The Day the Music Died

BEIJING - At the back of the Dongyue Temple in Beijing's Chaoyong District, there is a lovely courtyard. I wish I could give period dates or accurate descriptions of its features, but alas I never got around to studying imperial architecture in college.

Nevertheless I can say this is the Chinese courtyard as imagined by young Sinologists all over the world, with shiny blue curved roof tiles and large red lanterns hung every meter on the outside of the crimson-colored hallways.

The Dongyue Temple admission ticket includes entry to this courtyard, which is located behind the main Daoist statues and relics of the temple. My ticket - normally 30 RMB, but just 5 RMB with a student card - says this is the "Beijing Folk Museum," and is the only place in Beijing where large folk performances can be held.

Behind the final statue hall, roughly in the middle of the courtyard, is a large, tacky stage that is used for performances. It's brand-new, and designed in the Chinese "shiny red thing" category. All over China these tacky balloons and pixelated background montages are ruining historical sites and downtown shopping malls alike. The Dongyue Temple was no exception.

But despite the intrusion of the tacky, I still had a wonderful experience in the courtyard during my visit last summer. I visited the temple on a hot, sunny afternoon by myself, wanting to kill a couple hours before meeting an American friend in a language program. As I entered the courtyard, I heard music coming from a back corner. Three young musicians were playing Chinese instruments. One was the erhu, the other two I didn't recognize.

I went upstairs and stood next to where they were playing. The music was lovely, the perfect antidote to the broiling hot weather. I sat down and listened for over half an hour, nearly falling asleep to the sounds.

Yesterday I returned to the temple with a couple friends, and went back to that courtyard. There were no sounds, and no musicians in sight. A few workers played cards, uninterested in the few people at the temple. I again climbed the stairs to the second floor, and walked in the room where I heard people playing. There I saw a couple instruments, and three young Chinese, dressed in traditional but ill-fitting costumes.

I asked one with long curly black hair (recent perm?) when the music was going to start.

"Today's there's no music," she said.

I asked her if there was ever music. She said on Chinese New Year sometimes there were performers, other times no. I protested that I had heard music there nine months ago. She seemed confused, and called over a colleague. Yes, he said, there used to be musical performances, but now no longer. The music had died.