Music & Art - Saigoneer

Review: Thịnh Suy, Datmaniac Deliver Earnestness in 'Tự,' an Experiment in Spirituality

2026-10-27T11:00:00+07:00

Following the musical works of Thịnh Suy means always being on alert for sudden song drops, sometimes without even a cryptic social media status update as a harbinger. Thịnh’s latest creation, ‘Tự,’ came to be in a similar fashion: the vocal version was unveiled in August, while a few days ago, another version with a rap verse by Datmaniac came out.

Thịnh Suy is the stage name of Bình Định-based musician Đỗ Quốc Thịnh. Right from his debut song ‘Một đêm say’ (A Drunken Night) in 2018, Thịnh had already made a splash in the scene thanks to his earnest sounds that navigate the indie-pop crossover with effortless ease. Thịnh Suy’s music is characterized by simple and contemplative lyrics delivered with similarly frill-less vocals. In ‘Tự,’ Thịnh Suy and long-time producer Lazii brought to the table his staple thoughtful songwriting, but with an added layer of mesmerizing spirituality.

The song title itself is a wordplay as the word “tự” can mean independent and self-sufficient, or a temple, hinting at the track’s surprisingly theological leaning. Thịnh sings about a feeling of existential instability one often faces upon returning to their hometown after living elsewhere — something he would probably know firsthand, having moved to Saigon for college and then returned to Bình Định. Everything seems recognizable, but somehow that sense of belonging is waning.

The song's visualizer, produced by Thành.

The instrumentation begins with three reverberating strikes of temple bell, followed by rhythmic mõ (wooden fish) clanks, a flute lead-in, and finally recurring guitar. Here and there, the wooden percussion would return alongside the flute to anchor the song to its Buddhist leaning, while drums come in at the chorus with layers of other organic sounds like bamboo and temple brass. It’s also interesting to note that the song’s climax is entirely dedicated to instrumentation without vocals. It’s impossible to resist being drawn into this complex sonic ambiance.

According to Thịnh, the rap part by Datmaniac wasn’t planned at the beginning, but first came to be just as wishful comments in conversations with Lazii. They approached Đạt with the idea, and the rapper immediately wrote a verse, recorded it, and sent it back. Datmaniac is also no stranger to writing from deeply personal reflections, so his verse added depth and texture to ‘Tự.’ At the end, the instrumentation is once again taken into overdrive, this time with a sample of Buddhist chant.

Overall, while Thịnh Suy’s songwriting has always been solid and open-hearted, the arrangement and production can be sparse at times, with guitar as the only accompaniment. ‘Tự’ presents a more stylized, entrancing, and atmospheric version of Thịnh Suy’s music that might deserve further experimentation.

To sum up:

Type: Single
Release date: October 2026
Lyrics: Reflective and sincere like a diary entry
Danceable: Interpretive dance fodder
Cryable: If you miss home enough
Karaoke potential: Might bring the mood down but who cares

Score: 86/100

In Hien's Debut Album, a Self-Discovery Journey Through Vietnam, Hungary and the US

2026-10-21T14:00:00+07:00

After a decade writing and gathering materials, Hien recently published her debut album, “Trăng Qua.”

“Trăng Qua” is a record that was 10 years in the making. Some initial song ideas came up in 2015, while other new songs were started in 2025. The album wasn’t constructed from a fully formed concept right from the beginning. Instead, Hien wrote the tracks one by one, polished them across different times in her life, and only came to realize their common thread after a while.

During the creation of the album, there have been many changes in the life and musical artistry of Hien. Born Nguyễn Thanh Hiền in Budapest into a Vietnamese family, Hien moved to New York a few years ago. Her life experiences pass through three languages and cultures. Vietnamese is the language of family and heritage; Hungarian is closely connected to her formative years in Budapest; and English has become the language of daily life and creativity while she lives in the US.

The album cover.

To Hien, the extended period making “Trăng Qua” also gave some old compositions a chance to revisit a past version of herself.

A multi-year album creation process

Hien describes her songwriting process as “quite simple”: she begins with the sound, then the melody, and finally the lyrics. Still, over the decade, the person behind that process has changed.

“‘Trăng Qua’ has had more time to mature,” Hien shares. She mentions “Bloom,” the EP she released in 2021, as a stepping stone before she transitioned to the full-length album. “I’ve matured — I became a mature woman and a mature artist,” she explains. “I’m very glad to have put some of these songs down for a while, as once I return to them, I could listen to them with a fresher perspective. I’m also much bolder in my creative choices. I stopped chasing perfection and let the production be more rustic and authentic.”

Hien describes her songwriting process: starting with the sound, then the melody, and finally the lyrics.

For songs that have been kept on the back burner for years, taking them out for polishing does not mean retaining how they were first created. Hien believes that letting go of one’s older versions is a natural part of growth.

“Letting go of my old selves is really not difficult, because I simply have grown out of them. It’s a part of growth, of creating a space for someone you’re becoming.”

Those changes are clearly shown in Hien's treatment of her musical materials. “Trăng Qua” swings between electronic, ambient, and pop, employing elements from different influences, specifically bolero, chèo, cải lương, Hungarian Romani folk music, Latin bolero, Bulgarian choral music, R&B, and hip-hop.

Hien wasn’t hung up on recreating traditional elements as is, but picked those that she feels a pull towards, including melody, vocal technique, arrangement, rhythm, and emotivity. She then incorporated them into her own music-making process.

‘Trăng tàn trên hè phố’ (lit: the moon wanes on the street) is Hien’s first-ever release in Vietnamese, which made over a composition by Phạm Thế Mỹ using bolero, drum and bass. In ‘next to you,’ she integrated a sample from ‘Xa mối tình đầu’ (lit: away from my first love), also known as ‘Đoạn tái bút 2’ (lit: postscript no. 2) composed by Tú Nhi and Bằng Giang. In ‘through this phase,’ another segment from ‘Tình thư hạ vị’ (a chèo classic) performed by Minh Thu and Khắc Tư becomes part of an electronic track.

At the photoshoot for “Trăng Qua.”

Relearning Vietnam from the separation

Hien’s own relationship with Vietnam was formed in a similar way. She grew up in Hungary in a Vietnamese family instead of spending her formative years in Vietnam. This background resulted in a certain distance that always exists in how she connects to Vietnamese culture and music.

The music video for ‘Bloom’ documents the life of young girls in the matriarchal community of M’Nông people. Stories about family, roots, culture, and nature continue to be crucial themes in Hien’s music.

“I will never experience Vietnamese culture exactly like someone who was born and grew up there, speaking Vietnamese as a native tongue,” she explains. “But that distance also gives me an alternative perspective. It lets me realize, respect, and appreciate things that someone who grew up in Vietnam might deem obvious.”

Hien doesn’t see this distance as something to hide in her music. On the contrary, it’s become a part of how she explores her heritage: “I still have many things to learn about Vietnam, and I think that constant discovery is also a part of my music.”

One aspect of this journey comes from her family, especially her grandfather Trần Tượng Tư, a cải lương performer hailing from Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. He could play đàn nguyệt, đàn nhị, guitar, and violin and worked at the Trần Hữu Trang Cải lương Theater in Saigon, and then the National Cải lương Theater in Hanoi.

In her childhood, she spent summers with her grandparents, so she can remember how he spontaneously played cải lương on the guitar. Years later, Hien hunted down some of his old recordings and added a segment of his guitar work into ‘trăng ơi,’ a track on the album. Hien sees this as a way to continue making music with her grandpa, even though they come from different musical periods.

The music video for ‘Jetplants’ is constructed from VHS footage of Hien’s family archive, spanning three locations and multiple generations.

Her family story also directly appears in ‘Jetplanes,’ the 15th track of the album. It reflects the journey to find new homes and the experiences of someone living away from home, a reference to how her family left Vietnam for Hungary and how she left Budapest for Brooklyn.

The music video is constructed from old VHS footage of her family, filmed in Vietnam and Hungary. 1992 scenes in a small town near Hải Phòng show her father’s side of the family, while those in Hanoi chronicle family meals, Tết celebrations, birthday karaoke sessions, and her maternal grandparents. The footage in Budapest shows a small family and Hien’s childhood friends.

These video snapshots not only help illustrate the song’s visual side, but also tell the story of places and people that have a role in Hien’s personal narrative, from Vietnam to Hungary and then the US.

Three languages and places

“Trăng Qua” features lyrics in Vietnamese, Hungarian, and English, sometimes in one song. For Hien, each language is connected to a different part of her life, but they coexist in one album formed in Brooklyn.

Singing in Vietnamese was a skill she had to relearn. She used to feel self-conscious about singing in Vietnamese before deciding to bring it to her music. The track ‘Trăng tàn trên hè phố’ is the first step in that journey, followed by many other instances where Vietnamese shows up across the album.

Hien doesn’t look at Vietnam as someone who has learned everything about the place they belong. It’s a continual process of discovery via family, language, music, and inherited memories.

“Trăng Qua” pieces together songs from different periods of Hien’s life. Some had their start when she was still in Budapest; others were finished when she moved to America. In between them were many shifts in living arrangements, language, music, and even the self.

Following the album release, Hien hopes to return to Vietnam for a month during Tết to perform.

“Trăng Qua” is available on Bandcamp on major streaming platforms.

‘Echoes of Tonkin’ Exhibition Challenges Clichéd Narratives of 20th-Century Vietnamese Art

2026-10-21T11:00:00+07:00

“Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” opens in Hong Kong to challenge reductive narratives and clichés about 20^th-century Vietnamese art.

“Modern Vietnamese art cannot be traced to a single origin, nor reduced to a simple story of influence,” write exhibition co-curators Trần Đình Thục Đoan and Leah Đỗ in the catalogue’s opening. Spanning 1905 to 1960 and including works by Albert Cézard, Victor Tardieu, Léa Lafugie, Joseph Inguimberty, Alix Aymé, Lê Phổ, Vũ Cao Đàm, Mai Trung Thứ, Phạm Hậu, and Nguyễn Gia Trí, the exhibition is arranged chronologically not to suggest a linear progression but rather to showcase a collection of individual artists working independently in a collaborative atmosphere of adoption and adaptation.

Notably, the exhibition begins before the 1924 founding of the École des Beaux-Arts, the French-led school in Hanoi that produced some of Vietnam’s most well-known 20^th-century artists. In doing so, “Echoes of Tonkin” stresses that while the school precipitated a dramatic shift in the country’s artwork, there already existed a rich visual culture with talented artists across mediums. Moreover, while the school formalized training and offered resources, there had long been exchanges between French and Vietnamese artists as exemplified by Albert Cézard’s 1905 work, ‘Scène du Vietnam’ (Scene in Vietnam).

‘Scène du Vietnam’ (Scene in Vietnam) by Albert Cézard.

Adding more complexity to the established narratives of art development in Vietnam is the exhibition’s inclusion of two Chăm statues dating back to the 9^th and 10^th centuries. They serve as reminders that long before the French or even the Kinh occupied parts of Vietnam, another culture with a rich and meaningful relationship with art thrived.

Chăm sculptures (artist unknown).

The statue of Ganesha reveals the deviations of religious traditions amongst cultures in the region. The Buddha, meanwhile, points to overlap, as does Lê Phổ’s ‘L’illumination de Bouddha’ (Buddha's Enlightenment), which applies creative interpretation of traditional imagery. Painted on silk in 1947 in the wake of World War II and personal hardships, the curators explain that it is “not merely an illustration of religious history but a message of hope amid the world’s escalating political turmoil.”

Lê Phổ’s ‘L’illumination de Bouddha’ (Buddha's Enlightenment)

In addition to silk and sandstone, the exhibition includes oil paint on canvas, terracotta and lacquer. This later medium allows for particularly interesting rumination on the changes in art at the time. Nguyễn Gia Trí’s 1960 ‘Bateaux dans la baie d'Halong’ (Fishing Boats in Ha Long Bay) presents the transition of the medium from a decorative craft to one of ambitious painting. Created seven years into his exile from his home in Northern Vietnam, Nguyễn Gia Trí’s work is one of deep emotion rendered with subtlety and technical ambition.

Nguyễn Gia Trí’s 1960 ‘Bateaux dans la baie d'Halong’ (Fishing Boats in Ha Long Bay)

Similar technical skill is forefronted by Vũ Cao Đàm’s ‘Tête de femme’ (Head of a Woman). Uniquely talented in both sculpture and painting, Vũ Cao Đàm produced works that introduce the familiar theme of idealized female figures. The sculpture was created while in exile, and the act of idealizing a female face with pristine features and headdress represents “not an aesthetic choice but memory made visual,” as described in the illuminating catalogue, which relies on significant research to describe, date, and situate the pieces in the artist’s individual lives as well as the cultural and political developments of the time.

Vũ Cao Đàm’s ‘Tête de femme’ (Head of a Woman)

While limited in number of pieces, “Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” is expansive in its aims to reconsider and redefine people’s understanding of the nature of influence and advancement at the time, alongside interests. When asked to elaborate on what “familiar assumptions” the exhibition challenges, Pascal de Sarthe, who founded the gallery in Paris in 1977, explains, “The idea that Vietnamese modern art is essentially decorative: graceful young women in áo dài on silk, made to please a French and later an international clientele. The market has encouraged this image, because those works sell well. But it hides the ambition, the variety and the intellectual seriousness of these artists. A second assumption, closely related, is that the story belongs to a handful of painters who settled in France. The reality is much richer, and much of it happened in Vietnam.”

Photos courtesy of De Sarthe Gallery.

“Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” is open from now until November 21 at de Sarthe Gallery in Hong Kong.

Art Project ‘The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams’ Is a Wild Alchemy of Vé Số and Photography

2026-10-13T11:00:00+07:00

Vé số ticket number 984430 yields a magenta fish contorting atop a ghostly image of an apartment high-rise in Tân Phú in “The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen,” an art project by photographer Christian Berg. The experimental project, available to view in full online, employs computer technology to combine photography, numerology, and mythology and playfully reimagine how one visualizes Saigon.

