to be alone, away from all the drama and flattery.”

Left to right: Tô Ra, Nguyên Vũ, Nguyên Lê, Hoàng Phương

Switching scenes, Mèow Lạc experiments with heavy electronica in ‘Nhất quỷ, nhì ma, thứ ba lũ quạ,’ a whimsical satire on school life. On the other hand, the romantic, keyboard-heavy track ‘Mưa bóng mây’ tells the story of a guy being head over heels about a girl. “Our main musical elements are creativity and explosivity. All of our individual influences can be seen in Mèow Lạc's music. Sometimes it may feel like chaos because every instrument seems to be on a different track. But they somehow come together to form the colors of Mèow Lạc. Only these four kids with these four brains can create something like that,” Nguyên Vũ adds.

In storytelling, there are three standard points of view: first-, second-, and third-person. When Nguyên Lê writes music for Mèow Lạc, he always imagines himself in the perspective of a cat. If one looks at the lyrics to each of their songs, every story that Mèow Lạc tells, every adventure that their character embarks on, fits perfectly with the experience of a lost cat. The cat sees “lũ quạ” (the crows), “mưa bóng mây” (the summer rain), and two people dancing under the living room lights. It is both personal and objective at the same time. “I borrow the eyes of a cat to tell objective stories,” says Nguyên Lê.

A nest at the rock city

Every band has a “headquarters” — a place where they practice, bond, and find their creative energy. For Mèow Lạc, that is Hanoi Rock City (HRC). Võ Đức Anh, aka chú Đa, the founder of this art & performing space, in particular, has been an important mentor for the band since day one. “If we were asked how the band became what it is today, we would proudly say we grew up at HRC. We have performed on that stage more than anywhere else. We practiced there, ate there, slept there and our album was also recorded in that room. We will forever be in debt to HRC and chú Đa because, without them, there wouldn't be Mèow Lạc,” they share.

“When I first started singing at HRC in 2018, chú Đa gave me a piece of advice that has stuck with me ever since. He told me that my singing seems superficial and that I lacked conviction in my lyrics. He said that when I sing, I have to really sing as I mean it, and really sing instead of just performing. There is no such thing as ‘fake it til you make it’ here. The audience can really tell when a performer is not putting their soul into the performance or expressing all of their feelings,” Nguyên Lê adds, “after receiving that advice, I realized that if this was my dream, I need to put 100% of myself into this; and to really sing every note with conviction.”

Beyond the stage, but the four friends always have each other's back in real life, too. To them, finding one another and forming a band was easy, but being able to stick with each other and develop chemistry is the real luck of fate. They began as simply as any other band, making calls, inviting each other to jam sessions, getting iced tea after practices, and giving each other relationship advice. “We all have a common trait: our short temper. So when one of us gets mad, the other three will have to comfort that person. Thus, we take turns being mad,” they laugh.

Telling stories with music

On why they make music, the band opens up: “We write music to say things that are difficult to say. You know the feeling when you have a lot to express but you somehow cannot put it into concise sentences? We chose to express it through music instead. Our music speaks what our words can't. Being able to tell these stories on stage is an indescribable experience; we can't explain how that kind of adrenaline can be so addictive.”

When I asked what makes Mèow Lạc stand out at a time when there are so many up-and-coming bands, their answer came as a surprise: “We are just nerds who sit at home making music, then performing what we have created for an audience. We are just simply taking it easy that way, and that is also how we view music. I find it cool because the things we create can’t be found in other bands, but we never think of ourselves in the midst of other people, but rather view ourselves as an individual band that does things they love. Just as simple as that. To really analyze what makes us stand out from other bands is so difficult. The musical world is too wide. Hence, we never liked this question because every time we answer it in the most textbook manner, it leaves us feeling unsettled. A thousand bands can claim that they are unique, but in actuality, they don’t know what it’s like to look at their work objectively. So we are here simply trying to make good music in our own way.”

Next up for Mèow Lạc is the release of their first album, the name of which will soon be revealed. The theme for it is urban spaces and cities viewed through the eyes of a cat, relatable yet quite refreshing. A stray cat will see people strolling on the streets of a summer day, people pondering under the light of their apartment; it will witness a robbery, etc. The musical elements will also be a mixture of what they consider urban cultural influences: pop, jazz, hip hop, rock, and electro.

In the end, Mèow Lạc summarizes their motto as “creating youthful music; music that young people can enjoy, music for young people to dance to, music that puts a smile on your face.” They cannot wait to get back on the stage, to feel the exhilarating energy as the audience chants their name. But most importantly, “simply to have fun with what we do.”

This article was originally published in 2022.

Music Is My Release: Behind the Anger That Fuels the Fiercely Indie Group COCC

2025-03-08T15:00:00+07:00

“I don’t make happy songs,” says Phúc, the lead singer and guitarist of Saigonese rock group COCC. He and I are sitting in the middle of the band’s “cave” — a homemade recording studio they began putting together ten years ago. “I dreamed about it for a long time,” Phúc says of the studio. “In 2015, when I finished this house, the vision came true. We invest in it all the time, buy a little bit here, buy a little bit there. We’re still adding and improving the system and the equipment.”

It’s quiet and cool in the cave, which is actually the basement of Phúc’s house. Dark blue curtains drape the walls. Acoustic panels are affixed to the ceiling. Instruments and equipment abound, but the general effect is one of order and tidiness. The other two band members — Quốc, the bassist, and Cường, the drummer — are here as well, tinkering with the drum kit. Above us, on the building’s ground floor, is the darkened office of Phúc’s private architecture business; his staff has gone home for the weekend. Beyond that is Phúc’s home. Everything he needs is here, in one place. And yet contained within this single unit are two disparate, clashing worlds — or perhaps two disparate, clashing Phúcs is the better way to put it. More on that presently.

COCC's home studio set-up. Photo by Michael Howard.

I first became aware of COCC a couple of years ago. I was rather late to the party: COCC have been a fixture of Saigon’s indie — or “underground,” if you like — music scene since releasing their debut record, “6 Giờ,” in 2011. It’s easy to see why. The band is indie in the original sense of the term, meaning their ideas, compositions, and production are all their own. The music is hard and raw, with an aggressive edge not commonly seen in Vietnamese music; yet it is distinctly Vietnamese. By design, it defies neat classification.

“OK, I’m Vietnamese, and I cannot copy other music,” he says. “So I combine influences. And I think that is the path for anyone to make their creative work. I don’t want to limit the language and the tones of Vietnamese [when I sing]. More and more, I find a way to combine everything together.”

“When I was young I listened to the music my father listened to,” Phúc recalls. “When I grew up I explored more. But at that time in Vietnam, in the 1980s and 1990s, people listened to Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses. We missed a lot of things. We missed post-punk, like Depeche Mode and the Cure. We missed bands like Tool, Nine Inch Nails, Rage Against the Machine. I had no idea. We had no internet. But I kept exploring. I listened to classical, blues, jazz.”

All of which had a hand in guiding COCC’s aesthetic vision. So too did traditional genres of Vietnamese music; Phúc mentions cải lương and dân ca specifically.

Loài người bị điên | Insane Humans. Video via COCC's YouTube page.

“When I write music, I think, ‘OK, I’m Vietnamese, and I cannot copy other music,’” he says. “So I combine influences. And I think that is the path for anyone to make their creative work. I don’t want to limit the language and the tones of Vietnamese [when I sing]. More and more, I find a way to combine everything together.”

Phúc wears his hair cropped tight to his head, in a style that recalls a military crew cut, and he articulates his thoughts in a mild, soft-spoken tone, albeit with a few F-bombs tossed in. To look at him and hear him speak, one could be excused for thinking Phúc incapable of the “dark, angry” (his words) attitude that defines COCC’s image. He sings, and often screams, his lyrics into the microphone with a sort of desperate abandon, as though literally needing to get something off his chest. There’s a pugnacity in his on-stage manner that suggests deep inner reserves of disaffection, resentment, rebellion.

COCC - Live show at Le Cafe des Stagiaires, Jan 2025. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

Which brings me back to the point about the disparate worlds, the clashing Phúcs. How to reconcile Phúc the clean-cut, bespectacled architect with the feral and ferocious man behind COCC’s music? After all, they inhabit the same mind. Or do they? Phúc is happy to acknowledge the discrepancy. For him, it’s a simple matter of self-awareness, of recognizing — and, indeed, embracing — his own duality. We all have it. It’s the one Robert Louis Stevenson wrote about. “In my career as an architect,” he tells me, “I have to make other people happy and satisfied. In that world I have to kiss the client’s ass and say, ‘Please pay me.’ But the dark side of me fucking hates it. I need something to release that feeling. In my music I have freedom.”

And he returns shortly to a recurring theme: anger. “Let’s be honest when we do things,” he declares. “Today I’m angry about this, so I write about it; I don’t care if people like it or not. It satisfies me, and it satisfies the band. The most important thing is the freedom and the spirit. When you lose them, there’s no more art. Maybe our songs are not happy songs, but they’re honest. Many artists are afraid to be honest. When I listen to what is called Vietnamese rock, most of them make me think, ‘What is this about?’ There’s no spirit, no emotion. That does not give me a release.”

COCC - Live show at Le Cafe des Stagiaires , Jan 2025. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

It doesn’t occur to me to ask whether it’s fair to say that, in his case, anger functions as a sort of muse (I have this thought later, after we say goodbye), but I do inquire as to its origin. Where does the anger come from? Is it provoked by his observations, or has it always just been a part of him? Phúc considers this, and is slow to respond, eventually pointing to some of the lyrical content from “6 Giờ.” “On our first album, I sang about daily life, everyday things: traffic jams, conflicts with my family, seeing children on the street without parents. But I don’t have the solution. I just express my feeling about it.”

2024 live show at Soma. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

Intent on drawing him out a bit further, I remind him of a moment from a recent COCC show at Le Café des Stagiaires in District 2. At one point, about halfway through their set, Phúc addressed the audience in English. He regretted, he said, that the foreigners in the crowd were unable to understand what he was singing about. So he summed up the meaning of the next song, titled ‘Chất Ăn Mòn’ (“Corrosion”): “Life is full of traps and full of holes. There are many people who want to manipulate you. They want to pull you down into their dirt. They give you poison but they promote it as food. And it slowly destroys you. They want to make you an empty person. And one day there’s no more fight, no more motivation.”

From that metaphor we get a broader and deeper sense of where Phúc and COCC are coming from. Inherent in the music is an ethos of defiance, a fierce opposition to falling in line with a social order that has no use for individuality — that is in fact hostile to it and seeks to stamp it out. It’s a universal problem, and, for Phúc, resisting the pressure to capitulate is what the creative process is all about.

In my career as an architect, I have to make other people happy and satisfied. In that world I have to kiss the client’s ass and say, ‘Please pay me.’ But the dark side of me fucking hates it. I need something to release that feeling. In my music I have freedom.

“When someone does something different, when someone goes beyond the crowd and the lies, there’s some invisible force that manipulates the crowd to attack the person who wants to be different,” he says. “If you raise your voice, if you do something different — trói [you’re tied, bound, lassoed]. I want to tell people, ‘You have to do something your own way. Don’t belong to the fucking crowd. Don’t let them pull you down into their shit.’”

Since their debut in 2011, there have been ebbs and flows in COCC’s output. Periods of quiet led some fans to think that maybe they’d packed it in. Not at all. On the contrary, the band — who regard themselves as a family, and their music as a hobby — tell me they have been practicing together at least once a week for almost twenty years. That streak isn’t likely to be broken anytime soon.

The band hanging out together off the stage on New Year's Eve, 2024 Photo via COCC's Instagram page.

COCC are, in fact, busier than ever. They have concrete plans for the year ahead: releasing a new album, to be precise, in a physical format. It’s to be a concept album about a Vietnamese allegory involving a drought and a heroic toad that leads an army of animals to fight the gods. Here I suppose I ought to shed some light on the band’s name (pronounced c-o-c-c). It has, according to Phúc, a double source of inspiration. One is this fairy tale about the toad; the other is the expression con ông cháu cha — a reference to being born into privilege and power.

But it’s the allegoric toad that has inspired COCC’s current project, which is ambitious in scope.

“The album we are doing now is a concept album about the toad,” Phúc says. “We’re thinking about doing something like a rock opera. Like Tommy by the Who. So there’s a concept and there’s a story line, and we’re thinking about using more instruments, traditional instruments. The idea has been in my head for a long time, and now is the time to do it. We’re looking forward to completing the physical format. We have to do it.”

Recent show flyer featuring the all-important toad. Artwork by KiCu KiCu

Vinyl? CD? He’s not sure yet, but he’s hoping vinyl. As for upcoming gigs, Phúc tells me that they’ve had to turn some invitations down as they prioritize their work on the album.

“We like to bring a new thing to the audience,” he explains. “So the right procedure is to release something new in a physical format, and then we’ll do a tour from the south to the north. We haven’t thought about marketing yet. We have just told our fans, ‘We will do something in 2025.’”

I’m tempted to ask whether, in COCC’s interpretation of the tale, the toad lives happily ever after. But I can take a guess.

Ly Mí Cường Takes the Sounds of Sáo H'Mông From Hà Giang to International Stages

2025-02-10T10:00:00+07:00

Born in 2005, Ly Mí Cường has brought sáo Mèo to international music competitions twice in his life — and he managed to take home the first prize both times. Cường’s anchor is always H’Mông culture, the wellspring that has nurtured his soul ever since he first took up the flute of his people, sáo H’Mông.

Lũng Phìn Commune, where Cường was born and grew up, is lodged amid the Đồng Văn Karst Plateau Geopark in Hà Giang Province. Here, in the middle of the mountains, market sessions are held once every six days, peach blossoms cover the hills with pink blotches, and summer maize fields stretch to the end of the horizon. I arrived in Lũng Phìn just after the maize harvest season finished, leaving behind withered stalks in between grey karst chunks.

Ly Mí Cường’s hometown is Lũng Phìn, Hà Giang.

The route from the Lũng Phìn People’s Committee to Cường’s childhood home spans about 4 kilometers. From afar, the tiny path appears like a thread dangling around fluffy clouds on mountain shoulders. The bouncy motorbike ride across the sharp turns here didn’t stop Cường from relaying tales of his upbringing. “Whenever I’m home, I help my grandma and parents with chores. I pluck corn when it’s corn season, I pick and dry tea when it’s tea season,” he intoned. Then, he pointed at little dots on mountains: “You see, H’Mông houses are often perched deep in the ranges. We have a saying: no peak is taller than the knees of the H’Mông people. This wisdom originated from the nomadic patterns and early settlements of H’Mông ancestors.”

Cường sometimes peruses photos of his hometown decades ago, marveling at its rammed earth abodes, yin-yang roof tiles, and stone fences. On festive occasions, young H’Mông men play some khèn and flute tunes during courtship rituals. “I like to imagine that had I been born earlier, I would have lived in that ambiance and been able to see those cultural practices in their most original forms,” his voice suddenly got pensive as he reminisced about a past never lived.

Cường’s family trade is making Lũng Phìn Shan Snow tea. Pictured: Cường (right) and his grandma (left).

Traversing a quaint cement street, Cường’s house materialized amid the thickness of bamboo. Golden ears of corn dangled from the eaves. In the afternoon, patches of sunlight pierced the tree canopy, painting long strokes of yellow on the walls. This was where Cường’s childhood dreams were nourished. Amongst those, he once dreamed of being a police officer when he turned 22, something Ly Mí Pó — his father, a civil servant — has been grooming him for. Still, the experiences of his formative years have planted within him a different wish for a future filled with the mellifluous sounds of flute and khèn.

The 15-year-old H'Mông kid who moved to Hanoi for music

When Cường was 15, he went down to Hanoi to attend his first-ever music lessons. As a little boy, he used to tag alongside his father to meet Hà Giang’s veteran sáo Mèo musicians. Sáo Mèo is a traditional wind instrument of the H’Mông people, created from bamboo segments. One day, Cường got his own flute just for fun, but over time, the bond between the H’Mông boy and this flute grew stronger and stronger. He loved accompanying Ly Mí Kịa, a flute maker in Sủng Trái Commune, on his trips to seek bamboo to make sáo Mèo. During his own free time, Cường bought his own set of tools to make flutes.

The third lunar month of 2018 was time for the annual Khâu Vai Romance Market. Kịa suggested that Cường go along with him to play the flute at the market. It was raining torrentially, rendering the path from Lũng Phìn to Khâu Vai into a muddy hell. Four days later, Cường met his father with an unprecedented sense of pride: “I did it, I made the flute, I sold it for one million. This is my first income!” It wasn’t much, but for Cường, that was extremely motivational, as it helped him realize that playing the flute is a decent way to make a living.

Khèn is a revered instrument of the H’Mông people.

It was also the first time he felt the special feeling of standing in a crowd as they observed him with curiosity. “I pretended that it was my stage. Suddenly, subconsciously, it sparked a fire in me as I dreamed of one day being on a big stage,” he distinctly remembered that moment. He spent VND500,000 from his profit to get himself a new flute. “It’s just a piece of bamboo, why is it so expensive?” — That was the random thought of a 12-year-old boy, and it pushed Cường to make more money to get his hands on better-quality flutes.

