I was in the fifth grade when my music teacher introduced the “twelve-bar blues” on the piano, my first taste of music outside of the classical realm. I was entranced by the emotional rawness that could be communicated through blues — the way you could spontaneously construct your own melodies and rhythms that told your story right then and there. I fell in love with that idea of improvisation, rather than being confined to recreating a piece written 200 years ago to technical perfection. I excitedly ran home to show off my new “blues” to my Chinese relatives, only to be disappointedly met by confusion and a request to play “Moonlight Sonata” instead.
Chinese culture takes pride in tradition and hard work. Being emotionally reserved is modest and honorable while being too assertive is wildly frowned upon and deemed impolite or unrefined, especially for women. This is not to say that any culture is inherently bad; however, these values are certainly very different from American culture, where pride is rooted in freedom of expression and challenging tradition.
As an 11-year-old Chinese-American attending a predominantly white middle school, I became painfully aware of these differences within my own identity and between that of my peers. I began to see music as a reflection of these cultural differences as well — Chinese people were drawn to classical piano and Americans to traditional American music, like blues, because the values of each genre aligned with those respective cultures.
In this sense, I had misconceived music as a cultural binary — harboring tensions between classical and contemporary as well as tensions between Asian and American. I believed classical music lacked room for emotional expression, and after tireless hours of practicing Mozart and Bach over the next few years, I began to resent classical music and aspired to become a more “American” pianist.
Blues is the most foundational genre for many contemporary American music genres such as jazz, funk, rock and pop. Born out of African-American communities during the Jim Crow era, blues offered an escape from the horrors of racism and a means in which Black people could express their oppressive struggle. Similarly, jazz originated from Black communities in New Orleans as a fusion of African and Creole culture. Both genres served as creative outlets for conversation and the expression of culture and struggle. This resulted in genres that value improvisation, experimentation and “feel.”
Classical music’s historical routes go back to 12th century Europe. The history of classical music is sectioned into seven eras, each with their own distinct sound and style: Medieval (1150-1400), Renaissance (1400-1600), Baroque (1600-1750), Classical (1750-1820), Romantic (1820-1900), Modern (1900-1930), and Post Modern (1930-current). Despite having a diverse history, the engagement and practice of classical music from any of these seven eras are consistent and have many contrasting features to American genres like jazz.
For example, all classical composers thoroughly designate every note and dynamic change of their pieces onto a written page. It is clear from looking at classical sheet music how the composer intended for the piece to be interpreted; the goal of a classical musician is to express the written music. While jazz musicians do notate their songs, it is typically done in the form of what is called a lead sheet. Unlike classical sheet music, lead sheets do not document every technical aspect. It instead provides a loose framework through chords for a jazz musician to improvise and experiment around.
By high school, I was ready to abandon classical music altogether and tackle the cool American genres like funk, blues and jazz. My high school had the choice of two music programs: a contemporary music program and a classical chamber orchestra. My path was glaringly apparent. The contemporary music program was by far the most popular and presented the perfect opportunity to quit classical lessons and become a renewed pianist.
However, distancing yourself from the past is an impossible task, and the entire foundation of my musicianship was still classical. Many musicians in the contemporary music program were quick to point out classical elements of my playing when I performed rock or jazz piano. While honest observations, I took deep offense to these comments. It was as if my classical training had given me a permanent accent while communicating through American genres. With the majority of students at my high school being white and the majority of people in the classical orchestra being Asian, I only became more frustrated when students consistently mistook me for a pianist in the classical orchestra simply because I was Chinese.
While exploring my musical voice, I also found it difficult to find my place in the music community as an Asian woman and aspiring jazz-funk pianist. As most of the pianists I desired to play like were either black or white men, it was difficult to see myself at that same professional level because I couldn’t identify with the people who dominated the profession. In the introduction of a research article by Meggan Jordan, Jordan shared an explanation for the male domination in the music industry:
“As an arena that allows men to express sentiments that are discouraged in other public settings, music is important for the performance of masculinity. Thus, music is a source of status and prestige, involving instruments, images, and poses, that symbolize male sexuality and power. At the same time, however, music’s imagined version of reality places limitations on women.”
Jordan also shared a study by Mavis Bayton that compares the social roles of women in popular music — which include singer, backing vocalist and fan — to the social roles of men including instrumentalist, band manager and live sound engineer.
My search for a musician I could identify with changed in my junior year of high school when I discovered the pianist Hiromi. I was listening to various jazz fusion piano pieces when Hiromi’s arrangement of the classical piece Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” unexpectedly started playing. Initially confused and disgusted by the recommendation, I nearly skipped the song, but about a quarter of the way through, Hiromi broke away from the piece’s original structure and began experimenting with rhythm and melody.
Before I knew it, Pachelbel’s Canon was a grooving jazz tune. I was captivated, but not because the song had suddenly switched genres. For the remaining portion of the piece, Hiromi never abandoned the classical elements of her playing. She elegantly wove jazz into classical, harmoniously dancing between both realms. The song was the perfect blend of the two genres that I believed were polar opposites, and that absolutely blew my mind.
Hiromi is the epitome of challenging boundaries — culturally and musically. In an industry and genre where Asian women are in the minority, I grew even more excited about my newfound artist when I found out Hiromi was Japanese. Seeing an Asian woman develop her own distinct musical voice and brand was inspiring but also validating to the blend of genres within my own musical voice.
Identities are multifaceted by nature. It is never about choosing one over the other or feeling like their differences are limiting. Whether it’s a musical or cultural identity, differences can coexist and even complement one another. Just as my identity is a product of Chinese and American, my musicianship is a product of classical and contemporary American genres. My classical training enhances my jazz playing, and my Chinese culture brings a new perspective to how I navigate society as an American. Even if a certain combination of identities isn’t represented, that doesn’t mean that they should be confined or that there isn’t a space for them to flourish. If anything, it’s an opportunity for someone to enrich their environment by introducing something new for others to take away. It’s through embracing all aspects of our identity and understanding how they all have a place in informing who we are that we can each empower ourselves to find our own unique voice.
Erika Cao is an Opinion Staff Writer. She can be reached at caoea@uci.edu.