The image produced by lottery ticket No. 984430

The process to achieve the surreal images is relatively straightforward. Berg purchased 100 vé số tickets from local vendors and created an algorithm to randomly assign a fixed and repeatable number to coordinates on a map of Saigon, the city he has called home for nearly 20 years. He then traveled to the locations and took photos with the rule that he wasn’t to get off his motorbike. The last two digits of each lottery ticket would determine an AI-generated creature inspired by Albrecht Dürer's famous 16^th-century works.

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” online interface.

Selecting Dürer, a fellow German, was meaningful to Berg for several reasons. While he first considered using Đông Hồ paintings, he said being mindful of cultural appropriation and his positioning as an outsider was important. Moreover, Dürer was one of the first artists to produce and sell prints of his work, providing a fruitful entry point for the discussions of art, commerce, technology, and ownership that exist at the forefront of current-day discussions of creative production. In addition to selecting an animal, the algorithm Berg designed uses the vé số number to select a color and 3D spatial orientation after pixilation. The resulting images aim to offer aesthetic intrigue while suggesting the overlap of the spiritual world and the tangible one via vé số's relationship with numerology and cosmic beliefs.

Images corresponding to lottery numbers 359927, 521951, 233240 and 485496 (from left to right).

“Once you make the game, you can make your own house rules,” Berg told Saigoneer of the two-year project. He thus skipped tickets that yielded coordinates that would send him into the middle of the ocean. Similarly, he weighted certain locations to ensure that the visually diverse center of the city would receive more attention than the somewhat homogeneous outskirts.

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams” comes as a logical next step after Berg’s “All the Places I have Lived” project. For that one, he trained AI on photographs he had taken of all the Saigon neighborhoods he has called home and then had the computer generate images for each. The glitches and errors, including impossible shadows, nonsense signage, and illogical physics, speak to the fallibility of memories as well as falsehood’s place in feelings of nostalgia.

Two photographs from “All the Places I have Lived.”

“Stop playing it safe,” Berg’s supervisor advised as he was formulating the project as part of his PhD coursework at RMIT Melbourne’s School of Art. For the majority of Berg’s time in Saigon, he has practiced conventional photography as a documentary photographer, commercial photographer, and lecturer at RMIT Vietnam. This PhD program allowed him to go beyond his comfort zone and discover what he could learn via experimentation and adoption of new, sometimes radical techniques and schemes. Particularly, the system he devised forced him to act counterintuitively and put together ideas and images that he normally wouldn’t, and in the process discover new means of creative convergence.

In its application of AI, the project reflects Berg’s larger approach to technology. While an ardent supporter of human creativity and credit, he says one cannot just shut themselves off from the existence of new technologies. He explains to his students that “The hardest and most important lesson is to be curious about the world,” and that “saying no outright is not the approach of a curious mind.”

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” as featured at the RMIT's Vietnam Festival of Creativity & Design.

The place of AI in art is and will continue to be the subject of intense debates. Projects like “The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” serve as not only examples of what can be done, but also how curiosity is driving artists to play with it.

Review: In Lope Dope's Debut Album, a Summery Fictional World Powered by City Pop

2026-09-29T15:00:00+07:00

“Tình ca thành phố vịnh,” the first album by Hanoian indie group Lope Dope, might come out at the end of summer in August, but its wealth of city pop exuberance and tropical cheer is enough to power any listener through the dreary rainy season and upcoming winter.

Lope Dope is a five-person band that initially connected via a large collective of like-minded creatives in Hanoi. Like most musical groups that formed during the pandemic, they struggled with finding a time and space to practice amid ever-shifting lockdown policies, but nonetheless, they persevered, and the first single ‘Vô vị’ (Bland) was officially released in 2021.

Their second release, the single ‘Đêm thành phố’ (City Night) came out in 2022 to enthusiastic reception by listeners and even went viral on TikTok. The momentum allowed them to perform on stage at a few music festivals and youth events to spread their characteristic funk and city pop passion.

In August 2026, Lope Dope dropped their debut record, “Tình ca thành phố vịnh’ (Love Songs From the Bay City), a full-length album featuring nine tracks and one bonus track, ‘Đêm thành phố.’ Albeit originating from Japan, city pop is now an internationally recognized and loved genre all over the world, Vietnam included. A full-fledged city pop album in Vietnam is not unheard of, as Phùng Khánh Linh has done so before with “Citopia,” but if Linh confined the genre to one album, Lope Dope is pursuing city pop and funk full-time, at least for the time being.

The music video for ‘Vịnh người cá.’

“Tình ca” is conceptualized around a fictional city, the titular Bay City, and every song contains narratives, characters, and places that expand on the fiction. Across the 10 songs, Lope Dope creates a tropical world filled with crashing waves, swaying coconut trees, and the ever-present incandescent sun. It reminds me a lot of “Timely!!”, the 1983 album by Anri, in both atmosphere and subject matter, so I am instantly endeared by “Tình ca.”

The album opens with ‘Vịnh người cá’ (Mermaid Bay), the music video for which is an adorable love story between a mermaid and a downtrodden pilot. It’s the song with the most mythological storytelling of the album, setting up both the backstory of the fictional world and the sonic tone for the album. The ending returns to ‘Đêm thành phố,’ the successful hit from 2022 that was arguably the first spark that jump-started this adventure.

The animation for ‘Chuyến du hành vũ trụ,’ a tribute to Georges Méliès.

“Tình ca” has a well-thought-out overarching theme and story that are executed decently. Lope Dope is assured in their vision and stays faithful to it across the tracks — the album’s biggest strength. I could imagine vibing to these sunny tunes while on the bus traveling along the coast in Phan Thiết, Nha Trang, or Đà Nẵng, staring deep into the ocean hoping to find mermaids. The listening experience is seamless, with the tracks blending in and out harmoniously, though this seamlessness is also its shortcoming. The songs don’t differ enough from one another, in lyric content, vocal performance, or melody, so I could doze off mid-trip and wake up not sure which song I’m on.

As a whole, the album is charming, indulgent, and infectiously cheerful, like a summer fling. But, unfortunately, like a summer fling, it also comes up short in depth and emotional weight. Nonetheless, as a debut record, “Tình ca thành phố vịnh” by Lope Dope is a strong showing that demonstrates the group’s personality, vision, and great potential. They not only paid tribute to city pop, but also embodied its aesthetics and spirit well.

To sum up:

Type: Album
Release date: August 2026
Lyrics: Cheerful, story-driven, and earnest
Danceable: Twerking-on-the-beach level
Cryable: No, if anything, it will prevent crying
Karaoke potential: Perhaps, if the lyrics are more available

Score: 68/100

Group Exhibition 'Fiction, Fraction' Showcases 6 Artists in Diverse Visual Mediums

2026-09-21T14:00:00+07:00

From August to October, art organizer Rare Sea brings a diverse group exhibition to Saigon, featuring artworks by six young artists: Lê Đ. Chung, Lê Nguyễn Minh Như, Nguyễn Thị Thanh Mai, Huyền Dương, Thanh Tùng (Ches) and Sophia Mai Brown.

The event, titled “fiction, fraction” (tích, tách, mảnh mơ), is curated by Lại Minh Ngọc and An Trần. It brings together several pieces in a number of visual mediums, including oil painting, lacquer, hand-printed practice, silk and paper.

Sophia Mai Brown is an artist based in New York City, working in drawing and printmaking. Brown maps interactions between the natural and the built world, connecting real landscapes with imaginary inhabitants.

‘Saigon River’ by Sophia Mai Brown. Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Huyền Dương is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice is drawn from personal experiences and everyday events. Trained in oil painting, she works across traditional materials — including textiles, papermaking, and printmaking — as well as digital tools, circuit bending, and toy making.

‘A Handsome Duck and Falling Angels’ by Huyền Dương. Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Thanh Tùng is a multimedia artist based in Hồ Chí Minh City, Vietnam. His practice is rooted in observations of everyday street life in Vietnam, where urbanization continually reshapes landscapes, ecosystems, and indigenous belief systems.

‘Amphidromus dohrni’ by Thanh Tùng (Ches). Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Nguyễn Thị Thanh Mai employs various mediums such as drawing, installation, documentary film, video, and journalism to highlight issues spanning from personal narratives to broader themes of history and migration.

‘The taste of memory’ by Nguyễn Thị Thanh Mai. Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Lê Nguyễn Minh Như is among the few young artists in Vietnam who approaches Vietnamese silk painting through mineral pigments, rethinking a medium that has been closely tied to the aesthetics of transparent watercolors over the past century.

‘Unpredictability’ by Lê Nguyễn Minh Như. Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Lê Đ. Chung lives and works in Đắk Nông. With a multidisciplinary practice that includes painting, sculpture, installation, video, and performance, Đ. Chung examines everyday events as well as working with historical and counter-historical narratives.

‘following the stone wall and we found an electric generator…’ by Lê Đ. Chung. Photo by Phạm Hồ Chí Quốc.

Images courtesy of Rare Sea.

Visit Rare Sea at 3 Đặng Thị Nhu, Bến Thành Ward from August 8 to October 4 to experience “fiction, fraction.” The exhibition is open 10am–6pm, Tuesday–Sunday with free admission.

Review: Saigon Soul Revival Returns to Familiar Inspiration on 3rd Album ‘Chốn Ta Về’

2026-09-10T12:00:00+07:00

More ambitious and self-assured than ever, Saigon Soul Revival (SSR) embraces their own sound and its many influences on their latest album, “Chốn ta về.”

Having made a name for themselves over the last decade by reviving and reinterpreting the eclectic music of 1960s and 1970s Saigon, Saigon Soul Revival’s third full-length album is grander and more polished than the work that earned them initial praise and attention. Steadily growing beyond the covers of beloved nhạc vàng songs that first brought them together, “Chốn ta về” witnesses the group confidently wielding disparate influences, instruments, and approaches that bridge Vietnamese and western traditions.

Saigon Soul Revival playing live in studio at l’Antipode in Rennes, France, during Trans Musicales 2024. Video via KEXP YouTube.

No singular genre or influence defined the time period Saigon Soul Revival pays homage to. Psychedelic rock is perhaps most prominent, but it's punctuated by soul, funk, blues, ska and surf rock. The assemblage acquires new dimensions via local tastes, rhythms and instruments. One of the greatest pleasures of listening to a Saigon Soul Revival record is the surprise that accompanies recognizing how different tracks bring the disparate sonic traditions together. Some seamlessly blend them, such as on standout ‘Trúc xinh,’ where Nguyễn Thị Hải Phượng’s đàn tranh slithers behind the electric guitar before the two instruments trade off taking the lead during an instrumental breakdown. It’s even more holistic on ‘Khúc tình yên vui,’ which features ska and psychedelic rock elements underpinned by Chăm musical references.

Even on tracks that foreground a single style, Saigon Soul Revival’s penchant for cross-cultural pollination produces an exhilarating sum of its parts. The reggae instrumental ‘Lý qua dub,’ for example, begins with an extended đàn tranh and đàn bầu duet before giving way to plodding bass and drums. Similarly, the aptly named ‘Chachacha ngây thơ” interjects Vietnamese into the Cuban 4-4 beat via a chorus with repeated “anh hãy” following the familiar “cha cha cha” refrain and a subtle allusion to ‘Saigon ơi’ in the final trumpet portion.

Saigon Soul Revival. Photo by Nghi Ngo courtesy of the band.

Unlike their first album, which featured primarily covers, the only non-original song on “Chốn ta về” is Mộng Long’s ‘Hoạ mi ca,’ which the band puts their own spin on with the help of local virtuoso Đinh Nhật Minh’s sáo trúc (bamboo flute). Similarly, Vietnam’s most prominent jazz saxophonist and jazz club luminary Trần Mạnh Tuấn provides a boisterous solo to ‘Ơ kìa, em ơi!’ Such support by guest musicians signifies that even as Saigon Soul Revival indulges their own creative impulses, they remain deeply connected to the musical cultures surrounding them.

Whether foreigners at raucous shows here in Vietnam or attendees at the band’s festival appearances abroad, SSR has always attracted listeners unable to understand the Vietnamese lyrics. Members of the band have noted that this reality simply adds another means for appreciating their work, as the vocals become an instrument to intuit rather than understand. Indeed, one doesn’t need to know ‘Độc huyền cầm oán khúc’ is sung from the perspective of a young widow reflecting on her children to feel the longing and despair in Nguyễn Anh Minh’s voice, as reinforced by a wilting đàn bầu. Conversely, listeners don’t need specifics to pick up on the exuberant determination of ‘Ta về với ta’ as conveyed through Minh’s vocal delivery, Nguyễn Khoa Đăng’s enthusiastic keys, and Indy Laville’s soaring guitar solo. Moreover, Minh’s laughter to close out ‘Tình điên’ makes the entire situation’s absurd tragedy obvious.

Cover design by Dan Ni with illustration by Phương An.

More than 40-some minutes of solitary streaming, “Chốn ta về” arrives as an opportunity to experience in person. The band is embarking on a world tour with stops in China and Europe after a few Vietnam dates, including September 19 in Saigon. Meanwhile, a behind-the-scenes documentary is complete and ready to be shared with fans. Physical records are also available, with gorgeous mid-century Vietnamese modernist graphics by Dan Ni and Phương An that feature the Cubist influences which emerged from the École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine, informed by local printing techniques.

What's That Saigon Soul Sound? documentary feature film trailer. Video via Cake Collective YouTube.

