By Lu Jiaxin
Through Rain’s headphones, the lyrics, “I could be a river, I sweep you away, posit all my creatures at the grave where you lay.” played on an endless loop. They were from a song called Metamorphosis by Rain’s favourite screamo band, Your Arms Are My Cocoon from Chicago.
It was early April and at a university in mainland China’s Guangdong province, Rain, who asked to be identified by a pseudonym for privacy reasons, was daydreaming about attending the band’s concert in Hong Kong later that month. However, Rain hadn’t yet received a visa for the city and the clock was ticking.
Born and raised in Guangdong, 19-year-old Rain had yet to experience the vibrant city across the border. Rain’s knowledge of Hong Kong was limited to snippets seen on Xiaohongshu, a Chinese social media app, where tales of language barriers and payment difficulties encountered by mainland tourists are frequently shared.
Rain’s longing to attend the concert overcame any apprehensions. They bought a prepaid virtual overseas bank card from Taobao to purchase the concert ticket, then had to pay for the visa fees and taxi and bus journeys. All in, Rain spent HK$900 in personal savings, accumulated through part-time work as an event photographer.
Rain’s parents knew of their child’s love for live music, but Rain didn’t dare tell them how far away the concert was. Their parents had no idea what screamo – an alternative form of music featuring chaotic guitar and screaming vocals – was about, or what it meant to Rain. But the band’s music, a heavy sound with emotional lyrics, made Rain cry. Rain saw that as a good thing.
“The music protects me,” Rain said, referring to frustrations with the way things were.
Riding their luck
Less than eight hours before the show, the much-awaited visa came through. The process typically takes 11 days but had been approved in 10: “As if the gods wanted to make this happen.”
A two-hour bus trip brought Rain from Guangdong to Hong Kong, to a windowless basement club. A blue neon sign outside read “The Aftermath.” The scruffy venue was situated between the expensive restaurants of Wyndham Street and the clubs of Lan Kwai Fong, Hong Kong’s prime nightlife district. At a bar next door, sharply dressed financiers gathered around high round tables for post-work drinks.
That night, The Aftermath manifested a more intense atmosphere than its name suggested. A war of sound was being waged – moshers flung themselves into a vibrational abyss, headbanging to the thunderous, bone-shaking riffs and piercing vocals.
Almost everyone there, about 100 people in total, was dressed in black; Rain blended in seamlessly.
Sporting an oversized black T-shirt printed with the words, “0% drugs, 0% violence, 0% gang, 100% love,” paired with a pleated plain skirt, Rain observed: “The venue was smaller than I had anticipated, but it brought people from different places together.”
‘I’m fucking Gen-Z!’
While such an incongruous and hardcore scene may be commonplace in cities like New York or London, it is a rarer sight in Hong Kong.
Alternating effortlessly between English and Mandarin, Jeff Li, the 19-year-old vocalist and founding member of up-and-coming screamo band The Tears of Aether that opened for Your Arms Are My Cocoon, said: “It’s tough finding a place to perform, but we want to be the cool kids.”
He spoke with a tranquil energy, yet a slight rasp to his voice added a rebellious undertone. Music became Li’s outlet for expression following heartbreak, a means to convey his vulnerability. When asked about the notion that men did not discuss their feelings, his answer was a resounding no.
“I’m damn fragile! I’m damn emotional! I’m fucking Gen-Z!” Li said, his voice growing louder.
Perched on a high stool near the bar, Li caught his breath. “I think I might have sprained my ankle from all the jumping and stomping at the front row,” he said, his band shirt clinging to his body, soaked with sweat.
The genesis of The Tears of Aether can be traced back to Li’s high school days in Shenzhen. As he transitioned to Hong Kong to pursue visual arts at college, he connected with like-minded individuals through Facebook groups, gradually forming a band dedicated to creating music. At present there are four members.
The night’s performance was their first time opening for a touring band.
Reclaiming vulnerability
The show was over, yet the room still simmered with the residual heat ignited by the music. Li and his band members ventured into the dimly lit alley, craving some fresh air.
There, amidst the aftermath of the sonic chaos, the shrill screeching sound of rodents met the ringing that resonated in everyone’s ears.
The Tears of Aether’s bassist Sebastien Streak’s damp fringe served as a tangible symbol of the physical and emotional release that accompanies loud, live music. In the darkness, the band was quiet, shy; perhaps coming down from the three-hour adrenalin surge that had drained their stamina battery. However, it didn’t take long for them to open up.
“This genre of music allows us to embrace our vulnerability – it’s like an emotional catharsis,” said Streak. “A man can cry… It’s better to channel emotions through music than…”
“Jerking off in the confines of our bedrooms!” Li said, hijacking the conversation, eliciting laughter from everyone.
See also: Hong Kong band Bad Math on making melancholy music to dance to
Hendry Wong, the band’s more reserved member, also found his voice. Adorned with a nose ring and an array of earrings, he explained why, in screamo, the music takes precedence over lyrics. “While lyrics play a significant role in mainstream music, we prefer a different approach,” he said.
As the band discussed the ever-evolving nature of musical identity, the event organiser shared similar views about steering away from mainstream conventions.