As time went by, his passion for folk instruments burned brighter. One night, under the warmth of the family lamp, his father asked: “Do you want to move to Hanoi to study?” Cường hadn’t before envisioned what life would be away from home. A silence bloomed in between the conversation.

I really adore sáo H’Mông. Playing it, every day I feel like I’m living life and not just existing.

His father continued: “I’ve given it some thoughts, not everybody needs to become an official. You should follow what your heart wants, as every field contributes to our society in its own way, none is better or worse. If you decide to pursue it, I think you need to study professional music theory to go far. The bamboo flute major at the Vietnam National Academy of Music is quite close to your passion.”

Nonetheless, his father was still unsure of his path: “Enrolling in anything else, you’ll only need four years to get a degree. If you choose flutes, it will take six years to graduate, not to mention you’ll have to juggle both the general curriculum and the arts coursework, you need to think it over.”

Cường replied: “I really adore sáo H’Mông. Playing it every day I feel like I’m living life and not just existing. I don’t think I can do it if I have to study anything else but music.”

Cường's father, albeit plagued with numerous concerns over how the family would finance his son’s artistic studies, didn’t hesitate: “Only through education can you improve your life. If you really want to study music, I’m ready to invest in you. You need to sketch out your own life. We’re only here to lay the first bricks.”

Ly Mí Pó, Ly Mí Cường’s dad, is always supportive of his son’s pursuit, even though he steered Cường towards a life in the government.

Those words were all Cường needed to cement his determination. After having the heart-to-heart with his dad, the 15-year-old moved to Hanoi to start preparing for the university entrance exam. “All these years, my world was wrapped up in the meandering roads that I walked to my school on the side of the mountain. I went to the village school, I didn’t go to the township, I could never picture what studying in Hanoi would be like,” he explained.

Cường boarded a night bus heading towards the capital, carrying with him hopes and imaginations about life in the big city. After some shuteye, before him stood an entirely foreign universe, chock-full of the clamor of traffic that shocked and overwhelmed him. He missed his home, his grandma, his parents, the maize fields, rows of sa mộc trees, and the sound of the wind, jungle birds, and of the gaggle of kids frolicking in front yards.

The road from the village to the capital for education was, in reality, very challenging. Though he was aiming for the bamboo flute program, Cường’s experience playing it was nearly zero, so he spent 15 days getting used to it and practicing 24/7. The effort paid off because Cường finally received the acceptance letter.

Cường nurtures a dream to spread his love for traditional instruments to young H’Mông at his hometown.

While still catching up with the new pace of life, Cường also encountered academic hurdles. Being exposed to music theory much later than his peers, Cường felt that he was lagging behind. “Looking at the music sheets, I couldn’t read the notes. Using them to write songs was even tougher. My progress was always slow,” he laughed. As the curriculum got deeper, the lessons got more complicated and compound, from music theory to breath and rhythm control, so Cường was daunted.

Luckily, alongside Cường was a patient mentor who was always ready to say: “Whichever part you don’t get, you can see me after class, you can learn faster if I can correct you right away instead of you figuring it out on your own.” He was Ngọc Anh, a veteran ethnic instrument player and instructor. “Don’t you worry. You just need to practice more and interact [with it] more and you will get better.”

Juggling both the general curriculum and the music program, Cường had to spend twice the time on coursework, including on weekends and holidays. Despite the shaky start, the music knowledge gained in class and the support of his mentor helped Cường become more well-versed in his craft. This was the foundation before he could bring his sáo Mèo and khèn onto public stages.

Sticking to the roots while growing branches

No matter where he was performing, Cường always showed up in his traditional attire. Cường explained: “If I want to go far, I need to be sure of who I am and where I come from.”

Ly Mí Cường is always proud to play khèn and sáo no matter how big or small the stage is.

As Cường shared, when H’Mông people feel sad, they tend to seek the company of folk music. The flute is thus the ideal instrument to express those feelings, showing an appreciation for nature, mankind, and life. It’s often said that the sound of H’Mông flutes has distinct personalities. Meanwhile, khèn is treated as a spiritual instrument, encompassing the soul of H’Mông communities.

“The space heavily affects the emotions of art practitioners. Before, I played sáo and khèn right in the heart of the mountains. In university, I started to bring them with me to the streets and under the limelight. The change in environment brought about different moods in me, but no matter where I am, whenever I hear those traditional melodies, I can’t help but sense that thread linking my presence to my past. I picture the length of time, the vastness of space, and the immensity of the artistic legacy that my H’Mông forebearers created. It makes me proud,” Cường beamed.

H’Mông musicians play the flute to express emotions.

That pride nudged Cường to seek out ways to promote his people’s instruments to more people. That was why Cường signed up for numerous music competitions both in and out of Vietnam. After clinching the top prize at a music talent contest in Saigon in 2022, Cường pressed forward with his quest to introduce his flute to the international arena. These ambitious dreams proved difficult financially, especially to Cường’s family. During a competition in Singapore, when he managed to pass the first round, he asked his dad if he should continue, who replied: “Just let us know how much you need, if I can handle that amount, of course you should continue. I always support you. I already stockpiled 200–300 kilos of tea leaves [to sell] for you.”

Ly Mí Cường dedicated his first prize at a competition in China to his mother.

When he sat on a plane for the first time to fly to Singapore, he started crying when he thought of his family. “My first overseas competition passed by like a dream. When I got through the first round, I wondered to myself: ‘Am I really overseas?’ Holding the first prize trophy in my hands, I couldn’t believe it,” he recounted. The first thing he did after winning was calling his dad and yelling “I got first prize!” in the explosion of joy from both sides of the screen.

Most recently, Cường once again was the winner in the ethnic instrument category at a competition based in China. “I really feel grateful for small victories, I don’t see first prizes as excuses to be boastful. I still need lots to learn,” he explained. Cường definitely feels lucky and blessed to have experienced and learned so much from his social connections. His performance was a rendition of Ngọc Trung’s ‘Tiếng rừng,’ and Cường was happy because, besides being able to handle the song’s complicated techniques, he was the first person to bring sáo H’Mông to the competition, piquing the curiosity of friends abroad.

Cường is proud and grateful for the cultural heritage of H’Mông ancestors.

Besides just a little touch of luck, Cường believes that his most unwavering source of strength is the richness of H’Mông culture. “Loving our country or our culture is something a bit too abstract. I simply just love things belonging to our community, our people, each homestead, each tune of our khèn and sáo. So I want to profess that love in my works. I admire the determination of H’Mông people to survive in harsh conditions and I’m proud of the wealth of our ancestors’ heritage. My music will always tell those stories and evoke those influences,” Cường said.

That spirit was exactly what flows through Cường’s latest composition, ‘Núi Đêm’ (Night Mountains), which was crafted on a misty late night in Tà Xùa (Yên Bái). Inspired by a H’Mông folk song in Đồng Văn, the song is a sáo H’Mông instrumental track featuring modern arrangements. With a heart-wrenching tune that’s at times melancholic, at times stormy, and even jubilant, ‘Núi Đêm’ is how Cường expresses his gratitude for his people’s resilience.

“The mountain range is majestic over hundreds of thousands of years, and the H’Mông will continue to survive, as stable as a mountain,” he explained the song’s message. Via ‘Núi Đêm,’ he chronicles the tale of migration, settlement, labor production, and cultural practice of his community. “With this composition, I allowed myself to freely overcome the hurdles of professional music theory,” he divulged.

Renewing traditional music to flow with the contemporary

Pursuing traditional music means always facing hardships. Indigenous cultures must overcome pushback from contemporary trends. One must wonder if musicians like Cường would lose their roots once they get exposed to mainstream music education. Cường, however, is not worried, but even eager to use his professional education as a platform to elevate the traditional arts he’s currently pursuing. “I think traditional music is inherently limitless. It’s in my breaths, my flesh, so it can’t be taken away. I don’t want music to be confined to pre-established standards,” he opined.

That mindset helps Cường write music as freely and creatively as possible, diving headfirst into novel mediums without any qualms. Playing the khèn in the major concert Show của Đen was one such experiment. Upon accepting the invitation from Long Nguyễn, the show’s music director, Cường was concerned as such a distinctively ethnic instrument like khèn hadn’t been featured before in rap performances.

All those worries vanished immediately after that 30-second solo Cường did on the show to a rapturous response by thousands of spectators. “It wasn’t a full minute on stage with my H’Mông khèn in the tracks ‘một triệu like’ and ‘Đi Theo Bóng Mặt Trời,’ but I was going crazy from joy. That was the first time I ever stood on a big stage with an influential artist like Đen Vâu in front of the audience,” Cường gushed. This marked the key point when he decided to put more effort into his art.

Ly Mí Cường on stage with rapper Đen Vâu in 2024.

Vietnamese culture is a river that flows through the current landscape, always shifting and shaping past obstacles, albeit being influenced by many factors. “My generation of young people were born into a time when local culture is not practiced often enough and is constantly diluted by foreign cultures. The work to preserve and continue those practices needs the stable mind of youth. That’s my main concern,” he told me.

Thus, according to Cường, crafting new media based on the foundation of traditional heritage is a way to push local culture closer to contemporary audiences. He believes that the arts are a very personal voice, so artists need the freedom to try out new things, but to achieve that, artists employing ethnic elements must engage in responsible research and approach such materials with respect, in order to create in a reasonable way, avoiding the misappropriation trap.

Apart from promoting H’Mông culture, Cường also wishes to spread his pride and confidence in being a young H’Mông. “Before, I carried with me shame in being part of an ethnic minority. When I arrived in Hanoi, I met Hoàng Anh, the founder of Lên Ngàn. I was really inspired by his adoration of traditional culture. At the same time, when I learn more about my roots, about H’Mông culture, and discover more cultures, I no longer feel ashamed because a sense of pride has grown multiplefold. Vietnam is so diverse, and each ethnicity has its own cultural elegance. I’m even more proud to be H’Mông in an ethnically diverse nation,” he shared.

Cường believes artists need freedom to create, but they also need to do their research and respect local cultures.

At this moment, Cường doesn’t see the preservation of cultural heritage as a passion anymore, but a life purpose: “Life naturally pushes me forward, like it’s telling me ‘do this thing’ so I, with all my love and youth, reply: ‘Of course, I’ll follow.’” Organizing activities related to H’Mông culture, like performances, talks, and workshops, makes him feel alive, seeing the efforts of young H’Mông to protect and nurture the ancestral legacy.

Apart from his work with the H’Mông Culture community, created by and for H’Mông students, in Hanoi, Cường recently developed the “Nốt Si” program (Musical Note B) to motivate and inspire H’Mông children in Hà Giang to appreciate traditional music. In the near future, he’s planning to invite musicians to teach sáo and khèn to kids in Lũng Phìn, his hometown. “The best way to preserve culture is to practice it,” he said.

The Phenomenal Phonk of Budding Rapper Ci Pi's Fever Dream

2024-12-27T14:00:00+07:00

Everybody in my university program seems to know Bùi Ngọc Cẩm Phương, though in the music world, she's more popularly known as Ci Pi, a stage name that combines her name’s 2 initials. Be it because of her music or her noticeable Japanese fashion styles, even on campus, Ci Pi’s presence is “vivid” and easy to spot. However, it wasn’t until I knew her personally through a group project that I caught a glimpse of her true self. Despite the edgy appearance with quirky hairstyles and aesthetics, Ci Pi is quiet and calm, and always seems to be immersed in her own world.

Experiencing her discography as a whole, you will find two distinct styles and vibes: raging voice atop a pulsating phonk instrumental and raw vocals over a minimalistic beat. The similarity is that, in both, Ci Pi’s emotions — anger, frustration, or wistful thoughts — are all laid bare, direct and candid. Music to Ci Pi is simultaneously an escape from and expression of her chaotic thoughts: “Because my mind is not very orderly, I struggle with many things. However, with music, I feel like it gives me a certain vibe — sometimes I do this, and at other times I do that. But there is still a distinct ‘color,’ a distinct combination.”

From playground to spotlight

I was flabbergasted to hear Ci Pi, now a sophomore, describe the starting point of her journey with rapping in seventh grade as “recent.” Still, it made sense as she began making music in “lớp chồi” (preschool grade for children of 4 or 5 years of age); at the time, little Ci Pi often hummed melodies with self-written lyrics for her family and even had a poem published in Nhi Đồng magazine in third grade. Then, after experimenting just for fun, Ci Pi started listening to rap and playing with this genre in seventh grade. Her first rap verse, she recalled, was “really silly”: it was a diss track aimed at two classmates who were dating. As childish as this sounds, this was a starting point from which she continued to “create and create.”

Ci Pi’s first encounter with fame was during tenth grade, through a collaboration with a team she found through posting on her school’s confession page, looking for friends to make music with. “My team joined a competition to create a music video. The competition allowed us to use any music for the MV, but since I was ambitious, I decided to make my own music for it,” she recalled. Being a Saigon native, Ci Pi infused the Saigoneer spirit into the lyrics on an EDM beat she found online, accompanied by the MV showcasing signature activities and landmarks in the city. Even as an amateur, Ci Pi’s work already hinted at her future style: self-made music, self-made visuals, and Saigon vibes delivered even through non-traditional genres.

But the breakthrough was the team’s ‘Christmas Cypher 2021’; Ci Pi posted her part on TikTok and attracted a lot of attention. The full song, penned by Ci Pi, offers a humorous twist on Christmas. Instead of traditional activities like attending church and family gatherings, it captures the rebellious spirit of Vietnamese youth celebration, with alcohol, gossip, and convenience store snacks. This marked the “official” start of Ci Pi’s rap journey.

Kaleidoscopic music that reflects the inner chaos

Ci Pi went viral thanks to a “bouncy” (her own word) track that took TikTok by storm: ‘t sốt dmm’ (i’m m*therf*cking sick). This song belongs to phonk, a genre that incorporates dark, warped techniques including chopped and screwed instrumentals. Apart from being one of the rare phonk tracks that reached a wide Vietnamese audience, this song caught the attention thanks to Ci Pi’s mock-childish tone and lyrics warning others about her sickness and anger. The additional use of screamo — an emo genre featuring screaming aggressively about feelings and emotions — confronts listeners right on. Adding the typical menacing energy of phonk, we have Ci Pi’s trademark: “When you listen, the word ‘vivid’ pops up in your mind. It's like, ‘Hello everyone, it's me, I'm here!’ — it's loud.”

However, Ci Pi’s discography doesn’t include only noisy, bouncy, and aggressive music. Writing music, for her, is a way to navigate and express her inner disordered world. There are times when she feels the need to “scream” them all out and release all chaos through the screamo genre: “Basically, it’s all about shouting, and my mind is boisterous; it’s not quiet at all. So I think screaming is a logical way to express that. It helps me release all the noise in my head.” More or less, to her, this style is the musical version of a rage room — instead of punching the emotions out on the walls, Ci Pi screams them out in her music.

But there are also times when her mind is quieter, filled with personal feelings and thoughts. These translate into a more “indie” style, utilizing minimalistic lo-fi quality beats, as seen in either her guitar-driven tracks or rustic demos with unpolished mixing. These are not fully fleshed-out creations, just covers, sometimes with altered lyrics that are raw like her emotions. Take ‘nếu có yêu tôi’ as an example: no heavily mixed instrumental; no bass that feels like a throbbing headache; no extravagant scenes of Ci Pi being in the middle of a landfill; just a simple background of her bedroom, raw vocal, and a guitar backing track. She sings about the confusion of falling in love — the whirlwind pace, uncertainty, and vulnerability — in a way that seems polarizing different from the noisy and chaotic phonk screamo tracks.

Describing the duality in style, Ci Pi stated: “The ones that are ‘noisy’ and ‘childish’ are the most lively, but other than that, I still lean indie. I’m not sure what adjectives to use, but I imagine it as a blend of brown, purple, and black. Brown feels very genuine, indie, and rustic; purple is childish; and black adds a chaotic, dark aspect that merges with purple.” This kaleidoscope of “colors” is emblematic of Ci Pi’s music-making philosophy: genre and style aside, the meaning, what the lyrics convey, is truly what matters the most.

A multi-faceted artist

Balancing an artist's life and the studying load of a student is hard; at the moment, Ci Pi is focusing on completing her university program. Even amidst the academic stress, it is impossible for her to give up on arts completely: “It’s not like I’m too stressed to create, because it’s not what stresses me out — it’s what helps me release stress.” Ci Pi takes this temporary hiatus as an opportunity to step away from the spotlight, like doing work-related performances or making music for the audience, to focus on what she wants to do. Regardless of whether it's music or not, it's still art.

Thinking about the future, Ci Pi envisions a life far away from the busyness and hustle of cities: “I’ll work remotely, traveling around instead of staying in one place. I’ll go up into the mountains and stay there. My jobs will involve writing, like writing songs for artists. My goal is to write — I want to write even more than I want to make music.” Dreaming about laying low, Ci Pi admits that she might not be able to step into the mainstream scene, but being rich has never been her life goal anyway. Ci Pi jokingly shares how she doesn’t want to be part of the industry anymore, but instead, to make a living, she could make pottery, open a café, do something artistic, and work on some projects. “I just want to get by day by day. I don’t want to be super rich. I just want to live simply in the mountains.”