Shortly after Saigon Soul Revival formed in 2016, German DJ and music producer Jan Hagenkoetter asked them to perform at the release party for Saigon Super Sound Vol 1, where they helped young Vietnamese discover forgotten local musical histories while allowing foreigners to better connect with the modern-day culture. Since then, and in the process of making “Chốn ta về”, as Laville notes in the documentary, the band discovered their own sound. When considering their place in the evolving traditions of global pop here and abroad, Hagenkoetter remarked that they might now be creating music that inspires future generations.

To sum up:

Type: Album
Lyrics: Simple and catchy
Danceable: Very
Cryable: A few songs if you're really sensitive
Karaoke Potential: If your friends are cool

Score: 84/100

Phương Mỹ Chi's Latest MV Tells Eternal Love Story in Vietnam's Khmer Community

2026-09-08T15:00:00+07:00

After forays into the worlds of reality TV and cinema, Vietnam’s folk pop princess Phương Mỹ Chi has returned to her roots with a fresh new full-length album, pioneered by the lead single ‘Thiên đường với người thương’ (lit: In heaven with my beloved).

‘Thiên đường với người thương’ is a rare track in Chi’s oeuvre that makes a romantic narrative its focal point. Across her song library, the Saigon singer-songwriter has predominantly created music with expressed intentions to promote Vietnam’s cultural and literary wealth. Still, in the new single, while the story might heavily feature a romance, Vietnamese culture — especially that of the Khmer ethnic group — also shines, but in every other aspect of the production, including production and costume design, lyrics, and song arrangement.

To be clear, Phương Mỹ Chi is not of Khmer descent, she is Kinh Vietnamese, though she shared that, to ensure the production is as accurate as possible, she consulted professors of the College of Southern Khmer Language - Culture - Arts and Humanity of Trà Vinh University.

Khmer is one of the oldest ethnic groups to have settled in continental Southeast Asia. Today, Cambodia is home to the world’s largest population of Khmer people, followed by Vietnam and Thailand, each with over a million people. In Vietnam, Khmer communities concentrate in the Mekong Delta, with Sóc Trăng and Trà Vinh provinces making up over 60% of Vietnam’s Khmer population.

The video story follows the connection between the two main characters, played by Chi and actor Bảo Định, from childhood to old age. They formed a kinship when she was a little trainee dancer, and he was learning to play traditional instruments. The childhood sweethearts eventually professed their love as young adults, culminating in a boisterous wedding. The music video ends with the husband, now at the end of his life, alone on the river where they once traversed together as a couple.

The narrative is rather uneventful and simplistic, but what makes ‘Thiên đường với người thương’ stand out is its inclusion of Khmer culture in quite a number of ways. The lyrics include the Khmer-language line “បងមានស្រឡាញ់អូនទេ?” (Anh có thương em không? / Do you have feelings for me?), in addition to other Mekong- and Khmer-specific cultural elements like boat races, cá kèo, and mắm me.

The cinematography takes viewers into the mesmerizing sights and colors of Vietnam’s Khmer community through scenes recorded at famous landmarks in Trà Vinh and An Giang provinces in the Mekong Delta, such as Ao Bà Om, Cỏ Thum Pagoda, Vàm Ray Pagoda, Trà Sư Cajuput Forest, and palmyra palm fields in An Giang. Meanwhile, Khmer dance performances made up a significant scene filmed inside a local community center, while Khmer wedding traditions and ceremonial clothing were replicated for the couple’s matrimony.

Watch the music video of ‘Thiên đường với người thương’ below:

Images via Facebook page Phương Mỹ Chi.

Tracing My Family's Fondness for French Tunes, From Colonial Times to Vietnamese Versions

2026-09-04T11:00:00+07:00

“Tombe la merde; tu ne viendras pas ce soir [Shit is falling; you’re not coming tonight]”: an outburst of laughter and applause would inevitably fill the room as my dad, in his deep, mellifluous voice, put his own profane twist on Salvatore Adamo’s ‘Tombe la neige.’ This track, like ‘Paroles… Paroles…’ by Dalida or Christophe’s ‘Aline,’ are widely known and adored in both France and my family in Vietnam. My childhood unfolded against these rhythms, melodies, and lyrics, whose origins were so far removed from me, both temporally and geographically.

After my 15 years in French school in both Hanoi and Saigon, French, alongside English, gradually became the primary vehicle of my thoughts and interactions, in and outside of school. Only recently did I discover that my family’s entanglement with French music dates back four generations, and that it is embedded within a much larger context of French instrumentalization of music as a colonial tool in Vietnam.

Four generations ago, my ancestors — like many Vietnamese households under French rule — spoke the imposed language of administration, business, and higher education, fluently. In the mid 19^th century, my paternal great-grandfather served as Minister of Education under Emperor Bảo Đại. The ministry operated on a bilingual basis, with French dominating as the language of official communications and decrees. He was also a scholar who worked closely with French texts. My maternal great-grandfather translated and interpreted for the French administration, while his wife sold silk to French buyers. Outside of work, French culture followed my great-grandparents home primarily through classical romantic compositions unaccompanied by lyrics. I’ve always assumed that the presence of French music in Vietnam was an organic cultural residue from colonization, but the discovery that French musical education in Vietnam was a colonial strategy came as quite a shock.

My paternal great-grandparents, Phạm Quỳnh and Lê Thị Vân

My maternal great-grandmother who did business with French textile buyers

French music as a “civilizing” tool

The genesis of French music in Vietnam can be traced back to the early 20^th century. French musical performances began as early as 1883, shortly after the conquest of Hanoi. Military troops sought entertainment in impromptu musical shows, which eventually became more formal musical and theatrical concerts. At the time, only private instruction of western music was available to residents of Hanoi. It was not until the 1920s that official calls for a music school intended to instruct locals were made. The colonial administration realized something crucial: it would be impossible to foster a new generation of Vietnamese — a class of “Francais de couleur,” or Frenchmen of color — without French-organized and -operated schools. This context favored the implementation of French musical pedagogy, set to accompany French academic training, in Hanoi.

The “mission civilisatrice,” the narrative that masks exploitation of colonies as the humanitarian and ethical duty of imperial powers, was the chief justification of French colonization. If the construction of urban infrastructure — buildings, bridges, transportation networks — is often cited as successful “civilizing” efforts, France quickly saw that material embellishments alone failed at molding Vietnamese “with French tastes and habits[,] whose success would encourage the rest of the Vietnamese public to assimilate.”

An excerpt of L’Avenir du Tonkin from April 25, 1925 includes a review of a music recital performed by the pupils of “l’Institut Musical de Hanoi.” Albert Poincignon opened the Institute in 1913 before opening the Conservatory of the Far East in 1927. This review contains the names of (some) participants of the recital: no Vietnamese names appear in the review, which suggests that there might not have been any Vietnamese students.

In 1927, efforts to establish a rigorous and formalized French/Western musical education in Hanoi amounted to the creation of the French Conservatory of the Far East by Albert Poincignon, a customs official for the colonial administration and private music instructor. Its explicit purpose was “to alter the sensibilities and tastes of the Vietnamese.” Although some colonialists believed Vietnamese to be “unmusical and incapable of appreciating western aesthetic traditions,” others saw in Vietnamese an “innate musicality” and instrumentalized this as a means for drawing the Vietnamese majority closer to the French. Thus, formalized French musical pedagogy began in Hanoi with rigorous piano lessons accompanied by intensive training in western musical history and theory.

Initially, the conservatory taught French pupils and a minority of wealthy Vietnamese students; by 1930, the latter had outnumbered the former. It was a short-lived institution, but ultimately achieved its goals with the help of societal forces: knowledge of western classical music became not only trendy, but a marker of belonging to an elite class. My great-grandparents did not have to be enrolled at the conservatory to experience this phenomenon firsthand: their musical taste and sensibilities had indeed been altered, and would be passed down to my grandparents.

My grandparents were born in Hanoi in the 1930s, when French music was just growing in popularity across the country. My maternal grandmother grew up taking private piano lessons and learning western musical theory before becoming a pianist and teaching the curriculum herself after 1954. In the 1930s–1940s, French music maintained a strong presence within urban culture in both North and South Vietnam, particularly amongst the elites and bourgeoisie. At the same time, Vietnamese musicians and composers began embedding French and other western musical elements into tân nhạc, or “new music.” It was in this musical context that my paternal grandfather was completing his study of Medicine in French, before joining the revolution as a military doctor shortly after 1945. In his adolescence, he enjoyed western classical music, which continued playing in his house long after independence, throughout my dad’s childhood.

My maternal grandmother playing the piano (she was in band practice).

When French melodies took on Vietnamese identities

In 1954, Vietnam was officially divided into North and South Vietnam, and a musical split followed. During the 1950s and 1960s, Saigon became a cosmopolitan musical hub where French, American, and Vietnamese musical cultures intermingled and flourished. By the mid 1960s, French artists such as Dalida, Christophe, and Françoise Hardy were well-known amongst the youths of Saigon, far from my family. This decade was also considered to be the golden age of Vietnamese adaptations of French songs: ‘Tombe la neige,’ ‘Histoire d’un amour,’ ‘Viens m’embrasser,’ ‘Bang Bang’ all took on new local lives, respectively becoming ‘Tuyết rơi,’ ‘Chuyện Tình Yêu,’ ‘Lại gần hôn anh’ and ‘Khi xưa ta bé.’ The lyrics of these French-language classics were all rewritten in Vietnamese by Phạm Duy, who is regarded as “the most prolific, varied, and influential of all the tân nhạc composers.” Decades later, I would rediscover these songs, first in French, then in Vietnamese, but more on that later.

These French singers have all had their songs refashioned into Vietnamese tân nhạc hits.

Meanwhile, Hanoi saw French popular music, and some of the Vietnamese tân nhạc that it influenced, gradually succumb to heavy censorship. In the north, the Vietnamese government promoted revolutionary and patriotic music to boost morale during the war — a genre often known as nhạc đỏ (red music). Simultaneously, tân nhạc, deemed a threat to public morale due to its sentimental and nostalgic qualities, was restricted. Surprisingly, French and western music survived the restrictions through conservatory training: classical music continued to be taught and performed, while Vietnamese composers incorporated western compositional techniques into revolutionary songs.

It was during this great musical split that my maternal grandfather served as head of the Cinematography Department, under the Ministry of Culture. His job granted him frequent trips to both Saigon and international destinations. My mom recalls how more often than not, my grandfather returned with CDs of French medleys he either purchased abroad or smuggled in from the south. Thus, my mom grew up to the notes of classical French music and the voice of Dalida, a voice I would grow up to know all too well.

French language skills were not passed down from my grandmother to her daughter, except musically. With no knowledge of the language, my mom knows all of the words to her favorite French pop songs; still today, she sings them, in near perfect pronunciation, instinctively. In comparison, my dad’s childhood saw significantly less French influence. It wasn’t until 1973 that he truly encountered French music, playing on the TV in the Soviet Union, where he studied. When he came home in 1979, western music, and French music in particular, was widely accessible across the country. His homecoming, as is true for his contact with French music in Vietnam, was brief. In 1982, my dad taught himself French while interning in Strasbourg. There, his encounters with French songs multiplied, deepening his connection to and appreciation for them. When he returned home for good, he continued listening to those songs and eventually passed them down to me.

Christophe, Don Hồ, and Thế Sơn perform Christophe’s ‘Aline’ in French and Vietnamese (Paris by Night, Volume 54).

Fast forward to the 2010s, the years of my childhood. Before the age of MTV and the hegemony of American pop princesses, my musical consciousness was largely dominated by Paris by Night. Specifically, the voices of Bằng Kiều, Elvis Phương, Tuấn Ngọc, Thanh Lan left a lasting impression on me, or rather, were insisted upon me. Whenever they came onto the TV screen, my parents would praise not just their voice, but their skillful rendition of French songs. I grew up with these songs in both languages, then quickly forgot about them until my high school years. During this period, my household saw a renaissance of French music, but this time with the original French lyrics. One sunny afternoon, I was passionately screaming “Et j’ai crié, crié, Aline!” with my parents in the car when something strange occurred: I began to remember distant Vietnamese words being sung to this same melody. Where are these songs from? Are they French or Vietnamese? My parents' inconsistent answers fueled my confusion.

Thanh Lan and Elvis Phương performing a medley of French songs (Paris by Night, Volume 50).

As it turns out, they’re both. Many Vietnamese adaptations of French melodies have become so popular in Vietnam that they have taken on lives of their own, almost entirely distinct from their French blueprints. In the couple of decades before and after 1975, the distinction between French pop classics and their Vietnamese adaptations might have been very clear in people’s minds. But today, decades after the golden age of tân nhạc, these Vietnamese adaptations no longer exist strictly as a version of pre-existing French songs, but as staples in their own right. Thus, one would be correct in referring to ‘Aline’ as Christphophe’s song, and also as Phạm Duy’s ‘Gọi Tên Người Yêu.’ Perhaps it is for this reason that I feel rather awkward when receiving comments such as “You must be at least half French” or “You’re as French as our kids,” when I revealed my familiarity with classic French pop. The French adults in my life understood this fluency, in addition to my command of the language, as marks of some “Frenchness” that 15 years of French education must have instilled in me.

The excessively congratulatory tone of the remarks felt misplaced. Their speakers conditioned me to subconsciously view knowing these French songs as a testament to my achievement of becoming “French” in their eyes; I was proud because it seemed like the only appropriate reaction to such praise. Today, my feelings about the same compliments are much clearer: I do not view my perceived fluency in French culture as any achievement, for I never aspired to it. I recognize the history of the songs that my family and I cherish and acknowledge the French influence on those melodies, but I refuse the narrative that they signal any “Frenchness” in me.

In my mind, these tracks’ Vietnamese identities far predate my awareness that they had originated elsewhere. I inherited them as artifacts of both Vietnamese culture and my own family history, so these “compliments” deceived me into thinking that these songs were merely remnants of French culture. This narrative underplays my relationship with these songs as a Vietnamese person; more crucially, it ignores that these songs have Vietnamese lives. These melodies have travelled far and wide; they began as pieces of inherited culture, and eventually underwent significant transformations by Vietnamese talents who made them their own.

