On the night of July 26, 1941 – nearly four months before the attack on Pearl Harbor – a small group of Chinese storytelling performers boarded an express train in Tianjin, heading for Japanese-occupied Chōsen. Their half-month journey was organized by the Teikoku Chikuonki Company (帝国蓄音機会社, hereafter Teichiku), one of Japan’s leading gramophone companies. While such expeditions were relatively common in Japanese colonies like Taiwan, they were far rarer in mainland China.Footnote 1 What motivated these travels, and what dynamics shaped the recording projects? A closer examination of these recording projects reveals more than the emergence of a colonial media and entertainment network under Japanese expansionism – it also exposes the cracks and tensions within Japan’s colonial ambitions.
This article explores the interaction between Japanese gramophone companies and Chinese folk storytelling performances, offering a perspective distinct from the colonial narrative typically centered on Japan’s formal colonies, such as Chōsen and Taiwan. Previous scholarship on media history in Japanese-occupied Chōsen and Taiwan has largely been shaped by the analytical frameworks of “new imperial studies,” which emphasize multidirectional interactions between the metropole and its colonies and highlight the agency of the colonized, often through forms of passive resistance.Footnote 2 While these approaches challenge simplified hierarchical models of colonial influence, they nonetheless presume a coherent and structured colonial system. Recent studies of the gramophone industry in Asia have embraced a “transnational” or “transimperial” approach, which decouples the activities of gramophone companies from rigid geopolitical and colonial boundaries. Instead, scholars emphasize a transpacific framework that connects East and Southeast Asia through flows of record production (Yamauchi Reference Yamauchi, Yamauchi and Wang2024). This article builds on such transnational perspectives but emphasizes that cultural production in regions not yet formally colonized – such as the Huabei Plain in China – was marked by contingency and disorganization, qualities less visible in the relatively systematized colonial experiences of Taiwan and Chōsen. While scholars have noted the contemporaneity of colonial modernity across imperial spaces under the developing transportation network (Jones Reference Jones2001), this article foregrounds the variable and evolving nature of imperial policies and their local implementation. It argues that the influence of Japanese colonial authority was neither consistent nor evenly applied across regions. Taiwan and Chōsen, with their longer histories of formal colonization, experienced successive waves of Japanization that, by the 1930s, had more effectively overshadowed local cultures. By contrast, Japan’s occupation of North China, initiated after the 1937 Marco Polo Bridge Incident, unfolded amid shifting domestic cultural policies. As Japanese nationalist ideology increasingly emphasized localism as a counter to Western influence, colonial administrations in newly occupied territories started by discovering and developing local cultural traditions to cultivate a sense of East Asian cultural resonance and unity. In this context, Japanese gramophone companies – particularly Teichiku – entered the North China market by recording and promoting marginalized local storytelling subgenres tailored to regional tastes. This strategy, along with efforts to promote the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere in the cultural domain, shaped the landscape of gramophone production in the Huabei region during the Second Sino-Japanese War. Although the puppet state of Manchukuo and formal colonies such as Taiwan were also subject to policies promoting local folk songs (minyao 民謠), these efforts in Huabei were often undercut by local audiences’ established connoisseurship and their greater fascination with performers’ overseas recording experiences, which eclipsed the intended narratives of cultural harmony and imperial belonging.Footnote 3
Moreover, the lack of coordination of Japanese imperial expansion was particularly prominent in the gramophone recording industry during the period of total war, especially when examined from a bottom-up perspective. As Peter Duus argues, the final phase of Japanese imperial expansion was largely opportunistic, exploiting the continuing debility of central authority in China. The resulting hegemony over its vast territory was more illusion than reality (Duus xi).Footnote 4 Analysis of the recording projects operating at the periphery of Japan’s militarist empire – particularly in the would-be colony of North China – further reveals the limitations of colonial power. Efforts to employ gramophone recordings as propaganda tools to promote a new order in East Asia based on East Asian cultural synthesis were not effectively coordinated. Although the gramophone industry was envisioned as a vehicle for spreading imperial ideology, its marginal status as a commercial entertainment enterprise under a militarist regime meant it received minimal state support and often encountered suspicion by officials, who viewed it as irrelevant, or even subversive, to military objectives.Footnote 5 Japanese companies’ reliance on local intermediaries – who were embedded in and constrained by complex local power structures – further diluted the practical reach of colonial hegemony. The Chinese performers involved in the project were not necessarily loyal employees of the Japanese companies. Their collaboration was often ambiguous and temporary, driven more by pragmatic considerations than by any commitment to imperial ideology.Footnote 6 Moreover, the recordings they produced were reinterpreted by local audiences through their native connoisseurship, often diverging from the original intent of Japanese imperial propaganda. Rather than reinforcing Japan’s imperial authority, these recording projects inadvertently exposed fractures within the cultural policies of the empire. By applying a bottom-up lens – one that centers the experiences of previously overlooked actors such as Chinese performers, local audiences, and even the Japanese gramophone companies struggling to operate under militarist constraints – this study highlights the contingent and chaotic nature of colonial policies and their outcomes. These outcomes were shaped collectively by the shifting priorities of imperial governance, the constrained commercial ambitions of Japanese gramophone companies, the ambivalent collaboration of Chinese participants, and the tenacity of local cultural tastes.