Pursuing screamo and phonk — non-traditional genres that are not well-known in Vietnam’s musical landscape — is not an easy road to approach the mass audience. The virality of ‘t sốt dmm’ off is a funny outlier to her. Studying Communications in university, therefore, is a strategic choice: “I think I need to understand what people like and target a specific audience. In this way, even when I make music that caters to my audience, I won’t lose my essence.”

Photos courtesy of Ci Pi.

From Germany to 'King of Rap' Runner-up: How Tuimi Becomes a Hip-Hop Breakout Star

2024-12-06T10:00:00+07:00

Tuimi, a Vietnamese German singer and rapper, has become one of the most notable female voices in the local hip-hop scene and been making big waves since her return in 2019.

No.1 Seed

In 2020, Tuimi made an explosive debut on Vietnamese television when she took second place in the smash-hit show King of Rap, but her rise to stardom started much earlier in Western Europe. Tuimi, whose real name is Phạm Thuỳ Mi, was born to Vietnamese immigrant parents in 1994 Dresden, Germany. She was the first Vietnamese female artist to receive grants from the country’s annual art incubator program, and one of the few Vietnamese to have worked at Universal Music’s German headquarter.

Tuimi, one of many talented new artists leading the hip-hop scene in Vietnam.

In grade school, having an affection for R&B and hip-hop, she began developing an interest in doing music, which she pursued as she got older and moved to New York, eventually earning an internship at a prominent record label and becoming more involved in the underground music scene. By 2017, Tuimi’s time come when her single 'Purpose' took a top spot on Spotify charts just two weeks after its release.

Though she was born and raised abroad, Tuimi's parents made sure she had a great command of Vietnamese. At one point, Tuimi’s family even sent her to their hometown so that she could learn to read and write the language.

“In 2018, I returned to Vietnam after six years and saw a lot of changes in the country. Major streaming platforms like Spotify and Apple Music had sprouted up, and I thought it was the right time and a good opportunity to capitalize on. Vietnamese were also more thoughtful in choosing and consuming music, thus I decided to come back,” Tuimi says.

"Homebound"

Considering her early success in Germany, one would assume that Tuimi would develop her career there. But at the end of 2019, the young artist made a decisive return to Vietnam in hopes of bridging the Vietnamese art scene with the world.

Upon returning, a fresh face with practically no industry footprint, Tuimi found herself fortunate to have a promising start. “I knew and connected with a few Vietnamese artists before returning home, some of whom were prominent names like Suboi, Datmaniac or Kimmese. I actually even got to share a stage with Suboi way back in 2018.”

Tuimi and Datmaniac in the recording booth.

To test the water, Tuimi released 'Menina Misteriosa' — an sultry track that boasts R&B and melodic rap sounds, which helped her gain attention and solidified her arrival.

As of now, Tuimi's songs are still predominantly written in English because her Vietnamese needs further polishing. "But recently, I've been reading books of all kinds, from spiritual guides to fiction novels, to improve my vocabulary and word usage. I think I need to work harder on my Vietnamese lyrics," she says.

'Menina Misteriosa.'

Tuimi's first breakout act in Vietnam was when she became a runner-up on the first season of King of Rap, where she scored major points by delivering fiery and powerful stage performances week after week.

The rapper admits that she was hesitant to join the show, but signed up after being encouraged by friends and families, and ultimately gave the performances of her life. Ironically, the further she advanced in the competition, the easier she took it, as she realized that it was merely a playground for rappers, and there was nothing to “lose.”

“Every time I went on that stage, I performed as if it were my last,” she says. With that spirit, she presented to the audience a new side of her every broadcast, each more impressive and colorful than the last. In turn, her ability to own the stage and her Vietnamese lyrics reached new heights.

A visual from "softcore | hardshell," Tuimi's debut full-length album.

Thanks to her King of Rap momentum, Tuimi's musical releases, even those from before the show, received more interest from listeners.

Among them is her debut album "softcore | hardshell” — an experimental production composed in three languages — English, Vietnamese, and Portuguese. The album is a stellar blend of R&B, hip-hop, and melodic rap; and features local rappers such as Ricky Star, Gizmo, and Zuy, showing a growing Vietnamese influence in her creative process.

A successful album is something that you can listen to 50 years later and still be satisfied with its production.

Shedding light on releasing an album as a rookie, Tuimi compared her album making process to planting a tree. To have a tree, one must choose a plant, sow the seed, fertilize the soil, and watch for pests until the tree can bloom and bear fruit. Likewise, an album needs to be planned, composed and given the right songs, then produced, arranged, photographed, and edited to perfection so that it can be enjoyed by everyone. .

Tuimi confessed that she didn’t have very high expectations for "softcore | hardshell," and was pleasantly surprised when the "tree" she had planted was nourished by outpouring support from fans, friends and colleagues alike.

No. 2 Seed

After a successful debut album and a victory in the battle arena, the hip-hop vocalist has shown distinctive growth in her musical personality. This is also a leverage for her to plant the seed for her next studio album, which is expected to hit shelves in December of this year. According to Tuimi, her sophomore album would be a reprisal of R&B that’s sure to keep fans on the edge of their seats with up-tempo sensual melodies.

To kickstart her new album, Tuimi released the single ‘Sao Hoả’ (Mars) with feature artist 16 Typh — a sirenic track where she continues to conquer listeners with her sultry R&B vocals.

Music video of 'Sao Hỏa.'

When asked about the inspiration for the song, Tuimi laughs: "I was depressed about being on Earth, and I just wanted to fly to the moon or Mars, so I just wrote down what I felt. The beat had been made before that. After I finished writing the lyrics, I found the beat again and thought that it fit, so I went ahead and used it."

One of the things that Tuimi felt most satisfied about when producing this track was "the ability to write Vietnamese lyrics more fluently, sounding more native than ever before."

“'Sao Hoả’ was my least expensive music video ever. It didn’t cost me any money because I used free stock footage, and the female actress’s figure was similar to mine too," Tuimi reveals.

In less than two years since her debut in the Vietnamese hip-hop scene, Tuimi has been making strides thanks to her steadfast devotion to R&B, and her exquisite lyrical and melodic expression. We can't wait to see how her musical tree will continue to flower in the time to come.

[Photos courtesy of Tuimi]

This article was originally published in 2021.

Synths, Dreams, and French Culture: Inside Vietnamese Duo Coïncidence's 1st EP

2024-11-01T14:00:00+07:00

“When we finally finished the project, I was just like ‘Yay, we’re done!’ Then I went to sleep to go to work tomorrow. I guess life just goes by like that,” recalled Thông, a member of Coïncidence, regarding when he wrapped up production for the band’s debut EP “Không Ngủ Quên.”

Reconnecting during the pandemic

Hoàng Thông and Hữu Hảo have been friends since middle school. Photo by Trần Phúc.

The story of Coïncidence starts with the group’s two key members, Hoàng Thông and Hữu Hảo, who have been friends since middle school. They took French-language classes together and shared a mutual enthusiasm for French music. Back then, they even played acoustic music together. They lost touch while attending different high schools, but eventually reconnected six years later when they were both college students stuck at home during COVID-19 lockdown.

At that time, Thông played guitar in alternative rock band Cheffin’, while Hảo was a drummer for indie group KLAF. During the social distancing period, Thông spent a lot of time expanding his music-producing skills, branching out beyond rock. He eventually came up with a dreamy, electronic demo instrumental after playing with synthesizer plugins downloaded from the internet. In the process, Thông fortuitously came across a SoundCloud track that Hảo had made for fun.

Soon enough, Thông shot Hảo a text, and the two began talking again. Thông’s demo would eventually be turned into the pair’s first song together, ‘Không giống những đôi chân chạm mặt đất.’ Released in August 2021, it’s a dream-like, floating track featuring atmospheric, progressing synth pads sprinkled with bright arpeggios and minimalist drum sounds. Towards the second half of the record, resonant synth leads emerge to guide the composition into a grand and radiant electronic soundscape.

The group shared that the lyrics reflect the themes of “free-spiritedness, tranquility in thoughts, and in one’s way of living.” Hảo conceptualized them by drawing from his personal experiences and emotions while living in a pandemic.

The pair named themselves “Coïncidence,” the French word for “coincidence,” as it reflects their happenstance reunion and their shared interest in French music and culture from middle school. Furthermore, their current electronic, synth-driven sound is heavily inspired by French musicians, especially the Parisian nu-disco outfit L'Impératrice.

Image by Ngọc Tạ and Dương Trương.

After the lockdown was lifted, the two occasionally met up to work on new tunes. But a new challenge emerged: post-pandemic life required Hảo and Thông to juggle between chasing their musical passions and their personal career goals. Thông had to focus on completing his university degree, while also securing a job in sound design as it related to music production. Meanwhile, Hảo started a new life in Lille, France to pursue his master’s degree.

“Things were delayed for quite a while. There were times when we were too busy with life to focus on creating new music,” Thông said. Over the span of three years, from 2021 to 2023, the group managed to release a total of five singles. While it may seem like the two young artists are moving slowly on their musical journey, they remain committed to their path. In August 2024, Coïncidence dropped their first ever EP — “Không Ngủ Quên.”

Don't fall asleep when making an EP

“Không Ngủ Quên” consists of five tracks and serves as a refined collection of Coïncidence’s works over the years, with two brand new tunes added into the mix. Additionally, the older songs in the tracklist have been remastered to improve the mixes and make them more sonically cohesive with the EP’s overall sound. Meanwhile, the two new additions, ‘Không Ai’ and ‘Một Bài Nhạc Nhảy,’ offer the audience a glimpse into the type of sounds that the two are currently exploring.

The cover of their first EP “Không Ngủ Quên.”

In a way, the concise mini-album encapsulates Coïncidence’s musical identity. In nearly every song on the EP, at some point in the track, a monologue in French appears. This idea came from Hảo, who often samples voice recordings of himself, others, and audio segments that he finds interesting, to further enhance the themes of the song.

An example of this technique is in the 4^th track ‘Màu Đêm Xanh’ featuring June San and Bảo Vox. In the intro, the group uses an audio excerpt from the 1974 French film Un homme qui dort (The Man Who Sleeps); it's an inner monologue of the film’s protagonist, a young college student who feels isolated and indifferent to the world around him. This soundbite was used to highlight the song’s concept, which revolves around “a person who grows weary of the external factors affecting their ability to make a decision, but ultimately, they choose to embrace their personal choices.”

Coïncidence with their friend and frequent collaborator A Fishy Bit (right). Photo by Trần Phúc.

Cinema also influences Thông's approach to music production. Thông envisions crafting a song like making a film score, rather than sticking to the conventional verse-chorus structure. “I enjoy using varying tempos and dynamics to guide the listener, and then everything will build up to a climax,” Thông shared.

This film-scoring approach is evident across the EP, with every song seeming to have a “final act” where vocals and numerous instruments fuse to culminate in a grand, sonic peak. Meanwhile, a clear example of the group’s appreciation of playful structure is the EP’s lead single ‘Một Bài Nhạc Nhảy,’ a disco-inspired tune with mellow synths layered on top of funky guitar basslines, made simply for people to dance to.

‘Một Bài Nhạc Nhảy’ starts off fast-paced, setting the tone for its danceable nature. But as the first verse arrives, the tempo suddenly slows down, Hảo’s vocals start harmonizing on a soulful, rhythmic jam, letting the listeners warm up. The tempo picks up again for the chorus, signaling that it’s time to groove. Then the second verse arrives, featuring new synth leads and arpeggios; there are no vocals, just the synthesizers taking center stage. The vocals come in again in the final chorus alongside new sounds that are added to enrich the instrumental’s details and create an energetic and vibrant conclusion.

Photo by Trần Phúc.

The EP took about a year to come to fruition, with the band using their time off from work and college to rework old tracks and create new ones. They titled the project “Không Ngủ Quên” (Don’t Fall Asleep) because they used the phrase to remind themselves during the production process to “make sure to finish [this] part before going to sleep, don’t leave things unfinished.”

What's next for Coïncidence?

An EP wasn't the only new material that Coïncidence worked on during their year-long process. They are planning to release a live session video in late 2024, with Hảo and Thông performing tracks from “Không Ngủ Quên,” along with a new single that isn’t part of the EP's tracklist.

“In a live setting, the sound becomes thicker and richer, listening to it will be like a treat to the ears,” Thông said. The group will arrange the backing tracks to leave spaces for instruments like guitars, drums, or synthesizers to be performed live. Hảo typically manages the vocals and drums, while Thông will take care of the guitar and synth. Occasionally, some of their collaborators will join in as well. “When the instruments are played by real people, it brings a more human touch to the sound. I really like that,” Thông shared.

Coïncidence at a live show at Saigon's Yoko Cafe. Photos by @saxichuongduong.

The upcoming live session was recorded during Hảo's three-month visit to Vietnam, after which he returned to France. So these sessions also serve as a way for the band to document the special occasion when Coïncidence core members are not 10,000 kilometers apart.

“In a live setting, the sound becomes thicker and richer, listening to it will be like a treat to the ears. When the instruments are played by real people, it brings a more human touch to the sound. I really like that.”

So what's next after “Không Ngủ Quên?” Well, they’ll probably return to their daily lives, pursuing their passion for music whenever time permits. They’ll continue to collect stories and ideas while messing around with musical instruments and shaping the Coïncidence sound. No one knows what the future holds for them, but regardless of the outcome, their mindset is simple: “In the end, the best part of it all is those moments when we get to make our own music, and when all of you guys get to hear them.”

Aprxel Builds Her Ethereal R&B Dreamscape With 2000s Nostalgia

2024-09-04T15:00:00+07:00

“High school was when we all had lots of thoughts and reflections. And I felt like I didn’t fit in with the world around me at that time, so I turned to music as my companion,” Aprxel reflects on the period of time where her connection with music began to solidify, which ultimately set her on the path to become a music artist.

Vũ Hà Anh, who goes by the stage name Aprxel (pronounced as “April X-el”), is an experimental R&B artist hailing from Hanoi. She has been making music seriously for four years, but her bond with music started much earlier in her life. “Since I was a child, I’ve listened to a lot of music and often sang along. My mother enjoys singing too, and she has a beautiful voice. So perhaps my affinity for music was influenced by her,” she shares.

Finding kindred spirits in a small scene

Aprxel found interest in R&B and soul genres, and as her bond with music grew stronger during her high school years, she eventually took her first steps in music making by learning music production, recording techniques, etc. on the internet and started uploading her demos on SoundCloud and Instagram.

The EP art of “AM, PM”

Her official debut was in 2020 with a three-track EP called “AM, PM” created in collaboration with Lý Trang, an experimental musician-sound artist with whom Aprxel connected via social media. “The experimental scene back then was small, so it was easy to reach out to artists and share our passion for music. I couldn’t get enough of Lý Trang’s music because it was so distinctive, and she also liked my singing too. Everything clicked and after a while we had an idea of doing this mini-project,” she reminisces.

The creation of “AM, PM” embodied a bedroom musician style. Aprxel recorded using her headphone mic with GarageBand — a beginner-friendly music-making software that lacked the technical aspect to produce high-quality audio — downloaded on her phone. “I had to sit inside my wardrobe to get the best recording environment, and after each session, I always came out drenched in sweat,” she recalls.

The two worked on the project for over three months, Aprxel handled the vocals while Lý Trang focused on producing. The two didn’t even see each other face-to-face during this time, everything was conducted via the internet with demos sent back and forth. The result was an ambient R&B record featuring Aprxel’s soulful, moody vocals, with her hums layered into the atmospheric instrumentals, thus creating soundscapes that wove ambient swells with echoing human voices.

This EP plays an integral part in Aprxel’s musical journey. She named Lý Trang as her largest influence and a mentor, not only in music, but also in life. This project also introduced Aprxel to the underground, experimental artists scene in Hanoi, a community full of young, passionate music makers unafraid of pushing musical boundaries. This carved out the next chapter of her music career, where she joined the alternative hip-hop/sound collage ensemble Mona Evie Collective.

Growing as part of Mona Evie and first solo album

Mona Evie started out as a Tyler, The Creator fanboy group who met online through Facebook and RateYourMusic forums, with Long Trần (Pilgrim Raid), Thiện Vương, Hồng Phước Văn as three primary members. Aprxel later joined the roster along with Gia Đức (Jaduk), Nguyên Nguyễn (NguyendowsXP), with some rotating members such as Spencer Nam Nguyễn and Zach Sch of experimental outfit Rắn Cạp Đuôi, and Lưu Thanh Duy, the guitarist of shoegaze band Nam Thế Giới.

“Each member may have various musical influences that differ from each other, but we share a common passion in trying our hands at a variety of genres,” Aprxel says. Thus, this was an era where Aprxel expanded her range of musical styles.

Aprxel was part of Mona Evie from 2021.

On the group's first full-length album “Chó Ngồi Đáy Giếng,” released in 2022, the lead single ‘Lên Đồn’ showcases Aprxel’s silky vocal harmonizing on a fun, rhythmic hip-hop and R&B fusion beat. Still, in much more melancholic tracks like ‘Omen 300,’ we see Aprxel using music as an outlet for release as she delves into her personal trauma through her lyrics.

Aside from providing vocal performances, at times, Aprxel also contributed to the production. On the album’s grandiose 13-minute closing track ‘Bí và Ngô,’ you can hear her attempts at crafting unconventional instrumentals using the organ and electric guitar.