Review: Pieces of Me | Nao Yoshioka (feat. Mỹ Anh)

2026-08-27T10:00:00+07:00

Mỹ Anh has come a long way since becoming the runner-up of The Heroes in 2021. Five years later, now with a full-length album and a spectrum of singles and extended plays under her belt, the Hanoi-based artist has proven to be one of the most dynamic singer-songwriter-producer of her generation.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mỹ Anh, to me, is her ability to move seamlessly between Vietnamese and English, no doubt a key characteristic that sets Gen Z apart from Vietnam’s previous generations of musicians. A firm grasp on English allows young Vietnamese to gain much more knowledge of the world, and bring those nuggets of wisdom into their creative works. Similarly, Mỹ Anh’s music, right from her debut single ‘Got You’ (2020), is strongly influenced by R&B, soul, and blues, something she also brought to her latest release, ‘Pieces of Me’ — a collaboration with Japanese soul artist Nao Yoshioka.

‘Pieces of Me’ is a '90s-inspired R&B track that’s mainly driven by keys and percussion, but lifted by the vocal layers of Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh — the former leads the vocals with classic soul techniques while the latter adds an airiness and softness to the lyrics. I find it unexpectedly delightful that Yoshioka’s voice bears some resemblance to Mỹ Anh’s; in a way, a more mature and seasoned version, but they’re singing to each other and reassuring the other self that these “pieces of me” are precious and worth treasuring.

Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh, at a glance, have quite different backgrounds: they belong to different generations; one is Japanese, the other is Vietnamese. Yet, their journeys with music share striking similarities. Yoshioka dropped out of high school and moved to New York alone to chase her dream of being a singer. Mỹ Anh was accepted to the Berklee College of Music in 2020, but, on the cusp of the global pandemic, she decided to remain in Vietnam to develop her own music. Both artists are also pursuing R&B and soul in English, creative choices that often struggle to find footing in the mainstream at home.

It was this sense of isolation that inspired the lyrics of ‘Pieces of Me,’ which express a sense of relief and epiphanous reckoning at finding pieces of self after struggling to live with expectations and seek validation. “I kinda like this so far. Never knew life’s this chill. Feel like I can breathe,” Yoshioka’s verse chants, before she belts out the first line of the chorus. In the chorus, the singers perform alternate lines in succession, as if in conversation — Yoshioka is passionate and empowering, while Mỹ Anh is more grounded.

‘Pieces of Me’ was released in May 2026 as a single, and later included in Nao Yoshioka’s latest album, “self.” The track comes with a visualizer on YouTube featuring the pair’s adventures around Hanoi — sipping phở on the sidewalk and vibing in a coffee shop — it’s like Yoshioka sings: “Never knew life’s this chill.”

To sum up:

Type: Single
Lyrics: Simple but empowering
Danceable: Very
Cryable: Not really, maybe a single tear of joy
Karaoke Potential: More for the shower

Score: 75/100

Art Exhibition ‘Limerence’ Explores Where Romantic Desire Distorts Into Obsession

2026-08-25T12:00:00+07:00

Thom Nguyen utilizes portraiture and depictions of mushrooms and organic objects to explore the concept of limerence in a solo exhibition at Permanently Closed Gallery in Thảo Điền, beginning Friday, August 28.

Limerence describes “an intense psychological state of obsessive longing for another person ... characterised by intrusive thoughts, emotional dependency and a powerful desire for reciprocation. Unlike ordinary attraction or infatuation, limerence involves obsession, emotional volatility and disruption to daily life.”

Thom approaches the term through a distinctly queer lens. The exhibition's works concern themselves with intimacy and imperfection as observed in the moments when longing becomes fixation. His typically colorful and confident oil works depict the beautiful and grotesque results of projection and idealization. Tasteful nude images are not committed to fantasy or reality, while a selection of mushrooms and other organic materials hint at the transformation and decay inherent to an emotion of intense romantic desire and fixation.

Work from Thom Nguyen's previous exibition, Nước | Water Resistance. Photos via Thom's Instagram.

Born in Saigon and raised in America, Thom held his first solo exhibition in Vietnam, “Nước | Water Resistance,” at A. Farm last year. That collection of oil paintings, sculptures, installations, and fashion works considered queer bodies in the context of water’s ability to shift one’s identity.

Scenes from ACHI's Peach Garden at Permanently Closed. Photos via L'Officiel.

In 2026, Thom expanded his artistic practice to curation and community development with the establishment of Permanently Closed Gallery with his husband, Michael Bell. The gallery space is devoted to providing a platform for emerging queer artists and has presented several projects including Nothing to See Here, Nothing to See There, ACHI's Peach Garden, Lyon Nguyen's performance SWEET, and Yellow Fever's The Scent of Pipe.

The opening reception for LIMERENCE will be held on Friday, August 28 from 5pm to 9pm. The exhibition remains open through September on Friday–Sunday at 1–6pm.

The Artworks in “LIMERANCE” Explore Where Romantic Desire Distorts into Obsession

How Vinahouse Fosters Sonic Belonging in Modern Saigon's Queer Collectives

2026-08-24T11:00:00+07:00

If you spend a night wandering along Bùi Viện Walking Street and its dense concentration of bars and clubs, you will almost certainly hear the same sound spilling from multiple directions: fast, pounding basslines layered with Vietnamese pop melodies, punctuated by dramatic buildups and explosive drops. If you fall into the right algorithm on TikTok, you might encounter these same sounds circulating as background audio. This music is Vinahouse. Its ever-presence in both physical and digital spaces makes it one of the most recognizable yet least critically examined musical forms in contemporary Vietnam.

Though saturating everyday life, Vinahouse occupies a marginal position within dominant hierarchies of musical taste. The genre’s cultural significance becomes most visible when examined within queer nightlife in Saigon. Particularly, through the practices of queer collectives such as Bung L0n, the genre is reclaimed from the musical hierarchy that valorizes western electronic dance music (EDM) and becomes a vehicle for belonging and local queer expression. By tracing how Vinahouse circulates through urban soundscapes and queer nightlife spaces, and listening to the perspectives of those within that scene, we can better understand Vinahouse's role in solidifying collective identity and queer sociality in a rapidly transforming urban environment.

Young people in Saigon out and about in 1994. Photo by Ed Kashi.

Vinahouse emerged in the late 1990s and early 2000s as a localized adaptation of Euro-American house, trance, and hard dance styles, shaped through remix practices, pirated media circulation, and club cultures in rapidly urbanizing major cities in Vietnam. The genre quickly became embedded in everyday celebratory contexts such as clubs, weddings, and informal parties. Despite its widespread popularity, Vinahouse is often framed within Vietnamese cultural discourse as lacking refinement, originality, or artistic depth.

Quỳnh Chi is an enthusiast of Vinahouse, whose listening practices also sparked my interest in the genre; she shared the same understanding: “It’s almost implicitly taught that Vinahouse is something that you’re not meant to listen to — much less to enjoy — as a middle-class person.” Queer nightlife in Vietnam occupies a similarly ambiguous and precarious position. While homosexuality was decriminalized relatively early and public attitudes have gradually shifted, queer social spaces remain shaped by discretion and episodic visibility. Nightlife venues and temporary events, especially in Saigon, therefore, have become crucial sites where queer communities negotiate safety, intimacy, and belonging. Within these spaces, music plays a central role not only in entertainment but in structuring bonds and enabling forms of self-expression. In these contexts, Vinahouse is reworked as a locally grounded sound of belonging, transforming the dance floor into a key site of queer social life in the city.

A gathering of queer Vietnamese in 1990. Photo by Catherine Karnow.

Reclaiming the local

Amid Vietnam’s rapid post–reform urbanization in the 1990s, during which a Vietnamese urban culture was being developed, EDM was hastily reshaped to fill the gap in the local urban music scene. Indeed, Vinahouse borrows heavily from global EDM structures while remixing V-pop melodies, bolero, and lyrical references into its core. The genre first became a staple music of Đôn Chề (Dolce) culture — a “marginalized” subculture distinctive of its aesthetic, specifically fashion. However, with its rhythms spilling out of neighborhood cafés, wedding tents, and roadside speakers, the music registers less as a discrete musical choice than as part of the ambient soundscape in Vietnam. This mode of circulation, alongside the digital one, produces a form of musical intimacy grounded in repetition and recognition.

Dancing in the club in Vietnam in the 1990s.

What critics dismiss as derivative can instead be understood as an important aesthetic resource that prioritizes familiarity and recognizability. Saigon’s dense club economy, informal venues, and relatively flexible social atmosphere have allowed hybrid musical forms to flourish. Yet even here, Vinahouse remains stigmatized within “elite” club cultures that privilege techno and other globally valorized electronic genres. Mainstream discourses repeatedly contrast “white” or “western” electronic music, often associated with seriousness and sophistication, with Vinahouse — labeled as trẻ trâu (childish) or bay phòng (drug-party music).

Queer nightlife scene in Saigon provides a crucial site for reclaiming Vinahouse from these hierarchies. Within these spaces, the genre’s local specificity becomes an asset rather than a stigma. Trí Nguyễn (a.k.a. Smoothie Boiz), a co-founder and DJ of Bung L0n, described a conscious shift toward incorporating Vinahouse more centrally in his sets as a way of asserting the Vietnamese-ness within club spaces otherwise dominated by transnational sounds. This move is not framed as a rejection of global club culture but as a modification of it within a local context. In fact, early Bung L0n events relied more heavily on techno and international styles; only later did they start to incorporate Vinahouse.

Đôn Chề is a subculture rooted in fashion, street life, and social media trends.

“After a while, we were like, ‘we are Vietnamese, why don’t we play this type of music more’… [Because] each of our parties has a theme relating to Vietnam, and having no Vinahouse in our parties is not okay,” Trí said, “we felt we were missing something.” When Vietnamese tracks were introduced, he observed that there was a “kind of difference with the participants, people seemed to enjoy it more, or felt a greater sense of familiarity… People [became] more in rhythm.” Reclaiming the local, then, is less about cultural assertion than about affective resonance.

Queer sonic kinship

Bung L0n emerged after COVID-19 as a nightlife collective responding to a perceived lack of inclusive spaces for queer communities in Saigon. Founded by a small group of friends with little background in DJ–ing and party organization, the collective is one of the few existing underground parties geared toward members of the LGBTQ+ community such as Vấp Cục Đá and Gái Nhảy. However, Bung L0n deliberately avoids claims to a specific “community,” Trí said, instead trying to “make it so that when people come, they feel comfortable being themselves, not constrained,” because “ở đâu vui nhất, ở đó có bê đê” (where it is hot, the queers hit the spot). This refusal of overt politicization is itself significant. As dance floors are often romanticized as inherently liberatory spaces — obscuring the gendered, sexualized, and racialized exclusions that structure access to nightlife — Bung L0n’s approach acknowledges the constraints without reproducing them. The result is an environment where queer visibility emerges through atmosphere instead of declaration.

An event organized by Bung L0n. Photos by @captain_____bipolar via Instagram page bung_l0n.

As a participant of multiple queer raves, Linh Phạm sees Bung L0n events not only as spaces of care and intimacy, but also “spaces of becoming”: extravagant dress and makeup, and bodily expression allow participants to safely inhabit identities that may not be possible in everyday life. The queer raves become “transcendental” spaces, but also “liminal.” The experience of exclusion often felt by queer individuals in heterosexually dominated nightclubs is not produced solely by sound but by its atmospheric and spatial by-products as well. When scenes relocate or are reworked — as in the creation of queer nightlife spaces — these atmospheres shift, and gatekeeping boundaries are redrawn, allowing different bodies to feel welcomed rather than deterred. Crucially, this process of becoming in queer spaces is collective.

While those spaces often valorize individuality, Linh emphasized that “individuality [brought into Bung L0n] is interconnected.” Individuality is experienced as relational, with diverse expressions coexisting within a shared platform. Vinahouse generates this platform by providing a common cultural language that anchors differences. When a familiar Vinahouse track appears unexpectedly within a set, the dance floor response “shifts noticeably,” said Linh — participants sing along and become more energized, transforming individualized dancing into collective vocalization. These moments are explosive not because of technical virtuosity but because of shared “sonic memory.” This interconnectedness emerges because dancing is simultaneously an individual and collective act. The dance floor becomes “one organism” when individual musical experiences merge into a shared collective experience, allowing clubbers to feel both immersed in themselves and part of something larger — akin to spiritual or religious experiences.

Vinahouse’s timbral and lyrical familiarity enables listeners to feel connected not only to the music but to one another. However, this kinship is not automatic but carefully cultivated by performers and organizers. Trí emphasized the importance of selection and balance, noting that excessive Vinahouse can alienate some listeners, while too little undermines the collective’s local grounding. This curatorial practice reflects an acute awareness of the genre’s contested status and demonstrates how kinship is produced through labor rather than assumed.

The pulse of belonging

The affective power of Vinahouse in queer nightlife spaces is inseparable from its sonic materiality. Tempo, texture, and volume work together to shape embodied experience. Vinahouse’s high BPMs and predictable structural patterns create cycles of tension and release that resonate with buildup and drop sections in EDM; the latter returns listeners “home” after a period of suspension, intensifying pleasure through contrast.

In queer raves, this return re-anchors bodies in shared cultural space with the reintroduction of familiar melodies and lyrics following extended techno passages. Texture plays an equally significant role. Dense bass frequencies layered with melodic lines invite tactile engagement, encouraging listeners to attune not only to sound but to vibration and movement. Such a tactile immersion blurs distinctions between self and crowd, and fosters levels of embodied intimacy. Volume further intensifies this experience by collapsing distance. Vinahouse is often described as “louder” and more “bustling” than other electronic genres, a quality that Trí identified as immediately signaling “Vietnamese house.” This loudness is not merely auditory but social. It demands participation.