These explorations are made possible by drawing on new types of historical sources that extend beyond conventional elite textual evidence. This study explores media archives within the specific historical contexts of their production and circulation. By listening closely to media artifacts, the musical features themselves reveal the intentions and strategies of performers and producers – elements often insufficiently captured in surviving written records. In addition to gramophone recordings, this article examines textual archives including recording catalogs, advertisements, and business documents, alongside visual materials such as record labels. Together, these sources illuminate the commercial agendas of the recording industry and its entanglements with the Japanese Empire. The integration of diverse source types offers a fuller and more nuanced understanding of imperial cultural practices and power structures at play.
This article is structured into four sections. The first examines the potential political motivations behind the 1941 recording expedition and its program design. It highlights the project’s efforts to promote East Asian cultural synthesis and its emphasis on marginalized subgenres. The second section situates Japanese gramophone companies’ strategies within the broader context of Japan’s domestic cultural policies, exploring how the state’s shifting focus to localism influenced the companies’ approach to Chinese folk performances. The third section follows the journey of performers across Japanese-occupied territories. Rather than being shaped solely by the colonial geopolitical order, their experiences and observations were motivated by personal interests, connections, and a persistent China-centered worldview, offering a bottom-up perspective that reveals the ambiguous collaboration between Chinese participants and the Japanese company. The final section discusses the challenges faced by gramophone companies in developing their business in the would-be colonies, particularly their negotiations with complex local power structures and the pressures exerted by Japan’s militarist agenda and policies. Taken together, these multiple perspectives complicate the notion of a singular dominant power shaping the outcomes of imperial rule, instead highlighting the contested and negotiated nature of its impact among various actors.
Unusual journey, unusual sound
On July 29, 1941, three days after departing Tianjin, the troupe arrived in Keijō (京城), present-day Seoul. Given the costs involved, transporting performers to Chōsen for recording might seem economically unwise. At the time, Japanese companies typically recorded performances locally in China and then shipped the master discs to factories in Japan – an approach that proved far more efficient than relocating entire performance troupes.Footnote 7 However, the performers’ travel schedule suggests their journey to Chōsen was not merely a commercial endeavor by Teichiku. Instead, it carried political implications, distinguishing it from similar trips conducted by Japanese gramophone companies in Taiwan purely for recording purposes (Wang Reference Wang2013).Footnote 8 Upon arriving in Keijō, the performers were treated as honored guests rather than as itinerant laborers. They were introduced to the manager of the Teichiku Company’s Keijō branch.Footnote 9 The day after their arrival, the manager arranged for them to visit Fan Hansheng (范漢生, date unknown), the Chinese consul in Keijō.Footnote 10 The following day, Fan instructed the consulate to host a welcoming banquet for the performers, inviting sixty overseas Chinese residents of Keijō. The banquet resembled a tanghui-style (堂會) gathering, a traditional Chinese salon performance where the entertainers performed a blend of storytelling and singing subgenres. The troupe consisted of five performers. Two were a pair of xiangsheng (相聲) comedians: Chang Baokun (常寶堃, stage name “Little Mushroom,” Xiaomogu 小蘑菇, 1922–1951) and his partner Zhao Peiru (趙佩如 1914–1973). The group also featured a female xiangsheng performer, Ji Wenzhen (吉文貞, stage name “Lotus Girl,” Hehuanü 荷花女, 1926–1944), a fifteen-year-old rising star who frequently collaborated with the two male comedians in Tianjin’s teahouse theaters. The remaining two performers were Xihe Drum Song (xihe dagu 西河大鼓) singers: Wang Yanfen (王艷芬 1919–1991) and Sun Chenghai (孫呈海 1915–1973).Footnote 