The album art of “Chó Ngồi Đáy Giếng”

About the group’s diverse style of music, Aprxel explains that “the motto of the group is being as creative as possible, we don’t want to be confined to any particular genre.” She would make music as part of Mona Evie starting from 2021, until she shifted her focus to her individual project in 2023, which was her first ever solo album “Tapetumlucidum<3.”

The title of the album, as confusing as it is, actually reflects the essence of the album. Aprxel came across this phrase while reading an Instagram post about animals and was intrigued by the word “Tape” and “lucid” inside the phrase, as “Tape” is a word used to refer to an album, while “lucid” is an adjective that describes her sound quite well.

Mona Evie on stage.

Furthermore, the phrase “Tapetum Lucidum” is a biological term referring to a tissue layer inside the eyes of certain animals that helps them absorb more light to see better in the dark. So she knew this was a fitting name for her first solo project, as the journey of making this album was a process of looking into herself.

“I have more space for self-expression, it feels more aligned with my identity, and it’s more personal than ever before,” Aprxel shares regarding the making of the album. Beginning production in mid-2022 and released in November 2023, “Tapetumlucidum<3” is the culmination of her 18-month introspective journey, encompassing themes of “nostalgia, memories, woman’s identity and love,” she says.

Sonically, the record blends Aprxel’s sultry, lush vocal performances and ethereal, distorted R&B production. The music video for the second track ‘va’ng9999’ captures the general sound pretty well; it’s like watching vintage, occasionally glitchy VHS tapes and reminiscing about the old days.

“I have more space for self-expression, it feels more aligned with my identity, and it’s more personal than ever before.”

The second half of the album is more experimental, as it reflects a statement in her musical style, her desire to push more boundaries and explore new directions — such as the incorporation of harsh noise and industrial elements in the eighth track, ‘terrorizers.’ The song features production by Lý Trang, and the inclusion of this song, to Aprxel, is “a subtle throwback to my early days of making music with her.”

The album art of “tapetumlucidum<3”

Aprxel delves into various themes throughout this record. In the opening track ‘<3,’ she touches on love and loss, while ‘planet hollywood’ explores the theme of a girl in a big city. The track ‘terrorizers’ tackles the topic of patriarchy, whereas ‘inanna’ radiates her bold diva energy. The album feels like a collage of snapshots, capturing candid moments and emotions from her memories.

“Looking back, this album is like the culmination of a girl who had been living in Hanoi for 23 years,” she says. “Hanoi, with its humid weather, square-shaped concrete, raised me throughout these years, and this album is a closure to a big chapter in my life, allowing for a new one to unfold.” This new chapter followed Aprxel’s decision to leave Hanoi and move to Saigon.

“Hanoi has been my home for more than twenty years, which is a really long time, so I want to venture to a new area. I feel like doing so will be better for my personal growth,” she explains. Throughout the process of making “Tapetumlucidum<3,” aside from going through an emotional journey, Aprxel was also grinding hard on her day job as a graphic designer to save money to relocate. Around three months after the album’s release, she packed her belongings to move to Saigon, beginning a new era in her life.

Settling in Saigon, meeting new friends, acquaintances, music personalities, etc. Aprxel is already focusing on making new music. She recently premiered the music video for her new single, ‘CUBA.’ Where we see her exploring the Saigon Zoo, motor biking along the Nhiêu Lộc Canal, enjoying sủi cảo on Hà Tôn Quyền street, all presented with a fun, somewhat oddball, low-budget vibe.

“Hanoi, with its humid weather, square-shaped concrete, raised me throughout these years, and this album is a closure to a big chapter in my life, allowing for a new one to unfold.”

But Aprxel’s comeback won’t be just a single, but she is dedicating her time to crafting a new mixtape or album, aiming for a late 2024 release. At this time, she doesn’t know how this upcoming work will turn out, but for whatever sounds, samples, and creative directions that she will take, Aprxel is continuing her journey of looking introspectively and finding her own sound.

“Living away from my family, having to take care of myself, in just a few months, I’ve already felt like I’ve grown a lot more. There are difficulties but there is also more freedom, and I like it this way. So I think my upcoming project will be more and more reflective of who I am and closer to my personal identity.”

Thành Đồng's Music Is a Breath of Fresh Air in the Era of Overproduction

2024-04-17T16:00:00+07:00

Inspired by life 's simple joys, Thành Đồng delivers a sense of familiarity, earnestness, and narrative richness with every song.

When a music video director writes music

I was first introduced to Thành Đồng’s music via a Facebook page and was immediately drawn to the striking visuals and melodies of his creations. Using very mundane imagery, he manages to breathe in a range of moods, from solitude to melancholy to hope, forging an intimate connection between what viewers see on screen and what they hear in their ears.

Upon further research, I learned about Thành Đồng’s past works as a music video director. During a decade in the industry, Đồng and his team produced several chart-topping hits, including some pop earworms that have amassed millions of replays like ‘Thu cuối,’ ‘Gửi anh xa nhớ,’ and ‘Bước qua mùa cô đơn.’

Before releasing his own music, Thành Đồng directed.

Before unveiling his own music, Thành Đồng “debuted” by lending his voice to the smash hit ‘Anh đếch cần gì nhiều ngoài em’ alongside Đen and Vũ. He also collaborated with folk singer Lê Cát Trọng Lý in ‘Chuyện chúng mình cùng.’ Even earlier than that, Thành Đồng shared that he was also active on SoundCloud, sharing a few songs that he wrote himself like ‘Tình yêu’ and ‘Mưa mùa hạ.’

No matter which role Đồng occupies in a project, he always tries to add his personal touch every step of the way. Đồng’s music videos are often characterized by realist sequences in neutral tones without much grandiose special effects. Music-wise, Đồng opts for acoustic guitar and everyday subject matters, telling the stories of his own inner world through very folksy melodies.

Storytelling and music writing

When asked about how he finds materials to find music, Đồng answers: “I write my songs just from everyday events that are familiar to everyone, things that have been in my mind since I was young. I remember them and write them into songs.” This wistful way of telling stories has always been part of Đồng’s craft right from very early works like ‘Tình yêu’ to his debut EP “Trong im ở lặng.”

In 2021, Thành Đồng published “Trong im ở lặng,” humbly categorizing it as “just a playlist” as he felt that it was created just for fun, not professional enough to be album or EP. In the music video for the title track, the featured subjects come from Đồng’s real-life connections, from the rotund black-spotted cat to Nhà của Thái, his production team’s studio.

“Narrative-driven” is an apt word to describe Thành Đồng's music.

“Trong im ở lặng” means “Within the solitude” in Vietnamese, and true to its name, the record is crafted from the quiet moments in its composer’s everyday life. He shared: “When I have a lot of free time, I always try to think of something to do to exercise my brain. That was how this playlist came about, and there might be more in the future.”

The single ‘Ngày thảnh thơi’ (A Languid Day) stands out the most because of how it was created. The song is a “homework” from a creative camp at the Carnation Art School House in Đà Lạt. At the time, the prompt was to write a song about the feeling of ennui and acceptance. Coincidentally, it started raining in Đà Lạt, reminding Thành Đồng of the days of his childhood: “I played in the rain quite often, showering in the giant basin of the sky. At the time, I liked floating atop the water, so the sentence ‘nằm bơi trong bể nước’ [lying in the water pond] came to my mind right away.” This eventually became the opening line of the song.

Closing your eyes, putting on your headphones, and immersing in the music of Thành Đồng, one will surely experience something quite different, as his rumination often strays from listeners’ expectations. With a focus on life's very mundane occurrences, Thành Đồng weaves in insightful narratives and moods. A drizzling day in Đà Lạt can connect him to the summer showers of his childhood, and a flooded street in Hội An can inspire a sense of freedom, like floating atop a water surface.

Đồng gets his inspiration from everyday life.

Thành Đồng often employs rhetorical questions in his lyrics, like “Hỏi đàn cá bơi đã qua bao cuộc đời [Ask a school of fish how many lives they’ve lived]” in ‘Ngày thảnh thơi’ and “Biết mai về sau, còn có căn nhà ta thương nhau? [How could we know if the house where we fell in love would remain?]” in ‘Con mèo béo.’ These unanswered questions form the emotional connection between the writer and listeners.

How music can grow along with life

Doing what's enjoyable is a priority in Thành Đồng's music journey.

It’s often said that doing something well is not as important as doing something consistently, though Thành Đồng does both. He enjoys singing and does it as often as possible — while working, when at a traffic light, and of course, in the shower. Ten years after publishing his first tunes on SoundCloud, Thành Đồng now has an official record out in the world. Still, Đồng doesn’t treat it like a big deal, knowing that music for him is “just a part of everyday life.”

The utmost priority for Thành Đồng is doing what he enjoys. “The most important rule that my team and I adhere to in our making of this playlist is experimenting with making music and having fun together,” he said. Creating music is a complete process that results in something special for both us and the production team. To Đồng, paying attention to the crew’s morale is crucial. The songs might not garner millions of views like those commissioned by major pop stars, but they value positive feedback from listeners much more than arbitrary numbers.

When asked when fans can expect to find new Thành Đồng songs, he didn’t have an answer. Nonetheless, no matter which hat Đồng might wear at any moment in the production process, he puts the actualization and enjoyment of the writer above all else: “I think the creator must go out and live a bit to produce excellent work.”

Something About Xe (Đạp): Olivier Flora's Knack for Fun, Flamboyant Remixes

2023-12-18T15:00:00+07:00

 The saxophone riff in ‘Careless Whispers’ is not only instantly recognizable due the popularity of the original song by George Michael but has since become an internet fixture — a classic meme.

Some of us might remember watching the viral video of Sergio Flores, the man behind the Sexy Sax Man persona, playing the saxophone shirtless in random public places, sporting a pony-tailed-mullet, aviator sunglasses, and a chevron-style mustache. This iconic riff is meant to be sexy, yet, it is kitsch and undeniably humorous at this point. So to hear the voice of Duy Mạnh following the riff, singing the lyrics of ‘Kiếp Đỏ Đen,’ a cautionary song on the dangers of gambling, is somewhat jarring. And just when we start to get used to this unanticipated match, George Michael’s voice echoes seamlessly, reminding us that “guilty feet have got no rhythm.”

From graphic design to ‘Something About Biển’

The man behind this remix is 28-year-old Nguyễn Văn Nhất, better known by his internet persona Olivier Flora. You can find other remixes on his SoundCloud page, where Vietnamese songs representing different genres, even from more niche ones like folk and bolero, are mixed with the likes of Daft Punk and Delegation. An experienced graphic designer, Nhất started to take his remixes more seriously after his track ‘Something About Biển’ (Something About Us x Biển Tình) started getting traction online. He saw a possibility to pursue something more aligned with his passion for music, as graphic design was just a means to make a living.

A university course in sound design for films introduced him to a sound-mixing software intended for subtitling films. He started experimenting. Combined with a newfound interest in funk and disco, genres introduced to him by the hip-hop community he danced with, his focus veered towards finding unconventional matches with his Vietnamese music library. Like many beginnings, his first remixes were rough as he didn’t have proper control of the software that wasn’t really intended for music production. It was an initially bumpy ride. After a couple of years of experimenting, polishing his skills and investing in better tools, gems such as ‘Careless Đỏ Đen’ (Careless Whispers x Kiếp Đỏ Đen) were birthed. This remix is my personal favorite, and also the track Nhất is most proud of. Not only is it one of his smoothest works, but also because both songs blend well together thematically. George Michaels and Duy Mạnh are both expressing regrets and bitterness while recounting their actions, but it is the parallel between the themes of love and gambling that makes the track that much more comedic.

Nhất refers to himself as a music player and maker when asked to describe himself. His creative process is not linear, it is instinctive and playful; he gets inspired by browsing music and tests out different instruments and beats to enrich his work. Self-described as “not a perfectionist,” though one could argue this stance, he knows a track is finished when he can no longer listen to it. The most critically under-appreciated (by his SoundCloud followers) project up to date is his track ‘Waiting For Baby,’ a remix of Vietnamese artist MONO’s ‘Waiting For You’ and the widely known city pop remix ‘BABYBABY’ by Tanuki, originally performed by Mariya Takeuchi. This remix of a remix is clunky and overloaded, something Nhất admits, but he will not take it down, as it is still a labour of love and a testament to his ongoing progress.

A new universe of mashups

Other notable work includes ‘Honey Ở Đừng Về,’ a mix of the quan họ folk song ‘Người Ơi Người Ở Đừng Về’ performed by Hồng Vân, and ‘Oh Honey’ by Delegation, the 70’s funk, disco band. This successful homage to quan họ is brave, considering that the genre distinguishes itself from any western genre via its very distinctive yearning, if not mournful, vocals.

The previously mentioned track ‘Something About Biển,’ a mix of ‘Something About Us’ by Daft Punk and ‘Biển Tình’ by Quang Lê, deserves its popularity. “That’s the song that people know me from, they still mention it, and it’s a luck thing, it felt like a starting point,” he shared. The track was posted four years ago, yet still receives comments as more and more people learn about Olivier Flora. Perhaps not as polished as his recent songs, ‘Something About Biển’ remains strikingly catchy. There’s a sense of comfort and joy in revisiting songs we all have heard in the past; nostalgia has always been an effective way to create emotional connections after all. Yet the newness and ingenuity of these remixes are most likely the main reason for why Nhất's work is so popular. Right now, Nhất is focusing on producing his own original music in collaboration with a partner and friend, Tú. They connected through Olivier Flora’s social media pages, as he too appreciates the remixes. Nhất assured me that he will continue to make remixes.

As for the name, Olivier Flora, perhaps some football fan might have already made the connection: “I’m an Arsenal fan, and I find Olivier Giroud to be a very handsome man,” Nhất laughs. “As for Flora, that’s just because I like hoa hoè hoa sói [a Vietnamese expression referring to the quality of being extravagance, flamboyance].” Considering his rather dramatic and fun body of work, it is an apt name for this music maker.

DJ Pia and Tumie, the Duo Blending Violin, EDM, and Vietnamese Culture

2023-12-14T15:22:41+07:00

A black and red “Slave 2 Rave” flag ruffles in the distance while an abundance of laser beams, bubble streams, fireworks, and confetti clouds filled the night’s sky at Ravolution Musical Festival last Sunday. RAVO X DIMENSION welcomed a premiere lineup for its 10^th Edition celebration consisting of international artists from around the US, Europe, and Asia, as well as local artists, including a musical duo from Vietnam.

When you think of iconic musical duos, they seem to go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Simon & Garfunkel. Hall & Oates. The Black Keys. The White Stripes. Outkast. Daft Punk. The list goes on. Rarely, however, does one encounter a collaboration between a progressive-house DJ and a classically trained violinist. What's even more rare is to discover they have the same birthday and even have the same name.

If you were lucky enough to find yourself jumping up and down shoulder to shoulder with fellow ravers inhabiting Vạn Phúc City last weekend, you would have discovered exactly what I just described taking the main stage — meet Pia & Tumie, the DJ and violinist duo taking local stages by storm.

An unlikely pair of musical kindred spirits

To say Pia and Tumie are so close they finish each other's sentences is an understatement. Listening to them talk in a cafe is synonymous with listening to them play on stage. They feed off each other's energy. Like rappers in a perpetual cipher, they stay forever freestyling together. However, before they met in a club in Đà Nẵng in 2018, before they first played together that same year, and before they became an official duo this May in Hà Nội, both of them have lived through their own unique journeys that brought them together.

"Very Vietnam" live set by Pia & Tumie.

Pia was born in Hạ Long and throughout her childhood, she was an exceptional student. By earning top scores, she got a scholarship for the South Asia Youth Leadership program, which allowed her to study abroad in the US at 16. A few years later, at 19, she decided she wanted to be a DJ. These days, after a decade of performing and gathering inspiration from the likes of other progressive house DJs such as Alesso, music has blossomed into a cornerstone of her life.

“Music is for everything. For feeling emotion. For feeling inside our soul,” Pia says. “What we're missing outside right now is everybody cares about if you're doing this, you're not gonna make money and it's killing our soul. So I want to prove to everyone that we work in the music industry and still make money.”

Image via Facebook page Pia & Tumie.

Nonetheless, she doesn't discredit the value of her education. In fact, she offers what I thought was sound advice for young kids also interested in pursuing music: “I want to tell every kid in Vietnam that learning is very important even if you live in the mountains or you live in the countryside or you live in the city; learning is the most important thing, especially for children. Then when you finish high school, you’ll have enough knowledge to decide what you want to do with your life. And also don’t forget to play. Just have fun and be a kid.”

Tumie, on the other hand, is from Hà Nội, and her music journey started when she was much younger. She's been practicing violin since she was six years old, initially starting at the Vietnam National Academy of Music. Roughly a year later, when she was seven years old, Tumie's former music teacher from Germany hand-built her very first violin after recognizing Tumie's natural talents early on. From that point on, she's dedicated the last 24 years to music, which included a master's degree in Music, two more years of advanced study at the Tchaikovsky Conservatory of Music in Moscow, appearing on Rap Việt Season 1, and becoming a resident artist for multiple venues. And despite being classically trained all those years, Tumie is a big fan of hip-hop artists including Eminem, her idol from when she was in high school.