Bung L0n's anniversary event. Photos by @ilang.tmp via Instagram page @bung_l0n.

Therefore, the traits of musical spaces are often less about sound itself than about the atmospheres it produces. In Bung L0n events, sonic qualities of Vinahouse contribute to an atmosphere of inclusion by drowning out self-consciousness and social surveillance, allowing queer bodies to move without constant self-monitoring.

Perhaps most importantly, Vinahouse negotiates the relationship between Vietnamese cultural identity and queer expression in ways that challenge dominant narratives. Queerness in Vietnam is frequently framed as western or foreign, while Vinahouse is often understood as stubbornly local, even anti-western. The convergence of queerness and Vinahouse in nightlife spaces destabilizes both assumptions. In other words, their confluence unravels an inherent antithesis: on the one hand, as Chi put, Vinahouse — being excessive and positioned outside the ordinary — is in and of itself “queer”; on the other hand, queer communities in Vietnam are eager for a local and unique grounding in place of Western norms of sexuality and club culture.

Vinahouse thus has become a means of “localizing western club culture” into something distinctly Vietnamese rather than derivative, said Linh, with whom Chi and I also shared a Vinahouse playlist on Spotify. These moments of localization are not primarily ideological, as ideologies tend to recede inside the rave, replaced by what Chi described as “embodied,” “carceral,” and “more felt” experience. Yet the effects are nonetheless political, allowing participants to inhabit queerness without disavowing cultural belonging. In this sense, Vinahouse within queer nightlife unsettles both the cultural hierarchy of music and the societal hierarchy of sexuality, demonstrating that queer expression in Vietnam does not need to be sonically western to be legible or meaningful, and that Vinahouse can function as a medium through which queer belonging is not only performed but locally grounded, sensorially felt, and collectively sustained. At the same time, the genre does not resolve the tensions between the socially constructed cultural hierarchy and sexual marginalization, but it renders them temporarily livable. Its significance lies not in transcending stigma but in dwelling within it, transforming what is dismissed as low, repetitive, or unserious into a shared language of joy, recognition, and care.

Inside the Vivid, Soothing Art Realm of Vietnamese Illustration Artist Phuongsongdep

2026-08-05T14:00:00+07:00

Using her keen observation and sensitive art intuition, Minh Phương creates a colorful realm through her brushstrokes, with dynamic human figures, animals, florals, fruits, and familiar street antics. Using striking visuals as trusty companions, she expresses a hearty affection for mankind and life itself, as well as local culture and self-compassion.

Living beautifully, dorkily

Minh Phương, best known by her social media handle Phuongsongdep, is a multimedia illustration artist from Hải Phòng but based in Saigon. Her art is distinctively colorful, and imbued with a cheekiness evident of Phương’s openness to her emotions and desire to “live beautifully.” Besides personal projects, brand collaborations and art fairs, Phương’s oeuvre also includes cover arts for popular musicians.

Artworks from Phương’s coaster collaboration with Tired City.

When asked about the meaning behind her quirky internet personality Phuongsongdep — which translates to “Phương lives beautifully” — she laughs: “Well back then I thought it was whimsical and impressive so I kept it, but now there’s a bit of pressure, because you can’t always live beautifully.” She nonetheless decided to stick with it because “I want to live beautifully, kindly, lovingly, and especially I want to live with beauty.”

Minh Phương and her artwork.

Phương often depicts her subjects with rounded edges, like cherubic girls, plump cats, or even plushy flowers. Her fantasy world seems to be in constant flux: the foliage sways in the wind, the water swirls, while dewdrops bounces. There, little school children dance with the fruit vendor, while sun-shielded commuters topple after stray dogs do drive-bys. Phương tends to anthropomorphize her subjects, giving lively expressions to fruits and vegetables, which can blush, smirk, pout, or wink. She is steadily building up a whimsical world using a sweet palette, creating a charming sense of dorkiness.

Phương’s artistic world is filled with colors and plumpness.

Beside portraying the modern society, Phương is also lending that characteristic sense of whimsy into time-honored cultural icons. When she was working on the “Manifest Money” collection, beside well-known prosperity deities like Thần Tài, Thổ Địa, Phương included the images of lesser-known mythological figures like Thiềm Thừ, a three-legged frog symbolizing stability; and Tỳ Hưu, a kirin-like creature with no anus, so it can only absorb fortune without letting it out. All four mythological characters become softened and childlike in Phương’s artistic interpretations.

Manifest Money.

“Dorkiness is also a form of coolness”

This declaration is not something that came natural to Phương. Coolness is an attribute often associated with edginess and aloofness. As someone fond of sweet palettes, she couldn’t identify with the quality, but as she gradually became more aware of her own personal style, that definition shifted: “Perhaps the patriarchy led me to believe that cuteness is not cute, but I really think that how bubblegum pink I am could be a form of coolness too.”

Phương also experienced periods when doubts made her reluctant, and a tendency to overthink overwhelmed her rest. So she drew, as way to communicate with her inner self and a form of meditation. The mind is a garden for different varieties of flowers. Stressful flowers are sharp and monotonous, but flowers of contentment are fluffy and vivid. When the garden started taking shape, she felt at peace lying there to observe and understand it.

Phương’s garden of the mind.

Loving the self, the people, and sharing that love

Having been through bouts of self-doubts, Phương wants her art to become a rest stop for the mind, welcoming kindred friends. It is often said that the arts have the power to connect, and artworks can help not only their creators but the audience members. Case in point, Phương’s pieces were once been used in an art therapy project, spreading the joy of creating art to the public.

“Friendly Reminder” is a collection of postcards she created with the initial purpose to remind herself of her self-worth, but it has touched many other like-minded souls. According to Phương, a number of buyers use them to decorate their rooms as little encouragement, while others use them as gifts. Every time somebody writes her a message recounting how they felt consoled by the artworks during melancholic times, she loves what she’s doing a bit more: “The artwork is more meaningful if it can reach more people instead of existing alone.”

Friendly Reminder, a collection of postcards.

Nurturing moments of stillness

To an artist, a eureka moment can come quite spontaneously, and forcing something out can worsen the artist’s block. Even though Phương agrees that creativity can’t be rushed, she also doesn’t encourage procrastinating a piece for too long, as it can extinguish the creative fire. She observes that some young artists don’t feel comfortable with showcasing their work. Even though they have artworks, they’re still waiting for a higher level of perfection. To Phương, this is a vicious circle because our standards and skills are continuously improving. The longer one waits, the longer the art stays shelved, and the growth is not acknowledged. Therefore, Phương encourages anyone who does art, or any trade, to set a timeline for their work, publish it, close the page, and embark on the next endeavor. The next one is almost always gonna be better.

To get to the deadline in a timely manner, Phương often tries to create an environment conducive to idea formation. She goes on walks, observes, and records images that appear in her mind. Perhaps that’s merely to satisfy her artistic whim and might not be rigorous enough, but it is still a form of practice.

Phương used to treat each artwork as a brainchild, always striving to push it to perfection. Right now, however, she allows them to live their own life out there, while she focuses on herself. They exist as milestones in an artist’s journey, but can’t expand anymore. The artist, however, is an ever-changing entity, capable of producing those milestones. “I need to know how to accept that my ability is always reaching forward to feel comfortable creating,” she shares.

Phuongsongdep’s artworks can be found at art stores like Tired City and OHQUAO. Visit her Instagram @minhphuong.work for to view more.

Carol Kim Brings to Life Rare Performance of 'Tại Vắng Anh' Thanks to Saigon Jazz Revival

2026-07-16T10:00:00+07:00

The rich, bluesy ‘Tại vắng anh,’ written by Tuấn Khanh, was performed by Carol Kim this past November at Saigon Jazz Revival's inaugural concert in New Orleans.

A heart-wrenching rumination on lost love as captured via birds that forget how to sing, the track benifits from Carol Kim's textured voice and aching saxophone solos by Amari Ansari. It was released by Saigon Jazz Revival, a project dedicated to reviving Vietnam's lost jazz era while fusing old Saigon style with contemporary New Orleans, connecting Vietnamese and diasporic music lovers through shared appreciation of sonic legacies.

At the November show in New Orleans when the video was filmed. Photos by by Kim Ha.

“A lot of recordings from before 1975 have disappeared or are hard to find. Coming across them is like a portal into history. The musical influences in Saigon at that time created these tracks that have this very unique multi-cultural energy that's so similar to what contemporary music in New Orleans feels like,” explains director and project-founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

‘Tại vắng anh’ performed by Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim. Video via Saigon Jazz Revival YouTube.

‘Tại vắng anh’ is the second track to be released from the Carol Kim concert after her rendition of Phạm Đình Chương's ‘Đón xuân.’ Of that work, Hill explains, “I heard Carol Kim’s song ‘Đón xuân’ for the first time, and I had this wild emotional reaction to it! This song was recorded in Saigon in 1971, which is in every way a traditional New Orleans jazz song and a Vietnamese tune about Tết and spring all in one song. With a whole Latin breakdown section in the middle. So cool!”

Saigon Jazz Revival founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

Hill's discovery of that song while working on a film, surrounded by her jazz musician friends, eventually led to Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim being brought to New Orleans for the show. Kim is also scheduled for an August 29 show in Chicago. Meanwhile, artists including đàn tranh musician Brian Bui and vocalist Đồng Lan will be coming to hold summer workshops. Further on the horizon, the group aims to release a full album of original music in 2028 with a variety of performances along the way.

Photos courtesy of Saigon Jazz Revival.

Dropping the Disguise: The Evolution of Punk Band Cút Lộn Towards More Radicality

2026-07-05T16:00:00+07:00

In recent years, CÚT LỘN has cemented themselves as one of the most recognizable hardcore punk bands to emerge from the Vietnamese underground scene.

Photo by Cá koi lang thang (@cakoilangthang)

Propelled by electrifying performances and an ability to constantly reinvent themselves, CÚT LỘN continues to develop an increasingly radical sound throughout a fairly long career, especially when considered in contrast to the relative youth of the scene. “Dzữa,” their latest album, is steeped in a noise-driven physicality infused with raw energy tinged with a poetic sensibility that marks a shift away from the trash-inspired experimentation that initially defined them. Breaking away from the spirit of their early days, when they embraced a messy aesthetic that didn’t take itself too seriously, they have refined a more direct sound that emphasizes sincerity and a sharp awareness of the world around them, rather than the aggressive, hyper-masculinity so often found in the genre’s canonical imagery. This approach reflects a generation of young people who are seeking emancipation not only through alternative forms of expression but also by creating imaginaries that break free from the stereotypical constraints that could stifle the underground scene itself. I met with the band ahead of their European tour to discuss, amongst other things, their artistic evolution, their perspective on the Saigon music scene, and how touring around the world has broadened their horizons

Formation and the Pikachu era

Quang Sọt (far right) and Sergey (in back). Photo by Martin Kong.

Quang Sọt and Sergey are the two founding members still active in the band they formed in Hanoi in 2018. Quang Sọt is the lead guitarist, while Sergey took up the drums out of necessity. “To be honest I just was very annoyed that I could not find a good drummer for my band,” he noted.

They were joined by Nguyên Lê on bass, who was then working as a sound engineer for concert venues in Hanoi. Nguyên Lê responded as a joke to an online ad from the band, which was looking for a bassist at the time, but ended up joining the band permanently and hasn't left since. In 2021, they moved to Saigon, but it wasn’t until 2024 that Vui Qá, the current lead singer, finally joined the band. He, who at the time had no experience as a frontman, caught the rest of the band’s attention by taking the stage, grabbing the mic, and performing ‘Graffiti Song’ in such a memorable way that there was no hesitation in making him a permanent member of the lineup. The band’s spontaneity is thus evident even in how they’ve integrated members as they’ve evolved, demonstrating their intuition even in recruitment. This approach seems to have paid off, as they now consider their lineup to be solid and unchanging.

Quang Sọt in action. Photo by @saxichuongduong.

In their beginning days, CÚT LỘN stood out for their performances and music videos, in which they wore Pikachu costumes. The group played up a silly, unserious image that quickly set them apart from other bands. As they matured, the group shifted direction, taking themselves more seriously and embracing complex emotions that could no longer be reflected through the symbol of the juvenile mask, which, moreover, gets unbearably hot during live performances.

“We had so much fun in the first like five years when we were playing crossover trash midi hardcore but then we felt like we reached a point that firstly the Pikachu costume doesn’t fit the band anymore,” Nguyên Lê explains.

This decision to abandon the disguise allowed them to grow out of a style they had come to find limiting and to explore new creative territories.

The Pikachu era. Photo courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

The different stages of the egg

As they mature, their music grows increasingly dark, and the album concepts — always centered around the image of the egg — reflect this transformation. While the band’s name reflects the embryonic nature of the group at the time of its creation (cút lộn is a fertilized quail egg), the title of their second album, “Bắc Thảo” (century egg) reflects a sound that has darkened over time and gained a more intense flavor.

The allegory of the egg is carried forward in the title of their latest album, “Dzữa,” which is intended to reflect a shift stemming not only from their increased maturity but also from their perception of the world around them. The album’s sound aims to reflect an era of crisis, where culture, the economic system, and politics seem to be falling apart. Hence, the image of the trứng dzữa, an egg that is nearly rotten but still edible and whose interior is in a state of decay and parts of which are shattered, mirrors the universe poetically described through the lyrics written by Vui Qá.

Dzữa by CÚT LỘN

The album, which is particularly refined, was nonetheless a painful process for the band members, who were heavily occupied with other commitments at the time. From this constraint emerged a creative process in which the members worked in layers. One of them would arrive with an initial demo, after which the rest would come together to add new touches one by one and reorient the song’s emotion as they went along. Thus, if the first draft was a block of raw aggression, the second musical layer would seek to bring more poetry to the song, and so on, adding complexity to music they were determined not to let become dull and monochromatic.