11 Accompanying the singers were two accompanists, Li Mosheng (李墨生 1913–?) and Ruan Wenlu (阮文祿, date unknown).Footnote 12 During the banquet, Chang and Zhao performed a signature piece titled “Chunqiu ti” (Spring-and-Autum-Annals Problems 春秋題), more widely known as “Wenzhanghui” (An Essay Gathering 文章會), a refined piece characterized by bookish lines suited for sophisticated, literary audiences. The singing portion of the salon performance was led by the two female performers. Wang Yanfen presented “Coming to the Rescue of the Emperor at Lintong Mountain” (Lintongshan jiujia 臨潼山救駕), a story from the Romance of the Sui and Tang (Suitang yanyi 隋唐演義), while Lotus Girl performed a popular folk song “Spinning Cotton” (Fang mianhua 紡棉花). All the performances were received as nostalgic melodies from home that resonated deeply with the overseas Chinese attendees (Youyi huakan 1941a).Footnote 13 The troupe’s composition, capable of forming a tanghui ensemble, raises the question of whether the banquet had been planned from the outset. Its timing coincided with broader efforts of the Wang Jingwei regime to gain the support of overseas Chinese communities and bolster its legitimacy, positing the performers’ appearance as part of a larger political initiative (Yang Reference Yang2007, Kikuchi Reference Kikuchi2011).
Beyond the potential propaganda goals of the Keijō consulate or the Wang Jingwei government, Teichiku may have sought to leverage the project to further Japan’s colonial agenda of East Asian synthesis. The travel per se could serve as a political performance of producing Chinese performances in Chōsen coordinated by a Japanese company, perfectly showcasing the ideals of the Japan-led New East Asian Order.Footnote 14 Another indication manifesting this vision is the inclusion of a performer who did not take part in the banquet salon performance: Sun Chenghai. One of Sun’s most notable innovations was his incorporation of the Japanese-imported Taishōgoto (大正琴) into Chinese folk drum songs. In the 1941 project, the drum songs he contributed prominently featured the Taishōgoto, whose distinctive sound is easily recognizable in the opening bars and interludes.Footnote 15 Sun likely began incorporating the Taishōgoto into his performances in the mid-1930s.Footnote 16 While no direct sources explain why Sun adopted Taishōgoto for Xihe drum song performances, this was not his only attempt to reform the subgenre’s accompaniment. In addition to the Taishōgoto, he introduced various Chinese traditional instruments, such as pipa (琵琶), yangqin (揚琴), sihu (四胡), and dihu (低胡) to enrich the musical texture of Xihe drum songs, which had previously relied solely on the sanxian (三絃) for accompaniment (Zhongguo quyizhi Heilongjiang juan 668). Compared to traditional Chinese instruments, Sun’s incorporation of the Taishōgoto may not have been purely artistic. Invented in Japan in 1911, the instrument’s earliest surviving appearance in China is an advertisement for its domestically produced version in Shenbao in 1926, indicating its growing consumption among Chinese audiences (Shenbao 1926). Its popularity stemmed not from its unique musical or artistic qualities but from its simple construction and ease of learning, making it accessible to common people. During the 1920s and 1930s, both in China and Japan, the Taishōgoto was often regarded as a toy rather than a serious instrument, even sold by street peddlers (Yuan Reference Yuan2015, Tanaka et al. 2012). Its simplicity allowed many amateurs, including those with prior experience in traditional Chinese instruments, to practice and perform with it. In addition, whether Sun supported the legitimacy of the Japanese colonial regime remains unclear – he seemed flexible, adjusting his performances to align with the agenda of different authorities. His creative adaptability continued into the early People’s Republic of China (PRC) years, as seen in works following the new regime’s ideologies, such as “The New Marriage Law” (Xin hunyin fa 新婚姻法) and “Resist US, Help North Korea” (Kang mei yuan chao 抗美援朝) (Zhongguo quyizhi Heilongjiang juan 668). In these contexts, Sun’s adoption of the Taishōgoto may have been a pragmatic strategy to captivate audiences through the instrument’s popularity, distinctive timbre, and novelty, or a political gesture to cater to the Japanese authorities for better career opportunities – or perhaps both.
