Smells of something strangely familiar...

History and tradition mark a culture. In celebration of the recent Mid-Autumn Festival, the local Chinese community organized a concert this past weekend, showcasing Chinese musicians performing Chinese music. I attended, of course, to support my fellow comrads who performed.

No need to drape ourselves with a red flag. The concert program, I'm sure, resurrected countless memories of China -- especially for the generation of emerging artists caught amidst the Cultural Revolution. How ironic it is that the Yellow River Concerto, much loathed at the time, is the very piece that kicked off the evening's festivities. Pianists, let's revisit the good ol' days when Beethoven and Prokofiev rose in heaps of flame, and let this concerto be your sole repertoire, lest you never play again. Mind you, the concerto was beautifully executed.

Though perhaps due to its novelty, I must say that I enjoyed George Gao's playing of the erhu most exuberantly. The erhu cries with melancholy, and the playing: wonderful! Played with such thought, sensitivity, and so, so musical. The instrument belongs to the Chinese -- to the people, to the culture, to the nation. However, I tread carefully with those words. Because once its music becomes nationalistic, it ceases to be individualistic -- and thus, ceases to be art.

As I bathed in this magically cultural experience, set right in this concrete-jungle-of-a-suburb where a new mall or plaza (that resembles every other mall or plaza) is erected daily, I felt fortunate that such tradition is emphasized and instilled in me. I thought about the history of my people, what they've endured, how proud I -- when all of a sudden...

A rather voluptuous woman strutted onto the stage, draped in a bright red Chinese cape, as if she owned the show. Ok, she's an opera singer -- they're all mellow-dramatic divas. But to my horror, she grabbed the microphone and started singing something that I assure you, was not opera. It smelt of something strangely familiar...