Once the instrumental part was finished, the musicians would get Vui Qá and take him to Bomb’s place — a key sound engineer and true pillar of the local hardcore scene — so he could start writing lyrics, and then they’d doze off while he began recording his vocals. This piecemeal modus operandi is also reflected in their visuals, the music video for the title ‘Cà Phê Sáng’ was created exclusively from concert footage filmed on a camcorder by videographer Vinatapes, who then glitched the footage to achieve a look that captures the spirit of decay they convey in their music.

Cà Phê Sáng (Official VHS Video). Video via CÚT LỘN's YouTube.

Although firmly rooted in the local scene, the band aspires to expand its reach internationally and has already toured East and Southeast Asia, including Thailand, South Korea, the Philippines, Malaysia, Cambodia, China, etc. Countering anticipated cultural differences, these trips have instead allowed them to anchor themselves in the crossover nature of an international community whose values transcend borders, and the encounters made during these trips have comforted them in sharing common anti-establishment core values with their peers.

“For this kind of community, I think it is the same everywhere. Every tour feels like we met friends, because this spirit is international.” Vui Qá says.

While the tours entail significant expenses, the group is able to offset these sometimes substantial investments through the sale of merchandise, wherein they can expand their creative expression not only via clothing but also through unusual items like a hot sauce bearing the band’s image, which, incidentally, was delicious.

The band's hot sauce Cayvailon. Image courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

Experiencing major scenes abroad allows them a newfound perspective on the state of the Saigon punk scene, which they have observed evolve since its inception. They are pleased to see that in recent years, the number of bands has increased dramatically, accompanied by an ever-growing audience. This development is part of a broader trend of expanding subcultures in Saigon, which often interact with one another due to the still-small size of these circles — a permeability that is part of the charm of Saigon’s underground scene.

But young people’s growing interest in these alternative forms of expression is hampered by the economic difficulties and pressure faced by clubs and concert venues, which have been closing one by one in recent years, foreshadowing a period of struggle in the years ahead. While the DIY tradition fosters solidarity within the community — particularly through the sharing of equipment — CÚT LỘN laments the lack of access to quality venues and sound systems, revealing the significant strain on Saigon’s music venues.

CÚT LỘN at a live gig. Photo by Martin Kong.

A European tour

At the time of writing, CÚT LỘN is getting ready to embark on a European tour. They are profoundly grateful for the opportunity to travel to so many countries and reach such a milestone, and the response to the tour announcement has been overwhelmingly positive, revealing a level of enthusiasm from an international audience that the band itself hadn’t anticipated. But, beyond the apparent glamor, a tour like this is extremely exhausting for an independent act, and Quang Sọt — the only driver with an international license — will be handling the tour van in addition to performing at every show, sometimes playing back-to-back dates in different countries for five days straight. He adds nuance to the positive reactions received following the tour announcement, clarifying that he doesn’t want to use it as a way to “show off,” and above all, doesn’t want CÚT LỘN to be reduced to being one of the few Vietnamese artists to have pulled off a large-scale tour in Europe. For him, this tour comes at a time when the entire band is fully convinced of their artistic prowess, and traveling represents an opportunity to connect with new audiences and share their musicianship around the world.

“We really know where we are. We know where our music is. We want to share it,” he summarizes.

CÚT LỘN's European tour poster.

“Remember to write that we’re nerds!” Vui Qá tells me as we’re concluding our interview. Indeed, CÚT LỘN’s approach to being hardcore resides in the attitude of not trying to act according to the tough tropes usually found in these genres, preferring to appear as true as they are. They want to walk in front in the audience with a genuine attitude, embracing their individual offstage personalities. It is this feature that sets their performances apart from the conventions of hardcore punk. While some bands focus on perfecting their attitude and stage presence, the members of CÚT LỘN are primarily concerned with having fun on stage and delivering a nerve-racking performance, increasingly blurring the line between themselves and their audience. Their style is noisy and distorted, and raw energy is their main focus, as that is what remains fundamental to them, far beyond the lyrics or even the compositions. Their motto is that they have nothing to prove on stage, no matter how nerdy they look, and that’s what gives them such a unique and poignant presence. I believe this is what it means to be a punk in the current era: embracing being cute while maintaining a sincere approach without trying to perform another persona. And this approach proves to be infectious and liberating in a context where opportunities for cathartic expression are becoming scarce.

From TikTok to Bars, a Group of Young Artists Brings Đờn Ca Tài Tử to Unexpected Venues

2026-07-03T11:00:00+07:00

“If you happen to pass by Huỳnh Mẫn Đạt Street in Hồ Chí Minh City
There’s a strange bar with a Mekong theme
Where cải lương is performed every Saturday, a piece of our hometown heritage
Beside the show, you’ll have a chat with Đờn Ca Đó Đây troupe
A Mekong corner in the middle of skyscrapers”

This intriguing invitation appeared on my social media, a whimsical suggestion in the middle of Saigon. As someone who grew up to the sounds of Mekong Delta folk melodies, I was immediately curious of the promise of a đờn ca tài tử experience inside a city bar. Upon doing more research, I learned that the venue was just one of many spontaneous stages of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, a collective of young Vietnamese who found one another in their quest to promote the beauty of southern đờn ca tài tử arts in the mid of Saigon.

From random encounters to a borderless space for đờn ca

As a performance art form, southern đờn ca tài tử has been around for over a hundred years. This genre of folk performance had its start in the ceremonial orchestral music from Huế — which originated from court music itself — but under the influence of folk music in the south. At first, it followed musicians and artists from the central region as they emigrated to the south, and then was adapted to the local culture. Đờn ca tài tử reflects the sentiments, spirits, and living circumstances of communities living in this new land of natural resources. The end of the 19th century was the apex of đờn ca tài tử, when melodies, compositions, and techniques were created and systematized in documentations, becoming a comprehensive wealth of folk art that has continued to exist alongside southern Vietnamese.

A đờn ca tài tử troupe in Saigon in 1911. Photo via Wikipedia.

I managed to arrange a phone call with Đỗ Thanh Phong, the leader of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, on an afternoon when I was visiting my hometown in the delta. I sat on the deck in the back of our homestead, with a placid river and thickets of swaying mangroves in front of my eyes, as I listened to Phong’s stories. Our conversation flowed in and out amid the rustling breeze and memories of a đờn ca lover living in Saigon. These contrasting settings somehow meet in the middle, where these melodies ring.

Members of Đờn Ca Đó Đây.

Although Phong is quite busy handling tasks at his own office job, he still channels as much effort as he can to sustain folk arts. Phong himself can play đàn tranh, or Vietnamese zither, on a novice level, and is tasked with connecting collective members, envisioning group directions, and helping to maintain cohesion without losing freedom.

True to its name, Đờn Ca Đó Đây was born of impromptu performances.

Phong reminisced about the early days at Lê Văn Tám Park in Saigon, where they first convened to play together: “Back in the days, we often met at the park. Right in between busy streets and crazy traffic, there was one corner where the mood turned contemplative thanks to the music and vocals. A few instruments and a few music lovers can carve out a very distinctive space for art.”

A practice session at a cafe.

From such rustic setups, Đờn Ca Đó Đây gradually took shape. Members come from different walks of life: a teacher, a worker, an engineer, a student, etc. Albeit not professionally trained, they all share a passion for đờn ca tài tử and cải lương. The collective found one another first via social media, and then started organizing offline meetings from the beginning of 2025 at the park. In March 2025, the group became more organized and began performing at casual venues like eateries, schools, exhibitions, and especially bars, bringing a novel experience to listeners.

A show by Đờn Ca Đó Đây at Hai Tô Bar.

Many key members of the group’s current roster were recruited from chance encounters. Phong recalls: “I got to know one of them when he was just in 11th grade in Đồng Tháp, via his practice videos on TikTok. We started chatting about instruments. When he moved to the city for college, he asked to meet me. When we met, I recognized his musical talent straight away, so I connected him with other members. Since then, he’s been in charge as our music expert, establishing the musical identity of the group, in addition to musical arrangement and editing our content.”

Another member who works as a teacher for his day job can make use of his pedagogy skills to facilitate the group’s school outreach programs. He is tasked with writing the script, planning the content, and executing it in a way that’s accessible and educational so the knowledge can reach the school children.

Promoting the art of đờn ca tài tử to the younger generation at their school.

Right from the name Đờn Ca Đó Đây, the collective is very clear about their operation philosophy. It can be loosely translated as “performing here and there,” reflecting the group’s “nomadic” nature. They can perform at a range of different venues and not just on stage, for anyone who is interested enough to listen and connect. Music then, can transcend the confines of a one-way performance to be a two-way interaction. The performers and the spectators are brought closer.

A contemporary language to chronicle an age-old art form

Đờn ca tài tử was not an intentional destination ifor many collective members, but it managed to find them again by evoking their childhood memories, such as the quiet evenings watching TV with their family members or festive gatherings at the village temple. Even without professional music training, these formative experiences have fostered a fondness for đờn ca tài tử within them. During the lockdowns of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everything came to a standstill, some found time to explore this connection deeper and transition from merely consuming to learning, practicing, and even creating.

Regarding đờn ca tài tử, they are aware that the art form’s biggest barrier is the public’s stigma. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương are usually thought of as sentimental, obsolete, and inapproachable. Nonetheless, they believe that these are not inherent to the music, but could be the result of the execution and communication, so they try to present đờn ca using a language of the modern society. The performance content is adjusted to reflect more familiar social issues like career pressures, urban ailments, and the mental state of young people. The execution is also refreshed to fit each venue and its audience.

During interaction sessions, even audience members can join in.

The performances at local bars have been especially acclaimed for their high interactivity. Each night is written separately, so actors can improvise their script to fit the particular bar.

Besides, the group has been writing new lyrics based on traditional melodies like lý so they depict the contemporary state of southern provinces. These compositions showcase the cultural, geographical, and social shifts today while retaining the structure and spirit of the original version. Phong showed me a paragraph lionizing VĨnh Long after the national province merger, set to the tune of ‘Lý Đêm Trăng’:

From today, our home Vĩnh Long has been renewed
Alongside Trà Vinh and Bến Tre, land of the coconut trees,
Together we can build our hometown
Come here, take a trip around Ao Bà Om
Head to the old kilns of Mang Thít
Drop by the fruit groves of Cái Mơn
Wherever you go, don’t forget our beloved home
How lovely is Vĩnh Long, our home

In another video, Phong gives an example of how the group interacted with the audience, via these news lyrics sung in the tune of ‘Lý Chim Xanh”:

My home is at the bottom tip of Cà Mau
Oh how I adore this land of Đất Mũi at the south of the map
In Năm Căn, an unforgettable song; In Đầm Dơi, a lovely place
Endless green mangroves in U Minh, where the love runs deep

Connecting a community of đờn ca enthusiasts

Sustaining an independent folk music troupe is not a cakewalk. Phong explains: “Where to perform and interact with the audience is the biggest struggle. Official venues don’t prioritize grassroots performers, so our activities are often spontaneous and fully independent. Besides, the older generations are still quite wary of our new approach to this old art form.”

A performance at the “Thanh Kiều” exhibition.

Despite the hurdles, the positive reception from Saigoneers is a crucial factor motivating Đờn Ca Đó Đây. Phong proudly tells me about a woman in Đồng Tháp who messaged to gift them sets of brown áo bà ba to boost the authenticity of the performances.

After sharing the clips online, another fan sent over a pack of southern checkered scarves. Not long after, someone else donated more colorful áo ba ba so the group “don’t look so monotonous.” And just like that, clothing items like áo dài, khăn đóng started arriving from across the country to keep their morale high.

Phong also met a Việt Kiều visiting from years abroad at a performance, which moved him to tears, and invited them overseas to participate in cultural exchange programs. On the other hand, right at rustic venues like in public parks, many older uncles and aunties would stop by to listen to music and tear up seeing young people being in touch with folk music.

Through every time they perform, Đờn Ca Đó Đây has learned that the true value behind their music is not dependent on how it’s performed but whether it’s performed with sincerity and if it can bring people together. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương will continue to exist in any space in the future if that spirit is treasured and sustained.

This Wedding Is Too Boring to Nhậu, Let's Put on Some Miền Tây Remix

2026-06-24T11:55:47+07:00

While phasing in and out of sleep on a coach in the Mekong Delta, have you ever been jolted awake by the bouncing beats of a Vinahouse version of ‘Quê em mùa nước lũ’ (Flooding Season in My Hometown)? Or, a mindless TikTok scroll would bring up the catchy tune of ‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ (Pass Me the Sewing Needle) that’s trending nationwide.

As an emerging genre, miền Tây remix has seeped everywhere in our daily life, from nhậu spots to wedding receptions, from street karaoke to social media charts. The thunderous bass is accompanied by a dulcet vocalist crooning about the colorful life along the Mekong Delta and making everyone curious about the southern way of life. How has miền Tây remix managed to charm even segments of the society that are usually indifferent to it?

Image via YouTube channel Miền Tây Remix.

Miền Tây, but not remixed, yet

Đờn ca tài tử is perhaps the most recognized art form to come out of the rich musical landscape of the Mekong Delta through history. The genre attracts listeners thanks to its layered instrumentation and distinctive singing style. Musical instruments like đàn kìm, đàn cò, đàn tranh and đàn bầu often accompany đờn ca tài tử performances using the pentatonic scale (hò xự xang xê cống).

It’s also important to note that, right from its early days, đờn ca tài tử has never been confined to stuffy amphitheaters, but was born right at drinking sessions and fields huts after fieldwork was done. The fundamentals of southern music have always been rooted in the community, its core principles forged on kinship and human connection. This festive spirit helps propel the traditional sounds of the south right into today’s entertainment sensibilities.

