En Joey

I.

Attending a Joey Yung concert wasn’t something I had anticipated. Since my baptism into Cantopop after overhearing a roommate listening to Miriam Yeung in my sophomore year, it was Yeung’s work that had defined the genre for me. Yung, by contrast, has a mainstream influence that extends beyond Cantopop; I knew about her through her Mandarin releases. Thus, when I began exploring Cantopop more seriously, I unfairly categorized her as a commoditized and indistinct entity, whose fame came more from mass appeal than nuanced artistry.

Neither had I attended any pop concert. Not that I don’t like live performances — I’ve always preferred their authenticity and immediacy over the arranged perfection of studio recordings, and would seek out live versions of favorite songs with a collector’s zeal. Still, the idea of being physically present had felt more like spectacle than substance, never persuasive enough to justify the cost and hassle.

Sometime last summer, I stumbled upon Yung’s extensive “side tracks” beyond her major hits. Languishing and ruminating, writhing while defying, mourning then pleading, they surprised and enamored me with compositional variety and lyrical poignancy. Were the statistics to be believed, I spent some eight thousand minutes with her catalogue last year. Perhaps I fell asleep with the music looping, but even that would say something. As the listening time accumulated, I also began to appreciate the evolution in her voice: from the bright sweetness of early recordings to the mature, textured gravitas she commands today.

Last month, I came across news of Yung’s upcoming Eternity concerts, the final leg of a multi-year series, staged as a residency at a casino venue in Macau. It wasn’t the sort of full-scale arena show one might imagine, as a friend kindly reminded, but a modest, if not conservative, production. That, though, had its upside: demand was lower, and premium seats were abundant on secondary markets at slashed prices. I got mine — just a couple of rows from the stage — for a little over half the par value.

II.

I chose the first session of this year on April 12, partly out of impatience and partly assuming she might bring renewed energy after a break on opening night. However, in the middle of the last week, forecasts predicted severe thunderstorms for Saturday, threatening travel plans. Fortunately, it subsided by evening, a minor episode that amplified the sense of occasion heading into the venue. ¹

Any concerns about the repetitive nature of a long-running residency were quickly dispelled. The seats were overwhelmingly occupied, with only scattered empties. It was a diverse crowd that included many families, a point Yung acknowledged during an interlude, remarking that seeing parents bring their children was something “only a singer at my age can see.” It was also a pleasant surprise to discover substantial updates in song selection, costumes, and props, compared to previous years’ performances that I glimpsed via fan-shot videos. A visual highlight was when she returned to the stage for the last segment, wearing a loose-fitting beige suit and thick-rimmed glasses, electric guitar in hand. The effortless cool was welcomed with immediate cheers.

Contrary to my usual preference for slower ballads, the night featured a high proportion of faster, upbeat, or lesser-known tracks. I encountered many of the songs, like “Quicksand” [流沙] and “Never Mind” [没关系], for the very first time. While this meant some personal favorites were absent — I had particularly hoped to hear “The Last Juliet” [最后的茱丽叶] live — it compensated by providing me with a “discovery playlist.”

Throughout the concise ninety-minute performance, Yung’s vocal and choreographic proficiency was undeniable, save one or two moments where a line seemed momentarily forgotten. The only thing I missed was what might be called “personal moments,” or brief flashes of genuine vulnerability, which would have lent the show a deeper sense of intimacy. Of course, this is a nit-picky observation on an otherwise polished show.

My only prior experience with live music was during graduate school, when I got an unlimited student pass to the Philadelphia Orchestra. It took me several attempts to learn how to “sit through” a classical concert by entering into an intellectual, meditative engagement with the ensemble. However, what I experienced that night was a different energy. Where a classical concert encouraged quiet contemplation, a pop concert thrived on collective, physical participation. I had previously thought an audience’s reaction was merely atmospheric, but this experience convinced me otherwise: it is an integral part of the performance, a vital, bodily prompt fueling the singer’s dynamism and improvisation. As such, the audience becomes the co-performer, making the pop concert a collective project that produces a total artwork.

Also impressive was witnessing the ability of a concert to orchestrate affects, delivering a state of ecstasy. The person to my left was seemingly a quiet student, and in front of me a mother with two young daughters. They were initially polite and reserved, but transformed entirely when their favorite songs played, waving, screaming, and dancing. Although I didn’t reach their level of outward abandon, I was able to get the raw, bodily intensity that screens can’t convey. An eloquent quote I came across the other day goes, “it is impossible to be an atheist when listening to the music that one loves.” But maybe it takes a concert to provide an altar where one most directly meets the transcendent.

III.

Even with thousands of minutes’ listening and a pilgrimage behind me, I hesitate to call myself a fan — not out of snobbery, but because the term implies an uncritical devotion I don’t feel. Unlike what a follower in the common sense might do, I pay little attention to the lives and gossip surrounding the singers I admire. Listening, for me, is a private act of self-expression, in which the singer serves as a catalyst, awakening and chanting to particular resonances within the listener’s inner world. Their biographical details, like those of a therapist, should hold little interest, except insofar as they illuminate the work itself. ²

A second hesitation stems from my long-standing reservation about the insularity of Cantopop’s lyrical landscape. While many genres, even niche ones like ACG, sing liberally of courage, friendship, or existential stakes, Cantopop seems condemned to dwell permanently in love — usually unrequited, always bittersweet. Paradoxically, the genre has shaped my tastes more than I’d like to admit. I complain about its limitations, yet still instinctively return to its melodic melancholy and meticulous modulations, particularly when emotionally exposed.

Attempting to reconcile this contradiction has led me to believe that recognizing a formula in a genre doesn’t negate its aesthetic affordances. One can critically perceive the artifice while allowing oneself to be moved by something beyond rational structure: the specificity of the lover’s predicament in a lyric may not mirror the listener’s own life, but the underlying grief or yearning often finds echos; mediated by imagination, a negative emotional tone can offer a controlled space for catharsis, transforming music-evoked sadness into a form of aesthetic reward.

This dynamic feels particularly relevant today in a commercially and technologically saturated world. Witnessing her AI replica go viral, a prominent voice of Mandopop lamented the post-AI landscape of music as a “boundless sea of existence,” where “anything is possible [but] nothing matters.” That sea need not imply meaninglessness, but it does require a shift in burden. Where once the onus lay with artists to conjure emotion through skill and presence, it now falls on the listener to discern and respond to the authentic expressions of the human condition. By listening both critically and affectively, one can prove that music, even amid the glut of replication and mimicry, retains its power to summon and to connect.