Whatever his motivation, Sun’s use of the Taishōgoto gained recognition from the Japanese. After the Central Broadcast Station (Zhongyang diantai 中央電台), which was backed by the colonial authority, was founded in 1938, Sun became a regular performer.Footnote 17 By 1939, he was even given a dedicated afternoon program called the “Special Program” (Teshu fangsong 特殊放送) in the afternoon, where he performed lengthy narrative pieces.Footnote 18 Teichiku likely saw the political value of Sun’s musical innovations as well. In the 1941 recording project, the company did not simply showcase his Taishōgoto experiments but also sought to recreate them across other Xihe drum song performances. Another Xihe drum singer, Wang Yanfen, also recorded with the Taishōgoto – even though she had never performed with it before.Footnote 19 It seems the producer paid special attention to pieces that blended Chinese and Japanese music. On the record labels, a Chinese producer named Tao Huaguang (陶華光, date unknown) is credited – not just as a “music instructor” (qumu zhidaozhe 曲目指導者) (Figure 1), but even as a “composer” (zuoquzhe 作曲者) (Figure 2) for Wang Yanfen’s piece.Footnote 20 The recurrence of this Japanese-originated instrument across multiple recordings suggests a deliberate production choice. The inclusion of special instruction and even composition further implies that Teichiku was intentionally developing and highlighting a musical fusion of Japanese and Chinese elements.Footnote 21
Figure 1. Sun Chenghai’s record label identifies Tao as a “music instructor.”
Figure 2. Wang Yanfen’s record label identifies Tao as a “composer.”
Figure 1 Sun Chenghai’s record label identifies Tao as a “music instructor.”Footnote 22 Photograph sourced from an online bookstore. https://book.kongfz.com/328768/6704278484. Accessed February 24, 2025.
Figure 2. Wang Yanfen’s record label identifies Tao as a “composer.” Photograph sourced from an online bookstore. The link is unavailable now. Accessed March 8, 2025.
Besides the effort to integrate Chinese folk performances with Japanese-origin instruments, Tao’s projects suggest a strategic focus on subgenres that had rarely been recorded before, likely aiming to cultivate niche markets in specific regions. Similar to the 1941 project that focused on Beijing and Tianjin, the 1938 recording project features lesser-known subgenres popular around Fengtian (奉天, present-day Shenyang 沈阳), such as pinggudiao (平谷調 Pinggu tunes), Shandong qinshu (山東琴書 a Shandong-style storytelling accompanied by dulcimer), and zhubanshu. The selected subgenres and their performers, including Liu Junhai (劉俊海 ?–1943), Shang Yexing (商業興 1884–1970), Shang Zhenqing (商振清, date unknown), Shang Yunxia (商雲霞 1905–?), and Dong Fulai (董福来, date unknown), were all from the Huabei region but had not gained widespread recognition. Their performances only began to attract attention when they ventured into Northeast China – then known as Manchukuo under Japanese control.Footnote 23 In fact, many of their surviving recordings were issued exclusively by Japanese companies, and these may have been the only recordings ever made of their work. This pattern also applies to Sun Chenghai and Wang Yanfen in the 1941 project, both of whom were recorded only by Japanese companies. Why did Japanese companies choose to record subgenres that even Chinese companies had overlooked?Footnote 24 Why not focus on more widely circulated subgenres like Jingyun dagu (Beijing-style drum songs 京韵大鼓)? When placing the 1938 and 1941 recording projects within a broader transnational context, it becomes clear that these were more than just the personal choices of Chinese producers or isolated commercial ventures. Instead, they reflect a deeper alignment with Japan’s shifting domestic cultural policies and reveal how Japanese gramophone companies expanded their activities in China in step with imperial expansion.
