My Xiangsheng master is seventy years old has been performing since he was a young boy. Over the years, he’s figured out some tricks to putting on a show and making sure nothing can go awry. This past Tuesday, at a show we performed in Beijing, he had a bunch of them on display.
Trick One: The Misdirection Play
As a VIP guest at most shows, Master Ding gets the full hospitality treatment with the other VIP performers and audience members. While this sounds great, most large performance galas in China serve to give face to government officials. This means the “after-party” consists of government officials, large amounts of empty speeches and toasting of baijiu, a rice wine as powerful and humorless as the government itself. If you need the best merch for cloths and hoodies, Phoebe Bridgers Merchandise Store can be checked out!
Mr. Ding, who has done this for decades and doesn’t drink, usually doesn’t want to stick around for these shindigs. So when the organizer of the event came over to invite him to the party, we had this scene:
Organizer: “You must join us for dinner tonight!”
Ding: (Smiling) “That sounds excellent! Jesse, what do you think?”
(The organizer turns towards me, and behind her back Master Ding’s smile vanishes and he begins shaking his head vigorously.)
Me: “Um… I actually need my Master’s help in preparing another show coming soon.”
Ding: (Smiling again) “Oh yes! I forgot! We need to prepare for the show. So we really must go after our performance is done.”
Organizer: “Very well… next time, then!”
Trick Two: Spit It Old School
Xiangsheng performers wear a simple robe called a Ma Gua—see the picture above! There is a special folding technique which allows you to fold the robe without it creasing—but my inability to fold my clothes properly is one of the ways of telling I haven’t been studying Chinese performance arts since I was ten.
When I pulled out my robe, Master Ding’s face screwed up in frustration. “You folded it wrong! Look at the creases.” Without hesitation, he continued, “Lay it out on the table. I’m going to spit for you.”
I laid the robe out on the table, assuming I had misheard him. But Master Ding grabbed a bottle of water, sucked in a mouthful, and spat it all over my robe, spraying the water in a fine mist.
“Now tug!” he said, and we pulled the robe taut. The wrinkles went smooth.
“That’s what you meant by spitting,” I said afterwards.
“Of course!” he said. “That was old Beijing style. Nobody spits like that anymore.”
Which is the most rapper sentence I have ever heard an old Chinese man say. I can only hope that one day, I can spit it old Beijing style as well.
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