Đờn ca tài tử is a major part of music culture in the south. Photo via TTX Vietnam.

Remix never dies

Southern Vietnamese are notoriously convivial, and this conviviality means that they often do not care for the distinction between old and new. Music in the south is born for the party table, so when the time requires it to evolve to be more energetic, đờn ca and its traditional peers will rise to the occasion via different evolutions. The miền Tây remix trend stems from this need to electronify southern tunes.

Riding the wave of electronic music, countryside DJs started to reshape folk melodies into upbeat remixes that are familiar yet livelier to satisfy the need for club bangers. A melodramatic and tragic cải lương classic like Võ Đông Sơ - Bạch Thu Hà even got remixed three times.

Miền Tây remix is specifically created for festive, rambunctious occasions, especially wedding parties or Tết gatherings. In the Mekong region, weddings are major milestones that can stretch for two or three days of revelry, feasting, dancing, and singing by the newlyweds, their families and guests. Unsuspecting visitors during these periods might be easily swept up by the “tornado of hospitality” distinctive to miền Tây. Southerners are welcoming by nature, but with a little alcohol in their system, everybody becomes family in their eyes. Anyone who’s been to a Mekong wedding, be it Vietnamese from other regions or foreign travelers, would leave with perhaps some of the strangest memories of their life, ones that are filled with miền Tây remix earworms that are both folksy and high-energy.

Most remix songs are characterized by a fast-paced, repetitive beat and straightforward lyrics that are easy to learn, guess and follow along — especially engineered so the crowd can get into the mood and sing along as quickly as possible. The climax is the most anticipated moment, when everyone holds their breaths for a few seconds before exploding in cheer when the beat drops, despite not knowing how the music will transform. Critics are usually leery of miền Tây remix because of its formulaic recipe, which is not an unfair assessment, but that is by design.

Miền Tây remixes are often criticized as lacking creativity due to their repetitive beats, overused melodies, and cliched themes, but those attributes help the songs stay simple and easy to memorize so they can appeal to the narrow common denominator of the mass. If one can put aside the need for artistic merits, it might be easier to accept that these musical formulae are very effective tools to connect people, thereby helping the songs achieve their human-centered mission.

A musical identity rooted in marrying and drinking

Knowing the music taste of miền Tây listeners, songwriters often focus on the theme of relationships in the lyrics, such as weddings, watching an old flame marry a new lover, or pulling an all-nighter boozing with the squad. Regardless of the topic, the melody must be catchy, lest the remixer steal one’s thunder by attracting more attention with a banger makeover.’

Nhậu, romance, and weddings are the content pillars of miền Tây remix. Image via YouTube channel AC Media and G5R Remix.

Some examples of romance-forward narratives include ‘Muốn cua anh làm bồ’ (I want to woo you) by Dương Ái Vy: “Nè gật đầu cho suôn, sang năm mình làm đám cưới luôn / Hey just give me a nod upfront, next year we’ll wed at once.” In ‘Rồi tới luôn’ (Take the next step) by Nal, the courting is even bolder: “Em ơi em ở đâu anh mang trầu cau qua anh rước dâu luôn / Baby where are you, I’ll bring the trầu cau over to ask for your hand.” Phát Hồ is even more eager to get hitched in ‘Yêu là cưới’ (To love is to marry): “Yêu là cưới trên dưới hai là làm sui, rượu bia chơi láng chín tháng mười ngày có cục cưng nuôi / To love is to marry. Our parents will be in-laws. When the drinks flow freely, nine months are all it takes for a baby.”

In a different context, the genre shifts to fully celebrate booze and nhậu culture, like in ‘Hết sảy miền Tây’ (Miền Tây the GOAT) by Tracy Thảo My: “Anh cứ nhậu thoải mái, có xỉn em vào thay / Baby just drink to your heart’s content, once you’re down I’ll take your place.” This track’s bright spot is how it incorporates traditional cải lương tunes to accompany tongue-in-cheek lyrics that stay true to the youthful spirits of today. ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk again) by Võ Lê Mi, on the other hand, playfully features “hic” sounds in the production to emulate the comical hiccups of drunkenness.

Each of the above-mentioned hits amasses anything from several to dozens of millions of views on YouTube, proof of their catchiness and virality. For sure, these impressive figures are impossible to achieve without the contributions of the constant streaming of barber shops, lunchtime meals beside a mug of sweet tea, boisterous feasts, and the playlist of children of the Mekong bringing their hometowns’ favorite tunes to Saigon.

Reinforcing the southern identity visually

Besides employing familiar southern folk music and lyrical narratives, miền Tây-style electronic also lionizes the region’s cultural identity via visual language, especially in the music videos accompanying the songs.

While the original video usually tells the story via a skit, such as ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk Again), the remixed version will opt for a different direction.

In the remix, Võ Lê Mi decided to take her music as close as possible to its real-life application by re-enacting an entire Mekong-style wedding. The bride wears a festive gown and gold bracelets all across her arms while dancing her heart out on stage with a mug of beer. This would not be a foreign sight if you’ve been to any wedding party in miền Tây.

If a wedding scene is not the first choice, then it would definitely be a countryside landscape, complete with elements often seen in rural Mekong, such as straw mounds and bamboo thickets. In Tracy Thảo My’s music video, such tranquil scenes play background to her hip sways and hand gestures.

In conclusion, both the music and visual sides of miền Tây remix closely follow the people’s everyday culture, be it well-recognized landscapes or energetic wedding parties — with the added dance moves from clubs and discos.

From the southwest to the world

Miền Tây electronic doesn’t need a coat of glamorizing paint to exist today. The genre finds inspiration in the familiar sounds from the past and reshapes them into simple, straightforward remixes so accessible that anybody can vibe to them, even if it is their first listen. Over time, these tunes have transcended the boundaries of matrimonies or family feasts to infect streaming services and the general public.

When a female DJ known for her hip-hop work wants to fire up a set especially curated to spotlight Mekong wedding culture, she would proudly invest in a bà ba pajamas set, checkered scarves, and golden bracelets, just to complete the visuals often associated with a southern party.

The rising popularity of miền Tây remix is best demonstrated in TikTok’s trendy dance challenges, where new music can spread at the speed of sound. Once a 15-second chorus goes viral thanks to a famous creator’s video, countless others would join in. Thanks to its inherently catchy melodies, miền Tây remix is welcoming to everyone. From edgy rappers to showbiz darlings, I’ve seen many instances where social media users dance to songs that seemingly do not match their vibes.

@thuanzilo Lấy cây kim may đồ ???????????? #thuận_zilo ♬ nhạc nền - Thuận Zilo ????

‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ is a miền Tây remix track that went viral on TikTok. Video via TikTok user @thuanzilo.

The most interesting phenomenon for me when it comes to the social impacts of miền Tây remix is how a friend once admitted to me that she really needs miền Tây electronic to… focus on her homework. “I can only focus with this upbeat kind of music. It hits hard but also is kind of monotonous, making me feel awake,” she said. Perhaps this could be an untapped potential for miền Tây music, a brand-new kind of white noise to help young Vietnamese focus?

Meet Th.ink Room, the Tattoo Collective Bringing New Life to Old Artworks and Onto Skin

2026-06-07T10:00:00+07:00

Tattoo Therapist, dr.99hz, cd.cadao, goc.viet, Solarist and Baby Nepotism: listing the artists that call Th.ink Room home feels like shouting out the members of a rap clique. Indeed, tattoo artists, more than any other visual artists, are akin to rappers in their use of pseudonyms, so to employ a common hip-hop refrain, Saigoneer became interested in Th.ink Room because “game recognize game.”

Like Saigoneer, the studio, or “art hub for art lovers from all over the world” as they describe it, is dedicated to gathering inspiration from Vietnamese architecture, design motifs, flora, fauna, and history; preserving traditional artwork; telling stories about and through niche passions and forefronting creative expression, united by, as Phi (@tattoo.therapist) puts it, “the ethos of an ever-curious observer, and an ever-diligent maker.”

For such a permanent end result, tattooing too frequently involves an impulsive or careless process and experience. Phi founded Th.ink Room in 2023 to actively work against both, emphasizing, “we care about the whole experience, starting from your connection to the tattoo you are getting and its origins to your artist to how you feel after you leave.”

Phi (tattoo.therapist) and their designs.

I experienced the studio’s thoughtful approach first-hand last year after seeking out Phi’s detailed black line work. Having grown up in Russia, they were heavily influenced by Europe's golden age of illustration (circa 1880s–1930s). With that inspiration in mind, they developed their signature style while studying art in the UK, but upon graduation, they encountered a market that had little interest in it; clients had moved from print books to websites and wanted color and full images without backgrounds and/or animation. Fortuitously timed requests from friends for tattoo designs introduced the possibility of becoming a tattoo artist.

Golden age of illustration examples: ‘Then There Came a Wind So Strong that it Blew Off Curdken's Hat’ by Jennie Harbour (left) and ‘Reigning Death’ by Robert Montenegro (right).

During that visit, Phi explained the carefully curated design of the District 1 space. Situated in a classic, low-slung residential block partially repurposed for commercial use, the lobby’s raw clay color calls to mind pottery and the shaping of inspiration into tactile ideas. Clients then proceed to the stark red interior room, where those ideas are metaphorically fired and become permanent. The back garden — where artists and clients hang out before, during, and after sessions — meanwhile, embodies the calm and welcoming vibe that transcends the space. Tattoo artists, with their impressive talent in an art form that, despite increasing mainstream acceptance, continues to carry a hint of rebellion or danger, can be intimidating, but everyone at Th.ink Room is a sweetheart, which contributes to an effortlessly relaxed vibe.

The Th.ink Room lobby and studio space.

So much work; that's Vietnam

A man catching a dragonfly in a tree, a physician checking for a pulse, a hand-pulled wedding procession, a rural notice-board demanding “commit no nuisance,” and 15 types of shoes: these are amongst the thousands of woodblock images produced by 19^th-century French ethnographer Henri Oger and his local team. Saigoneer had written about the work several years ago and recently noticed selected images appearing on Th.ink Room’s Instagram page as available tattoos.

Original Henri Oger images (top) and Vũ's (@goc.viet) tattoo designs (bottom).

“This is what started it all. I really liked it and was like, who did this?” Phi noted while showing some Oger illustrations that they had come across in an artwork anthology. Inspired to find more, they sought out a tattered copy of his work at a local book shop. “Actually, I nerd it out so hard on this,” Phi said while flipping through illustrations. “Look at that guy, he's wonderful!” they continued while pointing to one of the images and explaining how the single slim volume contained hundreds of illustrations and thus inspiration “So much work; this is just Vietnam,” they concluded.

Some of the books kept at Th.ink Room.

While online resources help the Th.ink Room team explore their interests and sources of inspiration that range far beyond Vietnam, when it comes to local topics, antique shops have been a part of their process since the beginning. “We used to drive Trần Nhân Tôn Street, which is an antique street, and they have books there as well. We'd look through things that we thought would make good tattoos, and it sort of became a tradition,” Phi explained of early field trips with Trung (@dr.99hz).

Designs and final work by Trung (@dr.99hz).

Those books now get handed over to Vũ (@goc.viet), a young artist whom Phi had mentored at the studio. “I have materials available from books, and I take designs out of them to make tattoos. I research the contexts: which time period they belong to and how the characters are drawn,” Vũ explained of the works he makes and shares on the Instagram account goc.viet, a name that he explained as “here ‘goc’ means both ‘perspective/corner’ and ‘roots/origin,’ so that people will know who we are — we are people born here and we are Vietnamese. And most of the designs I explore are from within Vietnam, even just a certain corner of Vietnam is fine.”

Vũ at work.

Works by Oger and his team, those collected by Nguyễn Thị Thu Hòa, various unfortunately uncredited drawings, such as ones in the margins of revolutionary South Vietnam: the Struggle newspapers from the 1960s and 1970s, or classic Đông Hồ prints — all require alterations to become suitable tattoo designs. Because of their age and printing methods, details are often lost, so Vũ needs to research the image’s purpose, background, and the conventions of the time it was produced to fill in details such as facial expressions and hand positions while making adjustments for line widths to suit the tattoo medium. Within the laborious examination of what to adjust and how, there is also room to include some personal touches. For example, I had requested a portion of the classic Thầy Đồ Cóc (toad teacher) đông hồ and Vũ adjusted its skin texture while Phi advocated for it to have a bigger butt and more impressive steam coming off the tea kettle. Comparing the original and the finished tattoo makes the final product feel like both a matter of preservation and a conversation between artists across time.

Example of full Thầy Đồ Cóc đông hồ and Vũ's completed tattoo.

More than simply creating works that he hopes will attract customers, Vũ’s recycling of past artists is a matter of pride. “I am Vietnamese, so when I see those images, they remind me of the things my grandparents or parents told me — things I had only heard about before. But today, seeing them in these books, I find them very interesting, yet no one had [made tattoos from them] before. This style of imagery has also been around for a very long time, but no one has developed it further; people just let it be forgotten. Over time, I want to convey it and let everyone know more about the activities of Vietnamese people in the past; these are things that will remain and continue to exist.”

Vũ's designs based on collected đông hồ illustrations.

In addition to his goc.viet account, Vũ operates the vznary account where he posts original artwork that shares some resemblance to his archival pieces but also allows him to explore other impulses. Th.ink Room considers it important to differentiate between tattoo artists (nghệ sĩ xăm) who design original pieces and tattoo technicians (thợ xăm) who execute already existent designs, while emphasizing that one is not better or more valuable than the other, and they both require mastery of different, difficult skills.

Sample issue of South Vietnam in Struggle newspaper (left) and Vũ's tattoo designs based on the periodical (right).