Domestic policies abroad
By the time the 1941 project took place, Japanese gramophone companies had already integrated themselves into patriotic initiatives following the September 1937 launch of the National Spiritual Mobilization (Kokumin seishin sōdōin 国民精神総動員), shortly after the Marco Polo Bridge Incident. As early as January 1938, Victor (ビクター) Magazine, published by the Japan Victor Gramophone Company, framed the promotion of patriotic songs and marches as an industry duty (Victor 1938).Footnote 25 This initiative was further reinforced by the National Mobilization Law (Kokka sōdōin hō国家総動員法), issued on May 5, 1938, which soon shaped record production in mainland China (Nihon bikutā 1987). By June 1938, the Japan-Polydor-supported Guoyue (國樂) company had begun producing propaganda records under the guidance of the “Propaganda and Comfort Team” (Xuanfu ban 宣撫班) and the “New Citizen Committee” (Xinmin hui 新民會), two major propaganda organizations in mainland China (Shengjing shibao 1938).Footnote 26 These efforts were further bolstered in November 1938 by the promotion of the New Order in East Asia (Tōa shin chitsujo 東亜新秩序) and later with the articulation of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere (Daitōakyōeiken 大東亜共栄圏), which was officially elevated to the level of “National Policy” (kokusaku 国策) in 1940. In February 1939, a special issue titled, “The Issue of Leaping to the Mainland” (Tairiku yakushin gō 大陸躍進号), was published by Victor Magazine (Victor 1939). In this issue, Michio Aoto (青砥道雄 date unknown), the Curriculum Director of the Literature and Art Department (Bungeibu keikakuka kachō 文芸部計画課課長), contributed an article titled “Exploring the Musical Culture of the Mainland” (Tairiku ni ongaku bunka o saguru 大陸に音楽文化を探る). Drawing from a survey conducted after the release of the National Spiritual Mobilization, Aoto analyzed musical preferences of Chinese people and specifically identified regional preferences: Peking Opera in Beijing, zashua (雜耍) in Tianjin, new music in Shanghai, and various local genres in Canton and Sichuan. It further drew parallels between zashua – the broad category encompassing the subgenres recorded in the 1938 and 1941 projects – and Japanese folk traditions such as manzai (漫才), rōkyoku (浪曲), and minyō (民謡). He particularly mentioned the wide coverage of the Japanese-supported Central Broadcast Station, where Sun Chenghai performed. At the conclusion of the article, Aoto emphasized the critical role of entertainment and propaganda in shaping public sentiment on the Chinese mainland, stressing the necessity of significant financial investment and urging a strategic, unwavering approach to influencing audiences. Japan Victor’s strategy represents a broader trend among Japanese gramophone companies. Likewise, in May 1939, the Japanese Gramophone Company (Nihon chikuonki kaisha 日本蓄音器会社) emphasized its role in publishing “goodwill songs” (qinshan gequ 亲善歌曲) as part of a propaganda-driven effort to approach the Chinese market (Shengjing shibao 1939).Footnote 27 By 1940, major Japanese gramophone companies had opened branch offices and begun constructing factories across North China. Alongside their expansion efforts, Japanese companies more clearly shifted their content production strategies to promote the “National Policy,” aiming to construct the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. As indicated in their business reports, these companies recognized the growing importance of their industry to national interests and committed to supporting its continued prosperity (Nihon chikuonki shōkai 1941a).
A shared East Asian cultural identity became a central component of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere propaganda, expressed through the promotion of cultural hybridity. One of the most prominent embodiments of this strategy was the cultivation of a cultural icon: Li Xianglan (李香蘭 1920–2014). In her memoir, Li recalled that when the Manchukuo Film Association (Kabushiki kaisha Manshū eiga kyōkai 株式會社滿洲映畫協會, hereafter Man’ei) sought an ideal star, they specifically sought someone who was fluent in both Chinese and Japanese and had a Chinese name. This made her the perfect representative to promote the policies of “Japanese-Manchukuo Friendship” (nichiman shinzen 日満親善) and the “Five Races Under One Union” (gozoku kyōwa 五族協和) (Yamaguchi & Fujiwara 1987, Kobayashi Reference Kobayashi2015). Baiyue (百樂), the subsidiary company of Teichiku in China, also capitalized on this hybridity strategy, recognizing Li’s potential as a legendary star early in her career. Since her rise to fame in 1938, Baiyue actively collaborated with Man’ei, becoming the first gramophone company to sign a specialized contract with her in 1939. Through this partnership, Baiyue positioned itself as a promoter of Manchukuo-Japanese friendship (Shengjing shibao 1939).