“I told you she is professional!” Pia says, laughing and jumping in between Tumie's sentences, “And now she can have the young generation, the raver in high school or university, listen to the violin. [sic]”

From small venues to the big stage

That said, 2023 was the year Pia and Tumie officially became a duo at the 9^th Edition of Ravolution in Hanoi. Although both of them had played with various other artists over the years, the two appeared to experience a higher level of trust and confidence in each other compared to others. “Pia is very special to me,” Tumie says, “I like her style of music, and she knows everything about me and has the same big visions to reach out to global audiences, so she has a big dream like me.”

All of these instances along their journey led to another special night for the duo: performing RAVO X Dimension's final key moment. In between world-renowned DJs like Oliver Heldens dancing on stage and Steve Aoki throwing cake into the crowd, Pia & Tumie took center stage for a few minutes. And for this particular show, they decided to team up with other local artists to share the main stage: Hoàng Thi Saxman and singer May. Although they did not perform a long live set, their time on stage was electric.

'Qua Cầu Gió Bay' by Pia & Tumie.

Starting with the Hypaton & David Guetta remix of La Bouche’s ‘Be My Lover,’ Pia then went right into a remix of B Ray's infamous ‘Pepsi Flow’ lyrics with a big firework explosion and a fleet of masked dancers lining up in the front. A simulated mission control intercom then followed, welcoming the crowd into a new dimension, playing on this year’s intergalactic theme. “We are the sun, ah hey ya ya ya, We are the moon, ah hey ya, We are the sky, ah hey ya ya, We are the stars,” Luke Bond's lyrics paired with trance beats aired as the dancers' hands started illuminating the then-darkened stage.

Tumie then entered from the right, followed by Hoàng Thi on the left. Together, they begin to play a remixed version of ‘Hello Vietnam,’ created by the duo’s producer Nghi Martin — which is the same song the duo played to end their ‘VERY VIETNAM’ live set, released a few months before the show. And based on the vibes near the main stage, when then featured a woman dressed in a white áo dài on the shoulders of one of the dancers combined with the peaceful melodies from Tumie's violin and Hoàng Thi’s saxophone, their performance seemed to soothe the souls of the crowd late into the night.

Hoàng Thi (left) and May (right). Images courtesy of Ravolution.

Not for too long, though, as Pia followed up Tumie and Hoàng Thi with a Hardwell & Machine Made remix over The Killers' lyrics, “Are we human or are we dancers?” turning things up a notch with more lights, more explosions, and probably more noise complaints coming from the Vạn Phúc City area on a Sunday night.

To round out the key moment of the night, May finally entered the stage. She began by singing “You were the shadow to my light, Did you feel us? Another star, You fade away…” a nod to the song ‘Faded’ by DJ Alan Walker, one of the DJs to headline at the first Ravolution festival back in 2016. She concluded the moment by singing Martin Garrix and Matisse & Sadko’s lyrics, “We don't need much, As long as we're together, together, together…”

Tumie on stage. Image courtesy of Ravolution.

This idea of "We" flowing in and out of the melodies in Pia & Tumie's performance represents what fuels Vietnam's rave culture. Being in the pit provides a sense of escape from everyday life and serves as a place to “be free to release,” as Pia describes. “We are ravers. We are music lovers. So we want something to count on every year to have fun,” she adds. The rave scene will only continue to grow as festivals like Ravolution attract more international artists every year and highlight local Vietnamese talents like Pia & Tumie and others.

However, beyond that, and more importantly, DJs like Pia and classical artists like Tumie have the potential to create new waves of Vietnamese artists — singular or in tandem — to believe that they too can work hard, follow their own journey, and maybe even find themselves on the main stage one day playing in front of thousands.

Pia & Tumie's performance at Ravolution. Image courtesy of Ravolution.

Pia & Tumie's musical path up until now offers a valuable lesson about music, art, and life as a whole: one plus one does not equal two. One plus one equals three. When two people can come together and celebrate both their similarities and differences, something special happens: not only do they have a chance to pursue their dreams, but their very pursuit inspires others to dream too.

If you're interested in seeing Pia & Tumie perform, they have two upcoming shows scheduled before the end of the year: Christmas Day at B21 Bar in Đà Lạt and New Year's Eve at Sailing Club in Nha Trang. For more information, visit their Facebook Page here.

Hanoi Indie Duo Limebócx Brings Tried-and-Trù Traditions to Young Ears

2023-04-12T11:00:00+07:00

A grazing buffalo, frolicking water puppets, mystifying tam cúc cards, an insolent maiden in áo tứ thân, a rustic meal around cái mâm. These are just a few standout visuals that will haunt your brain upon feasting your eyes on Limebócx’ debut music video ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay).’

Amidst bewildering characters and surreal segments that seem to have been spontaneously glued together in a chaotic fever dream, Tuấn and Chuối — the founding members of Hanoi indie duo Limebócx — appear as the only semblance of normalcy reassuring viewers that they’re watching a music video and not tripping balls. The pair first met through a jam session at the Rec Room community years ago, but only played music together during a music exchange program in South Korea, they told Whammy Bar in an interview. The founding of Limebócx started from an unknown mishmash of influences that didn’t fit in any particular genres but sounded relaxing when đàn tranh was added to the mix. Over time, the sight of a beatboxing Tuấn hunching over his trusty loop station and Chuối cranking out sultry bass licks or a đàn tranh solo would go on to become a beloved familiar image in the mind of fans starting from the duo’s debut in 2019.

In 2023, the renaissance of traditional Vietnamese elements in the local music landscape is so prevalent that you can’t walk two blocks in any metropolitan area without bumping into a fusion pop hit blasting from a bubble tea parlor or sidewalk coffee cart. Names like Hoàng Thùy Linh, Hòa Minzy, Văn Mai Hương, and K-ICM have all found success of varying degrees with new chart-topping tracks featuring facets of Vietnamese culture, from folk instruments like đàn nhị or đàn tranh to ancient literary classics. This appreciation for local flavors in mainstream pop productions has been bubbling away for half a decade or so, but is fully flourishing in 2023. Back in 2019, the release of Limebócx’ EP “Electrùnic” was the first time I saw zither and classical poetry having a place in such a contemporary, sleek and exciting context.

The cover of the extended play "Electrùnic."

Even with just a handful of songs, Electrùnic demonstrated a coherent creative vision that rose above the music landscape at the time. The debut extended play includes four tracks: ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay),’ the first to premiere, is based on the quan họ Bắc Ninh mainstay ‘Qua Cầu Gió Bay’; ‘Mục Hạ Vô Nhân’ and ‘Hồ Tây’ weave in poetry by 19^th-century literary powerhouse Nguyễn Khuyến; and ‘Chiều Trù Nhật’ takes inspiration from ca trù, another form of folk singing. Beatboxing, bass, echoing loops, and đàn tranh intermingle as the simmering base for Chuối’s deliciously viscous line delivery. It’s as if slam poetry has a dalliance with electronica during a quan họ performance.

Limebócx 2.0

Hà Đăng Tùng (left) and Lê Trang (right), the current roster of Limebócx.

Watching ‘Dung Họa,’ Limebócx’ latest single and music video released back in February, you might notice a new face in the member roster. Last year, Hanoi bid farewell to Tuấn as he embarked on a new academic journey in Australia, and the group welcomed a new member in the form of Hà Đăng Tùng, who brought his passion for electronic music into the tapestry of Limebócx. I met Tùng and Chuối for the first time via virtual call as they were drowned out by the cacophony of a random coffee shop in Hanoi. It was hard for me not to feel intimidated, as a self-proclaimed Limebócx groupie, to sit face-to-face with the people behind the songs that have accompanied me through numerous flights, night showers, and languorous Saturday nights lying on the floor feeling every beat.

My attempts to dispel the initial awkwardness with small-talk questions went about rather poorly, though many random things I’ve been wondering were answered. Chuối, meaning banana in Vietnamese, is the affectionate nickname of Lê Trang. As she was growing up, Trang’s father referred to her by a plethora of pet names depending on his mood, but only “Chuối” has stuck until now. Her favorite fruit? Not banana, but jackfruit. Is there a special story behind the band name? Nope, before a performance back in the early days, they were asked about the name of their act, so they fused together “chanh/lime” (đàn tranh) and “bócx” (beatbox). Limebócx was born and the rest is history.

Limebócx before a performance at the Temple of Literature in Hanoi.

The indie music scene in Hanoi was as small as can be and Tùng and Tuấn were already friends way back then, so it was a natural progression that Tùng stepped in to form Limebócx 2.0. “I was ‘coerced’ maybe three, four times [to join Limebócx]. After four, five nhậu sessions, I finally had to say yes,” Tùng tells me. “I already knew both of them. At the beginning, it was challenging as I didn’t know where to start, and the band already has an established image, so it was tough for me to fit in.”

Long-term followers of the independent music scene in Hanoi might already recognize the prolific “pedigree” of the members. Chuối was a segment of Hanoi quintet Gỗ Lim, iconic punk legends of the 2000s, and is currently the bassist for rock/metal group Windrunner. Also known as Đờ Tùng, Tùng studied Classical Guitar at the Vietnam National Academy of Music in Hanoi and is a member of several music entities, such as Bluemato, Phác Họa Xanh and Ngầm. Becoming a part of Limebócx, Tùng brought to the table a distinctive touch of electronic music, something that he has already been exploring in his personal endeavors, along with experimental and ambient sounds.

Not too cool for school

From nhậu mates to bandmates.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness. Making a world of percussive sounds using just one’s mouth movements, gliding easily between traditional and contemporary instruments, and smashing together east and west, old and new — none of these are easy feats for newbies. Cool, however, is not exactly the first adjective one would associate with many of Vietnam’s traditional performing art forms. Quan họ, ca trù, chèo, đờn ca tài tử, hò, tuồng, xòe, and many more, all have rich histories, involve meticulous techniques, and are shining examples showcasing the country’s profoundly diverse cultures, but one is more likely to catch them at tourist sites and academic television documentaries than in the minds of young Vietnamese. Nguyễn Khuyến, whose vịnh poems inspired a number of Limebócx songs, is a mainstay author in the national high school literature syllabus, and thus, tends to evoke memories of exam-related dread rather than a sense of fascination among youths. This is all to say that there isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

There isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

Much of the link to traditional influences came from Chuối, who credited her interest in reading and poetry to the literature lessons back in high school. “In high school, we are taught so many types of fiction and poetry. There were things I really hate, but there were things I thought were cool and resonated with me,” she reminisces. Nguyễn Khuyến is perhaps best known for a trio of poems revolving around autumn: ‘Thu Điếu’ (Autumn Fishing), ‘Thu Ẩm’ (Autumn Drinking) and ‘Thu Vịnh’ (On Autumn). “I like things like that, a bit of romanticism in there, like taking a walk, appreciating the flowers, sipping some rice wine,” Chuối adds.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness.

In between verses of poetry, the music of Limebócx is truncated by metallic licks of đàn tranh, our version of 16-string zither and a major factor contributing to the duo’s unique fusion sounds. Chuối received an old đàn tranh as a gift, but found the traditional instrument too challenging, so she didn’t touch it for a long time. When she started making music with Tuấn during the early days of the band, she decided to give it another chance. The next era of Limebócx might or might not see the addition of guitar phím lõm in its soundscape, something that Tùng is experimenting with after he was given one by a friend. This six-string lute is the Vietnamese adaptation of the European guitar, albeit with scalloped neck spaces between frets; this modification was designed to produce the reverberating sound commonly heard in southern cải lương.

Finding a new balance for a new album

Following a few years of relative quietude, Limebócx confirms with me that they’re indeed working on the next record, an album that pays tribute to the band’s old self, in-transition self, and new self. There’s a sprinkle of throwbacks to the first extended play, but with more of Tùng’s input. There’s an exploration of Limebócx as a trio, as evidenced in the latest single ‘Dung Họa.’ And of course, there’s Limebócx 2.0, much of which we don’t know about yet, but the making of which is a process of experimentation that they enjoy. Long-time supporters will be able to find the traditional elements they know and love about the duo, but electronic music will play a bigger role than before, adding more weight to the new record.

The new direction will lean more towards electronic, Tùng's forte, while retaining the traditional references that fans know and love about the band.

“Tùng has been in the group for a year, but at the beginning, we were just trying to get to know each other,” Chuối says of the process of making new music. “For the new album, I want to ‘exploit’ this one [points to Tùng] as much as possible so that it will turn out to be something with a lot of his personality and voice too.”

“I hope it will turn out okay,” Tùng quips. “I think it’s quite dope when I listen to it, but I don’t know what people will think.”

Limebócx’ biggest wish ever since the band’s founding is to bring their music and more traditional Vietnamese materials to the international stage. For decades now, local music has struggled to find a footing in bigger arenas, but there are glimmers of a very Vietnamese identity that are starting to shine through — in projects by Hoàng Thùy Linh, Dzung, and Limebócx, for example. After decades of learning from developed industries, perhaps we’re finally at a point where we can grow what we learned into a unique and personal sound.

What’s Limebócx’ biggest dream?

Chuối: Perform with a symphonic orchestra. Or even better, a traditional orchestra.

Tùng: Glastonbury. [laughs]

On Táo's Transformation From Rapper to Curator of Good Taste

2023-02-09T15:00:00+07:00

"The artist can’t reflect the truths of life if they don’t live, can they?"

Táo, whose real name is Võ Hồ Thanh Vi, belongs to Vietnam’s earliest generation of rappers, having been making music since 2010. As a young rapper, Táo already had a number of impressive releases under his belt, like ‘Morphine,’ ‘Tâm Thần Phân Liệt,’ and ‘2 5.’ In 2019, he unveiled the debut album “Đĩa Than” after three years of production, in collaboration with six producers, including Astronormous and Teddy Chilla.

In Vietnam’s rap landscape, Táo’s music is characterized by an assured and distinctive flow that’s easily distinguishable. His early success like ‘Tâm Thần Phân Liệt’ and ‘Morphine’ has strong horrorcore themes — a subgenre known for its lugubrious ambiance and its focus on dissecting the dark corners of the human condition.

Táo and the label of a “music maker”

Oftentimes once a musician has managed to generate a hit song, they have to find a way to live in the shadow of that celebrated work. Táo is no exception. For the first 10 years of his journey in hip-hop, people almost always associated him with the anguish and antagonism of ‘Tâm Thần Phân Liệt,’ or the agony in ‘Morphine.’ Táo’s body of work is frequently labeled “sad, macabre, ghastly music” and he’s pigeonholed as the “artist for sadness.”

Táo experimented with horrorcore as a small project with a darker theme, establishing doom and gloom as the overarching atmosphere, but he’s never sought to broadcast negative messages or promote whatever the songs convey. He’s also never wanted to tie himself to any genre or topic, as he believes that will drain any last drop of creativity.

This vision propelled Táo to branch out more. “Đĩa Than” was born of a pessimism within someone going through mental health problems, drenched in woe in between the jazz and hip-hop notes. The album also marked the end of the decade for Táo under the label of a rapper. A year later, he introduced ‘Blue Tequila,’ the lead single of the EP “Y?” and reincarnated under a new direction of just as Táo, someone who makes music.

From Morphine to Blue Tequila.

Trying out new things to live and let live

The adventure to find a new character in music led Táo down a path toward different art practices like painting, photography, cooking, etc. He tried things out to hone observation skills and to experience the special personalities of each art form. He chose to not widely share his work and only keeps them for his close friends and family who really know who he is.

It’s easy to notice the growth Táo has achieved, as demonstrated in every single he’s put out for the EP. ‘Blue Tequila,’ the appetizer, establishes a scene, using inspiration from the common liquor. ‘Tương Tư,’ the next course, plays on ideas from fashion; the costume that carries the key visual was custom-made. And lastly, ‘Red Rum’ is a feast with a cocktail, perfume, fashion, saxophone, and even a brush with contemporary dance. Above all else, each song comes with a poem and artwork from contemporary artists and poets.

Even though there is a confluence of many elements in this record, Táo views every piece as an expression of his life, not just as marketing gimmicks: “If I practice art just for the sake of it, I can’t immerse myself in life. I just want to stand on the side to observe the beauty of life. The artist can’t reflect the truths of life if they don’t live, can they?”

I chose to dive into other art forms to find relief, and to allow myself a chance to just experience life. Then, I can have a chance to observe my surroundings and turn them into materials for my music.

From left to right: scenes from the music videos for 'Tương Tư,' 'Blue Tequila' and 'Red Rum.'

Some artists decide to expand their artistic repertoire just to become too distracted in their own path; they dabble in many areas but can’t master any. Táo is very keenly aware of this pitfall, and wishes to keep himself as just “someone who makes music” instead of “artist.” He often reminds himself that his stints with photography, perfumery or painting are just detours to enrich his journey with music.

“Y?”: A seed that germinates and grows

The interdisciplinary nature of the extended play means that the final result is not just due to Táo’s efforts alone. Its concept was shaped like a small seed that receives love and care from many other arts from different art forms. They are the painters, directors, dancers, designers, perfumers and musicians who took Táo’s ideas and transposed them into their own pieces.

Those experiences with other art forms helped form a connection between Táo and other artists. He approached with an interest in the basics and the experts came with the rest.

“By trying new things, I realized that by myself I can’t do things the way someone with the skills can. It helped me put down my ego to delegate components to the artists, and focus on perfecting my part in music. It’s how I learn to trust people with my work, because before, my music creation process happened solitarily in my room,” Táo shares.