Adrianna Lee, the founder of guerrilla gig promoter RICE, has a British accent that harmonises with her smoky, weathered voice, a juxtaposition to her petite figure. Her distinctive bleached eyebrows served as a visual statement in themselves.
After returning to Hong Kong from England, Adrianna longed for a vibrant music scene and, as a result, established RICE.
“My intention was never to conform to mainstream standards like Clockenflap; I simply want to attract the right crowd,” she explained, referring to the city’s annual arts and music festival. “The culture itself is inherently anti-capitalist, but it encompasses all aspects of life. It can represent anything, really.”
Finding solace in screamo
Rain came to Hong Kong to be part of Lee’s crowd. Before the show, Rain had met up with two fellow screamo fans, also from Guangdong province.
They, too, were hesitant to be identified, asking to be known under the pseudonyms Wenzi, meaning “mosquito” in Mandarin, and Dengdeng, or “wait wait.” They had initially connected with Rain through an online music group, meeting a few times at gigs in Guangzhou. As midnight approached and the club emptied out, the trio found themselves standing outside the back of The Aftermath.
“I couldn’t help but shed tears when they began playing my favourite song, Metamorphosis,” Rain said.
“I felt a sense of protection and security. In that particular moment, I was able to detach myself from the often painful emotions I carry.”
Rain hurriedly continued: “I often find myself feeling utterly devastated… especially in the times of Covid.”
“I study social science, and when I saw the news, realising that I couldn’t do anything about the system I am in, I felt utterly devastated.”
Dengdeng, leaning against the steel railings, nodded in agreement. He said this genre of music was “great” for individuals who have endured suppression.
The phrase “autistic virgin” was emblazoned on Dengdeng’s T-shirt. He explained it was how some fans of Your Arms Are My Cocoon jokingly describe themselves.
See also: Post-punk duo Gong Gong Gong on Hong Kong, Beijing and the phantom rhythms in between
Wenzi had remained silent throughout the conversation, observing quietly, until the moment he was asked to pose for a photo with Rain and Dengdeng. With a solemn expression, he said: “No, we’re different from you.”
He was referring to political tensions between mainland Chinese and Hong Kong residents, particularly during widespread protests in the city in 2019.
Dengdeng recounted an incident during a movement in 2022, when students in cities across mainland China held up white pieces of paper to vent their frustration over long-lasting and tough Covid-19 restrictions.
He was “invited to drink tea” by the police – a euphemism for being summoned for questioning. He had printed out slogans that read “blocked lives matter” and affixed them to an announcement board at his school.
“They told me: ‘You’re still in university, don’t engage in any political activities,'” Dengdeng recalled. “After the admonishment, I was released.”
After Dengdeng’s revelation, Wenzi seemed to ease up. In contrast to his friend’s all-black style, Wenzi’s curly hair and glasses gave him the appearance of a character who had stepped out of an animated world. As a music producer, he expressed discontent with the restricted access to Virtual Private Networks (VPNs), which are used in mainland China to circumvent the government’s “Great Firewall.”
“Without a VPN, we’re unaware of what’s happening beyond the Great Firewall, oblivious to the possibilities that lie beyond,” he said. “I firmly believe that everyone deserves the right to learn and explore.”
Rain nodded in agreement, and said they were shocked that some of their peers harboured genuine opposition to the concept of “ke xue shang wang,” a term commonly used to describe the use of a VPN to access the internet in China. Its literal meaning emphasises using the internet in a scientific manner.
“They simply believe that it’s unnecessary to venture beyond the confines of the Great Firewall, as life inside its boundaries is already pretty good,” Rain said.
Wenzi added: “For our generation, we don’t really have the concept of ‘country.’ We were compelled to view it as our mother; but in reality, we only have one true mother, our biological mother.”
Continuing a nocturnal odyssey
Midnight had come and gone, but the three-hour concert did not seem to have depleted the trio’s energy. They could not afford a hotel in Hong Kong, so their only plan was to wander the streets until it was time to catch a train the following morning.
As they reached the bustling heart of Lan Kwai Fong, Dengdeng reached into a pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes costing HK$90 – a sum almost equivalent to the cost of the bus ride from Guangdong to Hong Kong.
Dengdeng shared the smokes with Rain and Wenzi as they strolled through down the hill towards the clubs.
However, they soon found themselves face-to-face with the local authorities under the unmistakable “Lan Kwai Fong” street sign.
“I wasn’t particularly afraid of them… as long as they don’t fine me for money, that’s good,” Rain said, laughing, after the police checked their IDs and let them go.
They continued to wander aimlessly around Central before eventually finding solace in a 24-hour McDonald’s.
“People in Hong Kong are surprisingly friendly! An elderly man even taught me how to use the payment system to place my order,” Rain said.
The next morning, Rain boarded the morning train and arrived in class at 10.30 am, exactly five minutes before the start.
“I can’t quite recall the exact course, but it might have been on Mao Zedong Thought,” Rain said, interviewed six weeks after the trip to Hong Kong. “However, I always find myself pondering that night; time felt very vague… as if I was in another space.”
Lu Jiaxin is a Hong Kong-based freelance journalist who previously worked in production and communications. Driven by curiosity and empathy, she explores nuances and complexities across culture and society. Formerly an AFP video journalist intern, Lu is soon to intern at CNN’s Features team to further expand her skills and portfolio.
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