When using outside images, technicians must be extremely careful, though. Phi has noticed that many in Vietnam and abroad are eager to follow trends and fads and will thus steal ideas and exact designs from living artists who are still around and able to make a living from creations that are incontestably theirs. Not only is such behavior unethical, it's also unneeded. “Here lies an enormous, beautiful graveyard of past illustrators and printmakers whose work is brilliant but lost. Many of these can be reworked into tattoos as a humble nod to our past masters, giving them a second life in a world that is getting further and further away from print,” they conclude. In such instances, the Th.ink Room team makes every effort to provide citations, including source, date, and artist when possible, that they include on their Instagram and share with the clients along with assurance they will never repeat the design on anyone else. Of course, this material cannot be included in the tattoo itself, and thus it’s up to each individual to share the story behind their ink.

Finding inspiration for styles vast yet distinct

Ngọc feeds goats, the team hangs out in the zoo, Vũ holds a flower, and Trang imitates a statue in Tao Đàn Park.

Fostering warm, memorable experiences, a core mission of Th.ink Room, requires members of the team to genuinely like and appreciate one another, a truth attested to by how frequently they gather outside of the studio. “We spend days together,” Phi said of their routine field trips. “We sit in the same space, but are drawn to different things in those spaces and the different textures.”

Examples of photos the team sends one another.

In addition to these trips to the park, the zoo, interesting buildings, and corners of the city with particular energies, they are frequently sending photos and links to one another, serving as “each other's eyes.” Animals, ducks, and dogs get sent to Trung; prints and illustrations on vases or ceramics go to Vũ; and Vietnamese architectural elements, patterns, and motifs go to Trang (@cd.cadao).

Trang at work.

“At first, [my style] stemmed from the fact that I just liked ethnic patterns because I spent some time going to the highlands and saw the people there embroidering very beautiful patterns on their clothing. Later on, as I worked and learned about the meaning of these patterns and about the different ethnic groups, I found it very interesting, and I could learn a lot more about the culture, and about the specific techniques,” explained Trang of her handpoke designs. Her method of engaging with past artwork is less one of ethnographic preservation and more a matter of finding inspiration. Ethnic minority embroideries and motifs mingle with organic elements, typography and architecture to become wholly original works. “I draw inspiration from everything — I could listen to a song, read a poem, or read a newspaper… Then it comes along with my memories, my emotions, my own thoughts, and inadvertently, it becomes relatable to everyone.”

Able to offer explanations and academic sources for many of her influences, Trang creates work that is, according to Phi, “very well researched; she can speak about it in a lot of detail.” Of course, no one needs to know the context, details and story behind an image to appreciate it, let alone permanently put it on one’s body, but Th.ink Room believes there is intrinsic value in knowing more. It’s a matter of curiosity about the world. “I don't think there's anything wrong with not being curious, but I think it just makes things better; you just end up learning more,” Phi explained.

Trang's (@cd.cadao) flash designs surrounded by finished pieces.

One of Saigoneer’s illustrators can surely speak on the story behind the tattoo she got from Trang, having selected one based on our logo, which was meticulously scouted before being selected several years ago. And while currently Saigoneer only boasts three tattoos from Th.ink Room artists, there is a trend amongst clients for more. As Vy (@babynepotism) explained, some regular guests have gotten work from each Th.ink Room artist and many that come for guest residencies. Members of the team have also begun experimenting with collaboration on single works. The first piece Vy had done, for example, involves Trang’s patterns and vegetation alongside Trung’s butterflies and bees. Meanwhile, Vũ and Ngọc have begun collaborating on ideas that combine his archival pieces with her coloring.

Vy's collaborative tattoo from Trang and Trung (left) and a collaborative design from Vu and Ngọc (right).

This collaborative ethos extends to Th.ink Room’s lobby, where, alongside the collection of archival texts and various books and zines, are products from local creators for sale. Dyed fabrics, buttons, prints, and photos, as well as random items that members of Th.ink Room make, are available, as well as pro-Palestine fundraiser pieces. The eclectic shop space reflects Th.ink Room’s desire not to be seen as only a tattoo studio, which is underscored by its name. While it includes “ink” it doesn’t explicitly say “tattoo,” and the large Thinker statue at the entrance suggests a different way to interpret it. Such versatility coincides with the space hosting art, music, and community events.

The Th.ink Room team.

Th.ink Room’s perspective on art, originality, and creativity seems particularly relevant today when AI is upending not just how artists make money, but society’s relationship with creativity in general. It seems to me that too many people are eager to outsource their creativity to computers that gobble up sources for commodification while individuals abandon the curiosity that compelled them to make or appreciate art in the first place. While Phi may have concerns about AI, they are not worried about creativity. “Our collective culture is unimaginably rich. I do not personally believe that creativity is dead or ever will be; you can see how vast yet distinct it has always been, by looking back.”

Tracing the History of 'Hello Vietnam,' the Overnight Sensation From Europe

2026-05-29T14:00:00+07:00

Most people who have flown with VietJet are probably familiar with the song ‘Hello Vietnam’ or its Vietnamese version ‘Xin chào Việt Nam.’ As it's often played during landing, tourists might mistake the song for a cute jingle of the company, but the meaning behind the song lyrics is much more nostalgic. It’s about a person of Vietnamese descent longing for their ancestor’s homeland, a place they’ve never been — a story that can certainly strike a chord with many Vietnamese people. Few know, however, that this song was originally a French-language song, one that was almost never released.

‘Hello Vietnam’ achieves the rare feat of being widely recognizable among Vietnamese today, even though it originally emerged from the diasporic community.

The song cover.

Perhaps this accomplishment should not be surprising, as the song seems specifically crafted to appeal to Vietnamese sensibilities: nostalgic lyrics on a melancholic melody were the framework of many other widely acclaimed songs in Vietnam. Even though the lyrics describe the feelings of a person who’s never been to Vietnam, the longing can resonate even with Vietnamese people who never left the country, whether towards their hometown or a version of Vietnam from another decade.

“Want to see your house, your streets. Show me all I do not know.
Wooden sampans, floating markets, light of gold.”

The sheer love and curiosity for Vietnam, along with descriptions of its wonders make the song an easy choice for anyone who wants to convey patriotic pride. This may explain why it sounds familiar even to people who have never heard of it. The exposure to the music is huge: it's featured in travel companies’ commercials, videos on social media, and background music in cafes.

The story behind the creation of ‘Hello Vietnam’ actually began in Belgium, where its original singer, Phạm Quỳnh Anh, was born. Her parents are Vietnamese immigrants. Her father went to Belgium to study and her mother was a political refugee. Always a talented singer, at 13, she participated in the Belgian singing competition TV show Pour la Gloire and won with a terrific cover of Celine Dion’s ‘The reason.’ This achievement convinced her that a career in music might really be a possibility: “Pour la Gloire all started with a bet between my father and me. He was like, ‘Yes, you’ll make it,’ while I was thinking, ‘I won't even get past the first auditions.’ And that's just how it happened; I didn't really realize what was going on at the time,” Quỳnh Anh recounts in French.

Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

In 2005, her career took off, as she became Marc Lavoine’s protégée. Marc Lavoine, a famous French singer most known for his karaoke classic ‘Elle a les yeux revolver…’, was looking for a voice to feature in ‘J’espère,’ a new duet. He was convinced by Quỳnh Anh's performance: three takes during the audition was enough. Following this duet’s success, Quỳnh Anh went along with Lavoine on his tour to many countries.

Being close to Marc Lavoine provided a pivotal boost to Quỳnh Anh, even more so as Lavoine wrote her some songs, which were never released — one of which was called ‘Bonjour Vietnam.’ When learning that the song was written by a white French man, one can feel weirded out at first by the lyrics, notably the description of the character’s physical traits. It was however written at the request and supervised by Quỳnh Anh.

While working on a potential album, she felt the need to sing about her roots, and as such, asked the lyricist Yvan Coriat to write about Vietnam. The text was allegedly too long, which is why she later reached out to the seasoned Lavoine to transform the text into a song, with music by him. The Vietnamese-Belgian singer was immediately charmed: “I tried it, and it worked instantly. It’s amazing because they’re European, yet they recreated an Asian atmosphere so well. I feel very lucky to be surrounded by talented people who help me express myself.” She says in a French interview in Vietnam.

Marc Lavoine.

How ‘Bonjour Vietnam’ reached stardom was its own story: a demo leaked on the internet, and quickly spread throughout the diaspora. By Tết 2006, the song had already blown up all over the world, usually paired with a fan-made video montage of Vietnam. This unexpected instant hit made Quỳnh Anh famous around the globe among Vietnamese diasporic communities. The song never had an official release, and yet she started receiving offers to perform live in many countries like Canada, the US and Australia. Spurred by the global attention, it behooved her to release an English version, translated by Guy Balbaert, called ‘Hello Vietnam.’ This version gained a wider audience in Vietnam, while solidifying her fame among the English-speaking diaspora.

In 2008, she performed ‘Hello Vietnam’ on Paris by Night, which cemented the ubiquity of the song in the diaspora. At the end of the same year, she was able to set foot in the forever longed-for Vietnam in the lyrics, thanks to the popularity of the song, via a short tour in the country.

The original version in French performed by Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

There is a some undeniable poetry in the fact that everything seems to have led Quỳnh Anh to the country of her roots. Starting with her meeting with Marc Lavoine, which resulted in the creation of a song where she sings about how much she would like to go to Vietnam. Then the fact that the song got a self-made fame of its own. And finally, the English translation reached Vietnam, bringing her there as she wished for in the lyrics.

“One day I’ll touch your soil.
One day I’ll finally know your soul.
One day I’ll come to you.
To say hello… Vietnam.”

Nowadays Quỳnh Anh’s musical career has gotten much more quiet, she kept her studies a priority throughout this success, and now it seems to be a historical period, as she has begun new chapters of her life. But the popularity of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is as strong as it has ever been: many translations to Vietnamese helped the song gain a new audience. The budget airline VietJet decided to play a mix of the English and Vietnamese versions as landing songs and a welcoming gesture. This has increased the song’s popularity even more, though it has also inspired a sense of overexposure for frequent domestic travelers. The history of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is usually forgotten, obscured by its reputation as a mere commercial jingle, but it was once a heartfelt wish to reconnect with a homeland one hears about so much but has never encountered.

The Little Moments of Stillness on Hanoi Streets via Artist Hoàng Hiền's Illustrations

2026-05-27T14:00:00+07:00

Whether they're from Saigon, Hanoi or Đà Nẵng, urbanites in Vietnam have all grown up amid the chaos of local street culture, where the pulses of civic life churn with every vendor, family business, and gig worker. "Moment of Stillness," a collection of colorful illustrations by artist Hoàng Thanh Hiền, was born of the artist's keen observations of the familiar scenes in her immediate surroundings.

Hanoi streets are notoriously busy and hectic, but when one actually sits down to focus on each moving part in that busy puzzle, they would immediately notice the charms and vivid liveliness of things that we often overlook while going about our life. Each artwork in Hiền’s illustration project zooms in and isolates an element from the street scene in Hanoi, and highlights it with her artistic sensibility.

“The bikes carrying seasonal fruits, the food carts, the corner vendors selling iced tea, the trees and traffic signs that double as helmet or raincoat racks,” Hiền shares with Saigoneer via email. “Perhaps, with the forces of development and convenience of modern society, sidewalk vendors have become something associated with disorderliness and complications. But I want to redraw those images with a gentle palette. A moment of stillness for people whom I think are dealing with a lot of hardships.”

Mobile fruit sellers, a deliveryman waiting for pickup, rideshare drivers on bikes, a sugarcane juice cart: the subjects of Hiền’s illustrations are mostly small business owners and gig workers who spend the majority of their workday on sidewalks. The human figures are all faceless, perhaps in line with how most of us perceive the people we brush past on the street, but each scene is portrayed using cheerful color choices to celebrate the small moments rather than dismiss them.

Observing daily moments and illustrating them have become an escape for Hiền after the many hours spent at her day job. While drawing has been her favorite pastime since she was four or five years old, she graduated with an unrelated degree and then started working. “After many years, I still drew, wanted to draw, and constantly thought about art, so I quit and started learning art from the beginning,” she says. “ I got another job and, fortunately, met seniors who are very patient with me and believe in me. So I’ve been working while studying since.”

The title “Moment of Stillness” refers to the snapshot of street moments that Hiền collects while walking around Hanoi, but on the other hand, it also started from a need for her to take a break from drawing for work. “One day, I felt like I was illustrating like a machine. I illustrate at work, for my jobs every day. Everything runs smoothly and everybody is satisfied, but suddenly I stopped feeling that joy when I draw,” she shares. “A product finishes and another one comes right along; I don’t know how things began to flow so fast [...] So I started doing art just for myself in my free time.”

With a simple goal to reignite that happiness while drawing, she began with the simplest things that are right around her: “A dry leaf on the street, a fold on my clothes, a muscle of human anatomy… everything can become a story. I want to return to finding beauty in simple things like that. Gradually, I started paying more attention to our sidewalk space and its daily life.”

It might be a bittersweet time period for anyone making a living on Hanoi’s pavements or harboring great affection for the city’s vibrant informal economy, as a sidewalk-clearing campaign is sweeping through local streets, aiming to make them neater and safer for pedestrians. Independent art projects, like “Moment of Stillness,” will serve as an indelible documentation of the street moments of our collective memory.

Hailing from Hải Dương, Hiền herself has been in Hanoi for 10 years through her education and career. Creating art about Hanoi has encouraged her to observe where she lives more instead of being a mere passerby.

“I think each person has a different Hanoi. An old cart can be someone’s way to make a living. It seems like there’s everything on the sidewalk: necessities, food, clothes, even haircuts. Fruits, bánh mì and coffee in the morning and iced tea and skewers in the evening. The space on the pavement might look messy, but operates rhythmically with its own symbiotic negotiations.”

To view more of Hoàng Hiền's artworks, visit her Behance page here.