When a music release encompasses many different features from other fields, it allows for a richer experience for the audience, who can approach the work from many angles. With ‘Red Rum,’ one can get through to the music via its uniquely created cocktail, the dynamism of alto saxophone, the fragrant notes of the perfume, or the elegant movements of the dancers. "I hope we can get past the belief that within a project there must be a central component and peripheral add-ons. Sometimes, everything you see in front of you are all shining parts deserving of appreciation."

Crossing the realms

After the full release of “Y?”, Táo embarked on yet another new quest in his art practice with an exhibition showcasing the pieces created within the realm of the extended play. He wanted to offer listeners a way to tangibly experience the work outside the limitations of sounds. The exhibition was held in early December last year.

When asked about the intersection of forms in art, Táo explains that it’s an inevitable outcome. The arts are closely interwoven with culture and they will grow when culture grows. Many experiences that we are currently enjoying came from the adaptation of foreign art practices; if there is no cross-culture learning and experience, culture might become stagnant.

Even though Táo’s belief is steadfast, he admits to feeling daunted by pressures, both from himself and from the audience. “But I still believe that new things take time to get used to. The prevalence of the internet provides a chance for Vietnamese music to rub shoulders with new forms of expression. Maybe somebody in Vietnam has already done this or that thing, but they are still trying to find their own community. Just you wait.”

Rắn Cạp Đuôi Collective's Only Rule in Music Is Having No Rule

2022-11-24T16:00:00+07:00

To write any music interview, my formula is quite simple: start with the story of how they got into music, followed by their critical opinions on the field. There will always be a narrative that the media wants you to believe — be it from the artist or the journalist. But the narrative, or the story, of Rắn Cạp Đuôi Collective doesn’t follow this recipe since the members are … not sure when and how it all began.

This one-minute snippet will convey all you need to know about Rắn Cạp Đuôi's spirit.

But (maybe) this is how they began

Starting with the name, we can go back to 2012, when Đỗ Tấn Sĩ — the group’s founder and bassist — first discovered the term “ouroborous.” It refers to the eternal reincarnation circle, originating from ancient Egypt, portrayed by a snake biting its own tail. Impressed by the concept, Sĩ found the Vietnamese equivalent and used it as the project name. That’s how the name Rắn Cạp Đuôi came to be.

But Rắn Cạp Đuôi (RCD) only really started when Sĩ met Phạm Thế Vũ, the band’s guitarist, in 2014. Back then, both were members of a community for local fans of Coldplay. They met and had their first jam in 2015. A year later, Vũ moved from Hanoi to Saigon to focus on RCD. They met Zach Sch at an exhibition opening and not long after that, Zach officially replaced their former drummer, becoming one of the main producers for RCD.

From left to right: Henry Millest, Trần Duy Hưng, Phạm Thế Vũ, Đỗ Tấn Sĩ, Vương Thiện, Trần Uy Đức, Spencer Nguyễn and Zach Sch.

Rắn Cạp Đuôi has been through a few member reshufflings, though Sĩ, Vũ and Zach remain the group’s core. Under the “collective” umbrella, they can create music under one name while still being able to work on individual projects. At the moment, RCD also features Spencer Nguyễn, a “guitarist who doesn’t play the guitar,” and Trần Uy Đức, a vocalist and special member whom they admitted to “coercing to join.”

The first album "Đẹp Trai Chết Hết."

In 2018, the collective released their first studio album, “Đẹp Trai Chết Hết.” It was RCD’s first attempt to co-write and record their sounds. All songs, each played and recorded in one take, were listed with a description lifted from supposed “reviews” written by foreign music sites — these were probably included for fun since it features a 10/10 from Pitchfork. 2018 was also RCD’s most active year, as they released two other albums, including “Trẻ Em Tồi Tệ.” Recorded in Đà Lạt, that album, according to Sĩ, is the record with the most RCD characteristics including a lot of electro elements. They decided to never play it again, for unclear reasons.

"Occidentis et Inferno," the live album "containing gory music at Yoko Bar" released in 2018.

RCD’s albums consist mainly of noise music with electro, infused with multi-genre sounds, even K-pop. In short, it’s not easy for one to analyze RCD’s music, but one can still connect with their work since the collective tends to use music to express emotions instead of specific messages. “Occidentis et Inferno,” their live performance at Yoko Cafe in 2018, for example, was recorded while footage of forest fires raged on.

Rắn Cạp Đuôi at Nổ Cái Bùm, Đà Lạt, 2022.

Live performances: What makes RCD RCD

But still, emotions are subjective. That goes to say: live performances are what makes RCD RCD. Just like the albums, RCD’s live shows have their own … disorganization. No set list, no intro, no clear-cut start or end. Everything comes together like a conversation in music between members: sometimes talking over each other, sometimes cutting the other off, at times, just downright quarreling.

Nonetheless, once you really listen to the layers of sounds, you'd be surprised to realize that you’re actually enjoying it. One can almost make out the mind of each member through how they communicate with instruments: the leading percussion, smoldering bass, irregular guitar, and sometimes screams from Trần Uy Đức. It’s not easy to break away from the set, not because of the unexpected twists and turns, but because the segues sound too seamless.

Before each show, the band will do a few quick rehearsals, mainly to feel the energy and connect with other players. To them, good improvisation comes from a sense of familiarity with your other players. And within the improvisation, they learn to lean on one another to get to the end. Sometimes, the end is when everyone is tired; other times, the end is actually the beginning of a whole new set (if time allows).

Rắn Cạp Đuôi's full set at Gãy, Saigon, May 2022.

It’s this distinctive individual personality that contributes to RCD’s extraordinary and unpredictable essence, be it as a collective or as separate individuals: Zach with his foundation of classical music, Vũ and his sensitivity toward traditional music, or Sĩ with preferences of contemporary music and indie pop.

Noise music and its listeners

Rắn Cạp Đuôi is probably one of the most well-known Vietnamese noise bands outside of Vietnam. Experimental and noise music is not yet welcomed by many listeners in the country, yet it’s very well-received among avant-garde listeners in Japan, South Korea, Germany and Australia.

“The Pitchfork article mostly just serves to pique the curiosity of Vietnamese listeners. When the article went up, we got a few interviews, and a few new listeners here. But nothing comparable to the kind of coverage one witnesses [happening to other artists]. We’ve been doing this long enough to get used to people walking out mid-show. Vietnam is just not the right market right now, so we don’t really mind.”

Despite the genre’s lack of development potential in the Vietnamese market, Rắn Cạp Đuôi still harbors hope that their persistence will one day be rewarded. Noise music may look simple and sound random, but the challenge lies in the craft of production, and the ability to communicate what the artist really wants to convey. RCD is fully aware of this, and they hope that younger artists will understand this as well.

The end (but not quite)

Because they started young, it’s no doubt that Rắn Cạp Đuôi’s music has changed over time. The most significant shift comes from how they focus on refining the layers of sounds. “Back then we were really short on equipment, so we had to work around it and be more creative. Now with much better tools, our sound quality has massively improved.”

Ten years have gone by, but Rắn Cạp Đuôi doesn’t seem to have any reason to stop. Their music continues to be a journey to contemplate and express their feelings. Maybe that’s why the band doesn't usually play old songs. But, to me, it’s this always-moving-forward outlook that makes their work exciting.

It wasn’t an easy task writing about Rắn Cạp Đuôi. There is always a narrative that the media wants you to believe. But for me, the most interesting story about them would come from someone who’s been through the thicks and thins of their live shows: through sounds, we can witness the growth and development of the collective. As long as they remain on stage, the story goes on.

And when asked about what they had to trade off to keep Rắn Cạp Đuôi alive for 10 years, they all agree:

I just have to trade my sanity to be with these motherfuckers.

Hồ Trâm Anh Writes Music for Those Who Walk City Streets Yearning for the Open Sky

2022-11-09T12:00:00+07:00

When I begin my interview with Hồ Trâm Anh, a light shower starts sprinkling over Saigon’s overcast maudlin sky. I apologize if any errant pitter-patter might distract our call, but Trâm Anh brushes it off saying Hanoi has also been in a drizzly mood.

It’s fitting weather, both in Saigon where I am and Hanoi where Trâm Anh sits in her apartment overlooking a small patch of sky, to discuss her debut album “The Poetry of Streetlights.” The Hanoian singer-songwriter found her musical footing first on SoundCloud just by sharing a few tracks she wrote and recorded herself to warm reception by fans. She then presented her three-track EP “Low” back in 2019, a thorough study of stark isolation and haunting piano-tingled longing. And in early September 2022, Trâm Anh marked yet another milestone with an 11-track full-length album.

Before the debut album, Hồ Trâm Anh's solo tracks are often associated with the piano. Photo by Marilyn.

In “The Poetry of Streetlights,” Hồ Trâm Anh hasn’t completely left behind the wintry solitude, which colored much of “Low” and her previous solo works, but rather, she expanded on the world that “Low” built, weaving in new layers, painting new textures, and giving room to new musical influences. The new album chronicles Trâm Anh’s journey deep into a version of nature that’s untouched by humanity, gliding across the vastness of the sky and plunging deep into the ocean, at times, quite literally.

“I used to take walks at night under the streetlights when the roads were deserted. It helped me calm my mind, giving me space to mull over the music I’m about to write,” she explains the simple inspiration behind the name. “During the pandemic, the streets were also empty. I wondered to myself ‘if everyone is suddenly gone, what would happen?”

Hồ Trâm Anh adores nature despite her label as a “city girl.”

An introvert by nature, Hồ Trâm Anh finds comfort in solitary walks along the bank of Hồ Gươm and Hồ Tây, reading, and thinking her thoughts out loud, but music came to her the earliest in the form of piano lessons she took thanks to her grandfather’s insistence. Still, like any restless child being forced to spend an inordinate amount of time in one place, she didn’t find any creative enlightenment in the ivories. Trâm Anh dropped piano lessons in seventh grade, but coincidentally, that was also the year she penned her first song: “I thought ‘no more lessons, but what about the piano?’ even though I was still playing classical music, and then I wondered: ‘What if I play my own music?’ It was something I found exciting.” It only got serious in college, especially after 2014, when she “couldn’t live without music.”

“I still wrote [music], but I wanted my songs to have listeners. I wanted to feel the joy of standing on stage,” she reminisces about the turning point in her connection with music. In 2016, Hồ Trâm Anh and a few university friends formed The Veranda, an indie collective performing an eclectic mix of tunes, from alternative, dream pop to shoegaze. Flash forward to three years later in 2019, when the group was no longer playing, Trâm Anh once again came back to her roots with a piano-forward debut EP.

A clarion call for nature

Hanoi-based LP Club helped produce “Streetlights” as part of an initiative to assist independent musicians create physical products while Trâm Anh and a group of kindred friends worked on the music, coordinating night recording sessions across everyone’s own busy schedule. The album cover, a Leonid Afremov-esque closeup of a radiant streetlamp flickering amid tree branches, was painted by Trâm Anh’s artist friend Nguyễn Ngọc Uyên with whom she went to college. Big brushstrokes, incandescent colors, a striking contrast between light and dark — it serves as a visual harbinger of what listeners are about to step into once they press play.

Artwork by Nguyễn Ngọc Uyên.

“The Poetry of Streetlights” might be named after urban infrastructure, but one should not mistake it for yet another attempt to romanticize the city. On the contrary, this record is about walking under streetlights and yearning desperately for the open sky in every way — sonically, lyrically, and spiritually. The album opens with ‘Haze’ and ‘Mansloughing,’ both featuring expansive instrumentation as if to emulate a rollercoaster of movements across the atmosphere while Trâm Anh sings about a “celestial divine” and finding “freedom on the cloud nine where Shangri-La begins.” In ‘Feel the Flow’ and ‘Along the Lines,’ the compositions are awash in water, shimmering like a nocturnal lake and droning on like pouring rain.

Hồ Trâm Anh adores nature despite her label as a “city girl,” she tells me. And then she goes on to describe what she’s currently seeing as we speak. She can’t even see the sky; there’s only a narrow swath of space right where she’s sitting under the window. She cranes her neck to see how big the sky is, and realizes that it’s just tiny. This is either very ironic or very telling, considering the sky is a recurring subject across the songs on “Streetlights.” She also admits to not knowing how to swim, but is strangely drawn to the water. After all, it’s only human to dream about what we don’t have.

In Trâm Anh’s lyrics, she writes with the aerial freedom of a forest spirit, always on the move, always phasing in and out of our physical world.

Rising within the sun / Holding out reaching for love
Let's go on a one-way ride / Surfing the tide
— Radio Ecstatic

“Have you ever felt as if you’ve achieved a state of peace and mental clarity, when you don’t say anything or do anything, just listen for the sounds in your ears, observe the sky, sway in the water? When I do that, my mind becomes magically clear, I feel that I’m present everywhere,” Trâm Anh says of her affection for nature. “I really like that feeling. And being in the city can never give you that, so I have to seek out music as a reprieve.”

Many fans have commented that this particular scene in the album art looks like Ô Quan Chưởng in Hanoi. Artwork by Nguyễn Ngọc Uyên.

The songs on “Streetlights” are often escapist and indulgent, but there exist darker corners hinting at the inner struggles of a sensitive soul. In ‘Minefield,’ a bossa nova-inspired mid-album track, she takes on a more accusatory tone in lyric-crafting:

What did I do to deserve your silence
What do I lack so that you stay indifferent
to my emotions
Now we're disconnected
All I've seen is we're walking through a minefield
— Minefield

The debris of my past haunts me
The echoes of timeless fear
Falling back in my bed
How I cannot see an escape
— Nightingale

If in the album, a bond with the natural world is embraced and craved, miscommunication and irreparable distance plague the human relationships depicted, even though they are only alluded to in faint brushstrokes and ambiguous story-telling. It is, however, a conscious decision by Trâm Anh to stay on the metaphorical side of lyric-crafting. “Many people write very direct lyrics, very straightforward; whatever the words mean, the lyrics are the same,” she explains. “Sometimes I want to escape from that and run away from literal meaning to create a more abstract atmosphere. I love giving listeners a space to imagine, to contemplate, to dissect art in a more open way. It [the lyrics] is no longer just my message, it’s both mine and the audience’s.”

Artwork by Nguyễn Ngọc Uyên.

How to moonlight as a recording musician

This is the second time Hồ Trâm Anh has come down with a COVID-19 infection this year, she explains to me, as we decide to talk over the internet without a video feed. She’s a little tired but otherwise fine, having accepted that exposure to communicable diseases is an occupational hazard for a tenured interpreter under the Vietnamese government. Trâm Anh’s day job means she has to travel a lot, both inside and outside Vietnam, meet many people, and unfortunately doesn’t have much free time to dedicate to making a full-fledged album.

“The Poetry of Streetlights” might be named after urban infrastructure, but one should not mistake it for yet another attempt to romanticize the city.

The eventual release of “The Poetry of Streetlights,” of course, is a big relief. “I often joke with my friends that this [album] is a brainchild that I struggle so much to give birth to,” she quips. Many of the tracks were written years ago, but the official recording process only commenced in January, taking advantage of a slow period after the Christmas and New Year holidays. The studio is only open on weekdays, so Trâm Anh and her collaborators made plans to gather after work, gnawing on bánh mì as a quick dinner, and then plunging straight into recording until 10pm. “Do you know that feeling when you've just finished reading a book, like sadness for having completed an adventure?” Trâm Anh poses a rhetorical question, reminiscing about the time crunch, scheduling clashes, and creative conflicts during the album’s making. But at the end, to her, everything was worth it, even the dry bánh mì and late-night recording sessions, because “it gives life a meaning.”

In the studio working on the album. From left to right: Hồ Trâm Anh, Cao Lê Hoàng (drummer), Hà Đăng Tùng (Đờ Tùng: producer, mixing engineer), Nguyễn Quang Ba (engineer: studio Kiên Quyết).

Still, the release of “Streetlights” also comes with a personal quandary, one unique to our current era of instantly accessible music: should the album be on streaming platforms? Trâm Anh and her team eventually decided against it for a range of reasons that perhaps can’t be fully explored within this artist profile, but could be summarized into a wish to retain freedom to make music for music’s sake without feeling pressured by the music industry’s commodifying forces (she explains her stance more thoroughly in an essay on her personal blog). “Streetlights” is currently only available via physical copies and her personal website.

Photos by Mai N. Phạm.

“If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said ‘no,’” she admits when I wonder if she’s content with the decision. “I didn’t know if it’s the right choice or if I was building a hurdle between the listeners and me. It really wasn’t my intention. I really appreciate those who listen to my music and feel emotionally connected to my music. Now, after everything, I feel that it’s the correct path, and I’ve made peace with my choice.”

I decided to purchase the album on a whim; it took LP Club a few days to mail it to me from Hanoi. Only as I was eagerly unraveling the bubble wrap did it dawn on me that I have no way to play it, no thanks to Acer’s decision to render the CD tray vestigial. This is probably not an uncommon problem for other music fans as well, especially when many records now arrive discless. In the US, for the year of 2020, streaming accounted for 83% of all music consumption, compared to physical formats’ meager 9%. Eventually, I dug out my 2017-era old laptop, and managed to rip the CD using my trusty iTunes. I have to acknowledge that it was a hassle, but the process took me down a specific memory lane I have not tread for the longest time: that fresh-CD sense of giddiness as you painstakingly type out song names and scour the internet for an album, and then finally loading it into your iPod for a first listen.

Photo by Nguyễn Duy Anh, Marilyn.

Hồ Trâm Anh’s decision to resist the allure of streaming services is certainly not a popular one, or a common one, though for someone who has determined right from the start to not sing because of any monetary or popularity ambitions, it might be the right one. The songs on “The Poetry of Streetlights” might not be strategically slipped in new music playlists by algorithms to attract new listeners, but those who resonate with Hồ Trâm Anh’s music will have no qualms about buying CDs to support their favorite artist. “Many tracks in this album were written long ago when I just graduated. I hope that listeners my age will find in them the emotions and struggles of youth, and feel consoled somehow,” Hồ Trâm Anh says. “As long as the audience can feel anything, to me that’s already a success. The album has fulfilled its purpose. I don’t wish for anything more.”

From Rapper to Singer-Songwriter: Minh Đinh and the Trials to Find Himself

2022-10-28T10:00:00+07:00

Minh Đinh's journey of self-discovery is one that represents the effort of the multi-talented artists in the Vietnamese indie community.

Vietnamese music fans are likely to be familiar with this young artist through a number of electronic-influenced songs on the topic of long-distance relationships, such as '7711' and ‘Ngày Em Quên Tên Anh.' And yet, not many people know that Minh Đinh began his performing career as a rapper.

In the four years that he has been working on music, Minh Đinh has shown several personae: sometimes as a romantic with an acoustic guitar, another as an energetic and passionate electronic artist. His creative inspiration also comes from diverse sources; a tiny dragonfly or a durian is enough for him to compose a song.

From a rapper who thought he was bad at singing

While in high school, Minh Đinh was a rapper in a band, and together they composed and performed a couple of songs. However, after moving on to study at the National Economics University, he participated in almost no music-related activities. Though he did create his own music club at school, he couldn't commit for long. It wasn’t until June 2017, when he was about to finish university, that he released his first original piece, ‘Chuồn Chuồn và Nỗi Buồn,’ on SoundCloud.

Before the release, Minh Đinh had always thought of himself as a subpar singer. He couldn’t find a suitable vocalist for ‘Chuồn Chuồn và Nỗi Buồn,’ so he decided to just use his own voice. The colorful piece is accompanied by a bright guitar melody. On top of that, its playful lyrics of “let’s ignore the unkind words,” along with Minh’s unmistakable rustic voice, helped create positive feedback from the artist’s earliest fans.

Minh Đinh laughs when asked about the inspiration behind the song: “At that time, I was volunteering to teach children in Bắc Giang. As I was sweeping the yard, I saw two dragonflies eating each other’s heads on the trunk of a tree. That image kept haunting me; I wondered why they had to suffer and be so miserable.” During the Tết holiday, when everybody was happily celebrating, that thought was still stuck in his head, and the melody was born.

Confident in his first written song, Minh Đinh accepted Cổ Động's invitation to take part in their live performance series, "Cổ Động Loanh Quanh." This is an impromptu series that aims to introduce rising artists to the community by providing a place for them to share their work. The filming angle was fixed with a simple setting. This series helped him gain more attention, especially after the passionate debuts of ‘Ngả Nghiêng’ and ‘Thiên Thần Về Giời.’

‘Ngả Nghiêng’ portrays an overlapping array of emotions in life. In this version of the song, Minh Đinh shows off his warm voice, especially during the emotional rap verses. Video: Vietnamese Indie Club.

In 2019, the artist officially released the EP “Mình Là Của Nhau Đến Bao Giờ?” which comprises three new compositions and two remixes of previous pieces. The EP’s name came from a line in 'Đừng Để Nhau Rơi.' Minh Đinh revealed that he was inspired by Billie Eilish, who named her album “When we all fall asleep, where do we go?” after a line in her song ‘Bury a Friend.’

Prior to producing the EP, Minh Đinh mainly focused on lyrics, while keeping the melody simple. The production process helped him take his music to another level of sounds and mixing skills. After quite a bit of self-teaching and learning from colleagues, the artist managed to mix two tracks, ‘Đừng Để Nhau Rơi’ and ‘Mỗi Khi Đêm Về,’ on his own.

The recurring message throughout the EP is about acceptance and allowing things to come and go naturally; one shouldn’t be tormented too much, because everything happens for a reason. For a rising artist with only two years of experience, an EP like this was a remarkable project. However, perhaps Minh Đinh's biggest regret is not being able to properly invest in the visual aspect of the project. Both the artwork and music videos only use simple static images.

Unafraid to try something new

One thing that might surprise people is that before 2020, Minh Đinh was still a full-time marketing employee with a 9-to-5 office job. The artist shared: “I didn’t think I could make a living with music. At the beginning of 2020, when the pandemic broke out, I decided to quit my job even though they insisted that I keep working.” Since then, he has been fully devoted to music, finding many new sources of inspiration for creativity despite the extremely difficult year.

It can easily be seen through his YouTube channel that Minh Đinh is very excited to experiment with new genres and material. He has released numerous tracks while also creating a strong personal brand. While ‘7711’ has a strong modern, deep house feel, ‘Ngày Em Quên Tên Anh’ shows off his melodic rapping skills. Among them, ‘7711’ is one of the most serious projects: there was a teaser, an official MV, and an acoustic version. This song is about his relationship with his girlfriend, who is currently living in Australia. The number 7711 equates to the distance in kilometers from Hanoi to Melbourne.

The official music video for ‘7711’. Source: Minh Đinh's YouTube channel.

After this big turn in style, some may have expected Minh Đinh to continue exploring different genres within electronics. However, the artist confirmed that this was just one of his many experimental attempts with different genres and that he will continue to challenge himself with different styles. He does not plan to make an EP, album or solo show in the near future. Currently, he is focusing on releasing singles and performing at shows that he gets invited to when lockdown is over. He revealed to Saigoneer that he currently has about 20 songs that have not been released due to the lockdown period.

Although his works across all genres have received great support from fans, Minh Đinh assures: "There are too many personalities inside me; the best case scenario is to be able to leave an impression on the audience first, then explore other directions." Hence, in the future, instead of pursuing big projects, he will focus on perfecting his work and affirming his unique colors.

[Photos courtesy of Minh Đinh]

Quãng 8, which means "octave" in Vietnamese, is a series of articles on Vietnam's new generation of unique music personalities. Know an interesting musician and want to introduce them to our readers? Send us an email via contribute@saigoneer.com with your ideas.

Meet Humm, the Music Collective Blending Soft Tunes With Orchestral Instruments

2022-09-13T13:00:00+07:00

Though palpably yearning in nature, Humm's music invites listeners to embark on a journey where healing is the quintessential experience.

My first impression of Humm was one of curiosity and amusement. The members, despite being in the same band, exude vastly distinctive personal and performance styles. If it wasn't for the stage that they shared, one would assume that they were individuals on unrelated paths. But through their musical bonds, these seemingly jagged puzzle pieces fall into place to make a whole and vibrant Humm.

(No) strings attached

One of Humm's defining traits is that the group operates on a rotational basis. With the exception of the Humm's ace Châu Nhi, who composes and provides vocal, other members can choose whether or not to participate in a production or performance.

“Since the very beginning, we have never really been a formally founded collective with roles set in stone, so our members aren't obligated to take part every single time either,” says Châu Nhi. Their participation, instead, depends on whether they find themselves a good fit for the score.

Humm's complete lineup.

With their flexible arrangement, Humm can be anything from a full-fledged ensemble of a cellist, violinist, guitarist, pianist, flutist, and beatboxer, to a more stripped-down version led by Châu Nhi and two or three instrumentalists. But regardless of the number of presenting members, Humm's core strength lies in their soaring harmony — where Châu Nhi's lullaby-like vocal meets the delicate tunes of the instrumental virtuosos.

Humm's full lineup includes Thái Bùi (lead guitar), Trí An (violinist, cellist), Nhật Minh (pianist) and Trung Hải (flutist), Xuân Huy (beatboxer), Khánh Du and Nam Đình (violinists). As a band heavily invested in the instrumental side of musical performing, Humm is confident that any of their live stagings will be a step-up from listening to their recordings alone, as it can "incite raw emotions from the audience" and "introduce classical instruments to listeners that aren't as familiar."

On making music that heals

While Humm consists of multiple gifted composers, Châu Nhi has been vested with the leading role of composing for the band. Trí An, her trusted assistant, upon receiving the composition's first draft, will proceed to experiment with the sound mixing and the timbre of each instrument to match the song's synergy.

For instance, in songs that carry a more somber undertone like 'Triền Miên,' the electric guitar will be taken out of the equation. Similarly, works with a softer and delicate sound like 'Nắng' won't make much use of beatboxing as a base. Meanwhile, a flute is utilized in songs that are more melancholic such as 'Gió Hát Lao Xao,' while the violin's resonance is used to drive tension and passion in songs such as 'Tôi sẽ là gió bay.'

Humm draws their strength from the synergy between classical and modern instruments.

Thanks to Humm's impeccable arrangements that incorporate classical instruments, the band's covers of Vietnamese classics such as 'Dạ Cổ Hoài Lang' (Cao Văn Lầu), 'Tôi Ước Mơ' (Thích Nhất Hạnh, Phạm Duy) and 'Đóa Hoa Vô Thường' (by Trịnh Công Sơn) pay homage to the timelessness of the originals while offering younger listeners a fresher contemporary take.

While the band takes pride in its expansive musical repertoire, the one song that Châu Nhi believes best represents the band's spirit has to be 'Mùa Xuân.' "'Mùa Xuân' was written when we were yet to face the pressure from our own expectations, from others around us, and from the success of the other songs we have released, so its melody is just the simplest and purest thing ever." It was also a production that all the members took part in, so the making of was "teeming with joy," says the main vocalist.

"'Mùa Xuân' is the simplest and purest melody that we have ever written."
— Châu Nhi.

As for me, 'Triền Miên' is still the song that should be mentioned when introducing Humm to anyone. A Humm "signature" with Châu Nhi's tender voice on a piano and violin score, the track's endless resonance parallels the anxiety one experiences on their journey to discover themselves.

“I wrote 'Triền Miên’ for a songwriting challenge at Homeland Artists, whose theme was 'To live is to let.' The challenge's theme was intended to be a message about living with a purpose, but when I got down to writing the piece, I began to wonder if I'm truly 'living' and if my existence has a meaning at all," Châu Nhi recalls.

The intrusive thought put Châu Nhi in a trance, where she felt as if she was walking in a dream, a vicious circle with no way out. “So ‘Triền Miên’ is a work that is reflective of the person I felt I was at the time — struggling, stuck, scared, and small.”

The official music video of 'Triền Miên.'

With that in mind, 'Triền Miên' was composed in just an afternoon, and its music video shot in 24 hours. Though the production was fast-tracked, its quality wasn't compromised, and the result was a harmonious mix of instrumentals and visuals built around the concept of shadow play. When watching the metaphorical images in the MV, viewers will find themselves pondering the multi-layered meanings contained therein, and choosing which meaning is meant for them.

An even cheesier production

As they make their way through the 2022 music scene, where public taste and trends are ever-changing, Humm has remained unwaveringly loyalty to one thing when it comes to crafting their debut album: "Being Cheesy!"

"Our upcoming album will be full of songs composed for hopeless romantics," Châu Nhi says. She also uses the same word to describe Humm's music, so audiences can expect an album that's faithful to the band's core, alongside their signature positive, bright, and hopeful sound. Nhi also reveals that the next EP may feature a more elusive track — 'Châu Nhi' — the demo of which is already available to the public on SoundCloud.

As it was written for herself on her birthday, she associates the songs with utmostly hidden emotions. "I was sobbing as I wrote the score. Later on, I would just call it a 'birthday song' because I hope it can be a present for everyone on their special day," she says.

But it is not only Châu Nhi, but all members of Humm that strive to bring comfort and ease to those that are hurting through their music. And it is perhaps this “healing factor” that time and time again makes Humm beloved for listeners on their own path to mend and heal.

Born in Cần Thơ and Raised in the US, Rapper Mixed Miyagi Stays True to His Many Roots

2022-07-28T12:00:00+07:00

"Miền Tây sông nước tao ngắm cánh đồng xanh / Buổi sáng là thức dậy để đi cày mà làm ăn / Trên đời này thành công là siêng năng / Không có giống mấy thằng chó, có chút tiền rồi kiêu căng."

If you listened to these bars without accompanying visuals, you would likely picture a local rapper rhyming while driving around his hometown rice fields, perhaps interspersed with footage performing in a rowdy Saigon nightclub. Reality is unexpected though.

Wearing an Angkor Wat tourist shirt and rapping inside a shopping cart being pushed down the aisles of an American grocery store as his braids swing, Mixed Miyagi's appearance juxtaposed with his flawless Vietnamese helped the video for 'Việt Nam Xin Chào' go viral last year. People were astonished by the sight of someone of African descent rapping so smoothly in Vietnamese.

Video via Mixed Miyagi's YouTube.

From Cần Thơ to Tampa

Mixed Miyagi explained to Saigoneer via email that his father was born and raised in Nigeria, received seven college degrees in seven different countries, and spoke six languages. He was a researcher at the University of South Florida in Tampa when the local Asian community there convinced him to travel to Vietnam, where he taught economics and English and met Mixed Miyagi’s mother on a public bus. She gave birth to him in Cần Thơ and ten months later, the pair arrived in America amongst a fury of fireworks on December 31, 1999.

Like children of all backgrounds in America at the turn of the century, Mixed Miyagi gravitated to hip-hop at a young age. He cites Eminem, Lil Wayne, DMX, Immortal Technique and Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony as particularly influential in his youth. But before he took up a microphone, he discovered his talent with words via the essays and school assignments that came particularly easy to him. His interests and skills came together for a final history project on World War I that encouraged him to make a rap song with an accompanying music video for extra credit.

"Growing up, I’ve always admired the old-wise characters in pop culture. I see a lot of myself in them because I’m very much an old soul. So, I chose the name 'Mixed Miyagi,' influenced by Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid in order to pay homage to my Asian roots, but also, I’m 'mixed' first and foremost."

Writing music as a Vietnamese-Nigerian-American artist

Mixed Miyagi began his career by releasing brief videos of himself rapping in English on his Instagram account while at university. The positive feedback they garnered gave him the confidence to continue, but a breakthrough came in 2020. He explained to Voyage Tampa: “When COVID-19 popped off, and all of the Asian hate crimes started. I told myself it was time to show out for my motherland and Asian people as a whole.”

This connection with other Asians gave him the courage to release the Vietnamese language tracks he’d been working on. They caught on among Vietnamese and other Asians whom he says now make up the majority of his fan base. He explained to Be the Boss Podcast: “I didn’t realize I was holding myself back, but that’s what actually blew me up; doing the bilingual stuff, doing the Vietnamese stuff… I always believe be exactly who you are, be the real version of yourself; my truth, my real version is I am mixed, I do come from two different backgrounds, I am Vietnamese, I am Nigerian and American as well. The success I’ve gotten is from just being my true self, being authentic.”

Mixed Miyagi’s father passed away when he was only two years old, and he was raised by his mother. In addition to speaking only Vietnamese, cooking Vietnamese dishes, and administering the familiar punishment of úp mặt vô tường, she filled their home with karaoke, bolero and cải lương music. The effect of this has had subtle influences on the tracks he prefers to rap over. “Vietnamese music definitely influences my ear,” he shares. “It has made me lean towards unique and Asian-inspired melodies rather than beat and drum work.” One can hear this in the lush string and piano-driven 'Ngày Nào Cũng Vậy' and the jazzy 'Tale of a Ronin.'

Beyond avoiding the trap beats and electronic-influenced production that seem ubiquitous in modern hip-hop around the world, Mixed Miyagi focuses more on lyrics with a message couched in clever wordplay compared to rappers whose writing does little more than carry a “vibe” for background club music. Such a preference continues a rich legacy in hip-hop. He explained: “I always believe in giving credit to those who paved the way for you or influenced you. To me, hip-hop runs very deep. I believe its origin was born of an era of oppression and pain and became a means for people to express themselves in a fun and creative way.”

Video via Mixed Miyagi's YouTube.

Mixed Miyagi’s understanding of rap music as a means for the voiceless to speak and his unique position at the nexus of different communities and cultures underscore the importance of 'Ngày Nào Cũng Vậy.' He tells Saigoneer: “The song was intentionally directed towards the Vietnamese audience. I can’t speak for everybody, but I do believe there is a divide between Asian and Black/African cultures. Because I’m a child of both worlds, my wish is to be the bridge between the gap and allow both of my peoples to understand each other. I believe the gap between them is due to lack of information. So, I choose to communicate and speak in a way that is best for me — music.”

Mixed Miyagi is non-committal when discussing his plans for the future. As an independent artist who serves as his own manager, finances his own projects and has an outside job to support himself as well as co-ownership in a family nail salon, he has the freedom to follow his creative impulses. “As of right now, I’m having fun just dropping singles. It allows me to play with various concepts and topics freely without the boundaries of making a concept album or project focused on one thing. I do plan to return to Vietnam and see what kind of impact I can have there. I’d love to do tours,” he shares.

A trip to Vietnam seems inevitable considering he used to visit family every two or three years when growing up. And in the meantime, he has been observing Vietnam’s exploding hip-hop scene and following artists such as Nah, Jombie, Datmaniac, Đen, and Endless. Whatever direction Mixed Miyagi’s career heads, it’s worth keeping an eye on a rapper with the confidence to kick off a song with “I’m gonna make a difference, I’m gonna shake the game up,” and the charisma to match the proclamation.

From Indulgent Sadness to Renewed Optimism: The Evolution of Nhạc Của Trang

2022-07-13T16:53:01+07:00

Over the last few years, Ngô Minh Trang (better known as Nhạc của Trang) has become a household name of the local indie scene thanks to a repertoire of melancholy, poignant songs. This year, after taking a break, Trang has put behind the “blue 20s” era to open a new chapter full of peaceful contemplation and gratitude in her new album “Chỉ Có Thể Là Anh.”

'Một Người Nhẹ Nhàng Hơn' — Trang x Tiên Tiên.

When Nhạc của Trang turns a new leaf

Trang started making music when she was just 17 years old. At first, she wrote songs based on karaoke tracks of her favorite tunes, but gradually, having to depend on existing samples no longer felt fulfilling. That was the impetus that pushed Trang to compose the first few melodies, record them, and share the results on her SoundCloud. At the time, Nhạc của Trang bore “a deep shade of red,” by her own admission, as she had her reservations about expressing personal emotions.

Be that as it may, it’s undeniable that many of Trang’s sleeper hits from that era, like ‘Mời Ăn Cơm, ‘Bụi Hoa Giấy’ and ‘Thương Anh,’ struck a chord among Vietnamese music enthusiasts who fell in love with their intimate lyrics and elegant ambiance.

The sorrow continued to deepen, spilling over into everything I wrote. The songs became like a wordy lament on my sadness.

Following her high school graduation, Trang went abroad to study music in the United Kingdom to delve deeper into the craftsmanship of music composition, production, and arrangement. Her own works also became more polished, judging by the warm reception of her debut album “Tỉnh Giấc Khi Ông Trời Đang Ngủ.”

Most importantly, across Trang’s professional development as a serious musician, she allows ample room to experience more corners and slices of life. Trang learns new life lessons from traveling adventures, through performing with industry juggernauts like Min and Uyên Linh, and in her own mistakes in past songs. From someone who, she admits, likes “hiding in a secluded corner in her head,” she learns how to embrace sadness in a healthy way and how to be gentle with herself. Nhạc của Trang, as an inevitable development, transforms into something lighter, more optimistic, and more hopeful.

Writing life into music

Trang has written scores of songs in the span of her career, but ‘Thư Cho Anh’ is not only her favorite, but also serves as the turning point helping her cement a guiding mindset in making music. ‘Thư Cho Anh’ is a slow-tempo ballad that was written during a time when Trang felt she didn’t have a firm grasp on the technicality of writing songs.

“At the time, after I finished writing any song, I didn’t want to listen to it again because I feared finding mistakes. But with ‘Thư Cho Anh,’ I was determined to keep on fine-tuning it until I couldn't find any fault no matter how challenging it was,” she explains. That steely resolve paid off and she still feels happy with the song. ‘Thư Cho Anh’ became Trang’s personal reminder to always be strict with herself in order to create high-quality music.

Another watershed moment in Trang’s music career was the release of ‘Bài Hát Của Em’ — which is arguably one of the most heart-wrenching songs in her oeuvre. The story behind the single’s conception, according to Trang, is surprisingly not that deep.

Trang wrote ‘Bài Hát Của Em’ five years ago on the cusp of an incomplete relationship. One day, while in a cafe with a close friend, she started humming a song by a favorite female artist. “My friend jokingly scolded me, asking why when I’m sad, I don’t sing my own song, but somebody else’s. I thought that was a clever prompt. And the song was born,” she reminisces.

After ‘Bài Hát Của Em’ was written, she decided to send it to Uyên Linh instead of singing it herself. “The reason is that when I sang it before, it always felt like I was indulging too much in my heartbroken situation. On the contrary, the way Linh performs it is much more mature, filled with the wisdom of an experienced woman looking back at a failed relationship.”

Knowing that the song could be so much more than just an evocation of sadness, Trang realized that she has put the morose days of her 20s away when she had the chance to perform ‘Bài Hát Của Em’ five years later.

Trang performing 'Bài Hát Của Em' five years after writing it.

“Chỉ có thể là anh” and a level-headed love story

Through learning how to approach negative emotions in a healthier way and how to be kinder to herself, Trang hopes to inspire her listeners to find the same revelation. Her sophomore album “Chỉ Có Thể Là Anh” was created with that aspiration in mind.

The initial plan set the album at eight tracks and a release date in June 2021. The pandemic changed all that, so the production team acquiesced that it would have been a shame to put out a record when it was impossible to meet and talk to fans. Thanks to the postponement, Trang had an opportunity to polish the album and added three more songs. Finally, “Chỉ Có Thể Là Anh” consisted of 11 tracks and three music videos to be released in summer 2022.

Trang at Acoustic Bar in May 2022.

“‘Chỉ Có Thể Là Anh’ is nearly a complete contradiction of my first album,” Trang says. “If ‘Tỉnh Giấc Khi Ông Trời Đang Ngủ’ is quite sad and drenched in pity and regret, in the new album, the mood I wanted to convey is more relaxed and bright.” All the tracks in “Chỉ Có Thể Là Anh” still revolve around a romance with all the different shades of positive and negative emotions of a woman. But this time, Trang has penned a love story of grace and optimism, no longer indulgent like previous songs. The new direction is evident in the lead single ‘Chạy Trốn Với Nhau.’ This is the key message she wishes to convey through her music: “Slow down, have a look around your surroundings, feel and revel in life from even the smallest things.”

Hiimhii Used to Struggle at Karaoke, so He Decides to Write His Own Songs

2022-06-28T09:00:00+07:00

Despite his late entrance in the music scene, Hiimhii and his trusty ukulele has quickly won the hearts of many Vietnamese indie fans with his mellow, contemplative compositions.

"Don't call me a singer"

Hiimhii, also known as Hoàng Hải, is a Hanoi-based independent artist. Hiimhii began singing in 2017 and has since made a mark in the scene with singles like 'Được Không?,' 'Lỡ' and'Lam' that he published on personal YouTube and SoundCloud pages.

Hiimhii's music is difficult to put in a neat genre because he experiments with many different influences, including indie folk, pop, swing, and even hip-hop. Regardless of the genre, listening to a Hiimhii song is like sipping coffee in the early morning: calm, relaxed, delicate, and sincere. These emotions are also what one would feel across his debut album “Chưa Ra Đời,” which was released in 2021.

Several times during our talk, Hiimhii says he does not want to be referred to as a singer-songwriter or an artist. He shares that he isn't sure why he makes music; it certainly is not for the money, nor that he can compose as a profession.

Hiimhii’s first song was born when he realized how...bad he was at karaoke: "I enjoy singing, but I’m just so bad at karaoke. Taken aback, I started learning how to play guitar and realized that if I transpose the chords, my singing is not half bad. But still there are parts of a song where I just can't hit the high notes. So I began to write songs that suit me best.” And just like that, Hiimhii started composing, as natural as an instinct.

'Được Không' is Hoàng Hải's first upload on SoundCloud.

Hiimhii believes his music journey is all about experimenting: in composing, in raising funds for an album, in completing the production process himself, in singing at every venue, etc. Hiimhii also did a stint as a back-up vocalist and manager for music trio Quyếch when they worked on the album "Quyển Trời.”

According to Hiimhii, it was an interesting experience to work with Quyếch. Thanks to it, he was able to share the stage with those he used to admire from afar. "I try a lot and sometimes it's a little too much. However, I'd like to see just how far I can get. And if I fail, I can look back on my journey and see how I could change from the ashes of the past, whether I will slumber, keep flying, or be reborn as something new."

The “Unborn” album and the days before turning 22

The debut album “Chưa Ra Đời” (Unborn) was released online at the end of 2020; the CDs came in early 2021. The album mostly consists of pop tunes that he mixes using the ukulele, piano, and guitar with a soothing and mellow tempo. When listening to his rustic melody, one’s worries seem to fade away.

“Chưa Ra Đời" came about from a vote on Hiimhii’s Instagram. Afterward, he launched a crowdfunding campaign to record the album. After a year of work, including days of “mental meltdown,” the album was released with nine tracks, four of which were old songs that are remixed: 'Được Không?,' 'Lam,' 'Lỡ,' and 'Vô Lí.'

"The album has nine songs; on the album cover I arrange the names in three rows and three columns," he explains. The layout is because he visualizes the songs as squares on a Rubik's Cube so that “no matter which order you listen to them, there’d still be a coherent story.”

The songs in this album are glimpses of Hiimhii’s life from the ages of 17 to 22. "It's a film that takes me back to when I was a child who was pampered, to a time of petulance, then to when I faced the first struggles in life. And, of course, my thoughts, my personality, my life have changed since."

In the album, we meet 'Được Không?’ again — the first song that Hiimhii shared on SoundCloud back in 2017. In the original version, 'Được Không?' reflects a boy's feelings for the girl he loves. Four years later, the lyrics are still about a boy in love, but the tempo is slower and more mature. Meanwhile, 'Lỡ,' one of the most popular tracks, maintains the endless grief of a shattered romance to the tranquil melody of a piano.

'Chưa Ra Đời' is the title track of Hoàng Hải's debut album.

'Chưa Ra Đời,' the eponymous song of the album, has an indie folk vibe to it. Hiimhii shares that this creation is the result of his own “calculation” during the production process. "If I were to characterize the album in three words, they would be accessible, innocent, and deliberate. Those three words are expressed clearly in the song." This song was written last, after he had finished recording the other eight tracks. Wanting to capture the spirit of the whole album, Hiimhii tried to put all the titles of the other tracks into 'Chưa Ra Đời.' But halfway down the road, he was stuck. And that's how 'Chưa Ra Đời' was born, or rather, “unborn.”

Hoàng Hải performing 'Lỡ' live.

New challenges ahead

Hiimhii is now working on various plans, including new singles and longer projects. In the near future, he will take part in a song which he wrote for Lê Cát Trọng Lý's upcoming album “Cây lặng, gió ngừng.” "So far, this is the most memorable experience for me. I’ve never imagined that there would be a chance like this," Hiimhii shares.

Fans always think of Hiimhii with an ukulele. He explains, since the ukulele is small and cute, he frequently has it with him in moments of spontaneous inspiration. On the other hand, Hiimhii says music is still an experiment and he does not wish to be associated with an image or an attitude. He knows that in 10 years, five years or even the next month, he might change. And of course, the vision of Hiimhii with an ukulele will also be replaced.

The Trio of 7UPPERCUTS Exist for the Love of Punk and One Another

2022-05-25T14:00:00+07:00

Founded in 2017, 7UPPPERCUTS signifies a new generation of musicians who are teeming with youthful and creative energy. 7UP’s music, filled with the rebellious spirit of punk rock, not only delivers happy-go-lucky lyrics, bouncy tunes, and vivacious concerts, but also ushers in a promising era for punk in Vietnam.

The birth of 7UPPERCUTS scratches the itch for punk rock

The trio of 7UP all once belonged to different rock groups: A Dính on guitar and vocals, Aki on bass and vocals, and Callum “Lâm” Rollo on drums. From the realm of hardcore/heavy metal, 7UP took the plunge into pop punk, blasting quick-tempo bangers and dynamic beats that are reminiscent of anime soundtracks. “Rock, to us, is the easiest way to voice our thoughts, and punk is the easiest vehicle to drive. Whatever we play, we never fail to u-turn to punk,” A Dính shares.

When the band began, every member was “dying” to play music, so its formation was like scratching a desperate itch. They had no income, so 7UP sold skateboards and amplifiers to sustain the group. Back then, being able to get on stage and play as much music as they could brought true joy to the band. They pulled resources to start making an album — “dead or alive, it must be made,” 7UP says. Less than a year later, their debut record, “Summer Jam,” was released with nine tracks chosen from almost 100 compositions.

“Summer Jam,” introduced listeners to 7UPPERCUTS via slices of high school memories, and the aspirations, sentiments, and romance of adolescence. Through its lively, summery riffs, the album embodies an impetuous spirit, a drive to live authentically, and a feverish affection for life.

After “Summer Jam,” 7UP followed up with the single ‘Yêu’ and “Chái Mái” EP in 2020. During the Christmas period, their single ‘No Internet,’ in collaboration with Seachains, was released. Alas, the band didn’t continue that momentum, and later that year they announced a hiatus after Aki was diagnosed with a serious illness. HỘI NGẦM was the band’s farewell stage in July, seemingly the last time fans could relish 7UP’s music in the flesh.

There are things that we need to lose to know we need them.

“Those two years [on hiatus] was a time for the three of us to sit down to contemplate about ourselves and about 7UP. Lâm returned to his home country to lift weights and seek some solitude, Dính went solo to be a pop star (and even succeeded with the song ‘Bồ Em’), and I focused on treatment. I also prepared mentally to never be able to have fun again. No more music, no more roaming on stage, no more 7UP,” Aki says of the band’s two-year break.

“When I recovered, we met again and realized that we all couldn’t live without 7UP and the other two.”

It’s fun to just hang out, but let’s say goodbye to financial struggles

Two years of “halftime” gave the trio some much-needed space to ruminate on their relationship with rock, and how the band operates. As one of Vietnam’s few bands focused on punk rock, 7UP recognizes that they have many opportunities to grow and develop punk music, and create a viable revenue stream to sustain the band members’ livelihood.

A Dính tells me that 7UPPERCUTS has always considered finding a label to help handle the band’s finance and management. From the very first days, it was formed with one single purpose — to play music. They didn’t place much emphasis on getting any certain number of views, listens, or album sales. They didn’t think much of the concept of success. To 7UP, dipping their toes into business matters too early might not keep them going for long.

Regarding labels, they are also aware that it’s less fun when money is involved, but without money, it’s tough to sustain the fun. After a long time and a few encounters with incompatible music labels, Aki, A Dính and their contemporaries decided to turn this hurdle into an opportunity by establishing Tụp Tắc Records — a new recording label specifically for Vietnam’s punk rock groups.

“In reality, we see Tụp Tắc as a lever to push everything up one level and, by default, we view hardships as something to tackle on our own instead of waiting for somebody else to solve them for us. These are still familiar faces, but now we have a new motivation to develop and grow.”

“At the moment, 7UPPERCUTS is very aware of our role and influence. As one of the pioneer bands in punk, we feel very fortunate, but ‘đời cha ăn mặn đời con khát nước’ [lit: if one generation eats too much salt, the next generation will feel thirsty]. We also want to help other brothers, and lend a hand in finding a deserving place for punk rock in the Vietnamese music scene,” Aki, who went from hating numbers to an entrepreneur, shares.

Tụp Tắc officially started operating this March and is now also the home for Đá Số Tới and Jaigon Orchestra, both very promising pop punk collectives.

Punk: Music is one thing, but mindset is another

Tụp Tắc Records was also born of a conscious effort to nurture and develop punk culture. For 7UPPERCUTS, punk is not just a genre, it’s also an ideology, an attitude, and a personality. One can play jazz, hip-hop, or folk, but if one plays it with a punk spirit in mind, they’re still playing punk. Punk, to 7UP, is a genre that’s easy to write for, to play, and doesn’t require a lot of musicality, but it’s the demeanor of the musician that projects the vibrancy of punk. If one is just merely listening, it could come across as clamorous, but once it’s appreciated with the attitude in mind, punk can become a “current” flowing across our body, forcing you to move along with the music.

Thus, 7UPPERCUTS was formed based on that mutual approach. The three members came together simply just because they enjoy it, they want to play, they want to have fun. Everything began with a simple question: “Why not?”

Form a band? Why not? Make an album? Why not? Sell our amplifier to fly to Hanoi to perform? Why the heck not?

The spirit of 7UP embodies that fiery, ambitious drive of youth, when doing is more important than mulling, and pursuing what one thinks is right is of utmost importance. Their career milestones and following success, after that, came naturally. The existence of Tụp Tắc represents the torch relay to future generations. To 7UP, plunging into punk means not giving too much thought to whether one will succeed or not. First thing first, get yourself a “punk” mindset.

What's next? Em Đ*o Biết Nữa Anh Ơi!

At a glance, 7UPPERCUTS might seem like carefree and reckless lads, but behind those cheeky and irreverent lyrics are very serious initiatives to prepare for a future where they can “have fun and earn” at the same time. Punk is still a rising wave, and it takes a lot of united efforts from other groups to turn it into an indispensable part of Vietnam’s music landscape.

7UPPERCUTS is in their prime, and they’re doing a kickass job at riding that wave. They know when to give back, and how to sustain what they created. When asked when he thinks this golden era might end, Aki has his own estimation, but to the trio, it’s the unpredictability that makes the future interesting.

“We have only been around for five years and already we have changed so much. Dính’s and my inspirations to compose are also different now. 7UP is changing and will always do, but our mindset and spirit will always remain. But Em Đéo Biết Nữa Anh Ơi, wherever the current takes us, we’ll go with it! We’ll come back soon, more Chái Mái than ever, so stay tuned!”