The 1941 project also reflects – and is enabled by – the broader ethos of promoting local culture in domestic Japan at the time. Compared to other Japanese gramophone companies, Teichiku, the parent company of Baiyue, was more inclined to produce local music due to its own successful experiences in the domestic market. Founded around 1931 in Osaka, Teichiku was a relatively young gramophone company in Japan. Unlike larger Japanese gramophone companies backed by Western capital and technology, Teichiku distinguished itself as a Japanese-sponsored “national enterprise.”Footnote 28 Following the Manchurian Incident in September 1931, popular ballads (Taishū kayō 大衆歌謡) surged in popularity as part of wartime propaganda efforts (Tonoshita, Reference Tonoshita2008). Seizing this moment, Teichiku marketed its records as “purely domestic products” (Jun kokusanhin 純国産品) to tap into nationalist sentiment (Ōkubo Reference Ōkubo2015). The company’s rise was further supported by wartime policies aimed at eliminating Western influence from the music industry. These policies sought to remove so-called “weak records” (nanjaku rekōdo 軟弱レコード) – those seen as dispirited, superfluous, and indulgent in romantic love – while promoting music infused with a vigorous patriotic spirit (Tonoshita Reference Tonoshita2023). Despite having fewer financial resources and production capabilities than its larger rivals, Teichiku quickly gained influence by focusing on national music (hōgaku 邦楽) and spotlighting local folk genres, such as rōkyoku, a genre of traditional Japanese storytelling singing similar to those it recorded in the 1938 and 1941 projects, often overlooked by Western-backed companies. This strategy enabled Teichiku to fill a market gap by offering high-quality recordings of lesser-known talent and more native songs (Ōkubo Reference Ōkubo2015). In other words, Teichiku’s early success in the domestic market was driven by its ability to identify local demand, align with the authorities, invest in superior recording technology, and promote underrated performers. This approach allowed the company to remain competitive despite its limited resources. Teichiku adopted this strategy as it expanded into overseas markets. When the company established its first Manchukuo branch in Fengtian, it launched the 1938 project – likely Teichiku’s first experiment in producing less mainstream local tunes aimed at audiences in the newly opened Manchukuo market. Similarly, records released by Teichiku in Taiwan beginning in 1938 emphasized propaganda songs and Taiwanese opera (gezaixi 歌仔戲), setting them apart from the popular genres favored by other firms (Hong Reference Hong2020). The rapid establishment of regional branches also reflected Teichiku’s attempts to promote local music and cultivate regional markets. In its record catalogs, the June 1940 edition listed only two Chinese branches – in Dalian and Shanghai – but by August, Fengtian, and Tianjin had also been added.Footnote 29
At the time when the 1941 project was conducted, Japanese authorities placed increasing emphasis on the promotion of local culture. In December 1940, in response to concerns from local intellectuals about the crisis of “local culture” (chihō bunka 地方文化), the Imperial Rule Assistance Association (Taisei yokusankai 大政翼賛会) approved a policy aimed at reviving regional traditions, aiming to liberate East Asia from Western cultural influence. In the colonies, more targeted efforts were also implemented to mobilize local culture for propaganda purposes. For instance, in Manchukuo, where Teichiku had been particularly active since 1938, specific policies had been issued to flexibly use local culture for propaganda. An official document issued in July 1940 by the Concordia Association of Manchukuo (Manshūkoku Kyōwakai 満州国協和会), titled “Propaganda Work Guidelines” (Senden kōsaku yōryō 宣伝工作要領), explicitly listed drum songs by young female performers (musume daiko 娘大鼓) and storytelling performances (setsusho 説書) as two of the major propaganda methods to approach common people in Manchuko (Senden kōsaku yōryō, 1940). Another major document, “Guideline for Cultural Production in Manchukuo” (Yiwen zhidao yaogang 藝文指導要綱), issued in March 1941, advocated for a cultural synthesis, prescribing that: “In this regime, Japanese literature and art shall serve as the weft, while the indigenous people’s native culture shall form the warp, weaving together an integrated and distinctive literature and arts.” (而在此國土以移植日本文藝為經，以原住民族固有之文藝為緯，吸取世界文藝之精華，以編織成渾然一體，獨具特色之文藝) (Okada 1992).Footnote 30 Against this backdrop, Sun Chenghai’s efforts to integrate the Taishōgoto with Xihe drum songs embodied the empire’s desired esthetic of a harmonized East Asian culture with regionally distinctive elements, aligning seamlessly with the colonial expectations for the cultural development of Japan’s occupied territories.
Nevertheless, by promoting and incorporating regional traditions, colonial authorities inadvertently reinforced local cultural identities, creating spaces where indigenous expressions could subtly challenge the colonial power structure. As Li Xianglan recalled, she felt that the films she starred in for domestic private film companies in Japan were actually more biased, offering more stereotypical portrayals of Chinese people and perpetuating the colonizers’ arrogance. In contrast, Man’ei, though a state-run company serving Japan’s colonization and expansionist agenda, presented a more realistic image of Chinese people and their lives, aligned with the ideologies of “Japanese-Manchukuo Friendship” and the “Five Races Under One Union” policy (Yamaguchi & Fujiwara 1987). This challenge became even more pronounced in the production of storytelling performances. Their deep roots in regional specificity made it especially difficult for imperial authorities to impose a unified vision of a Greater East Asian cultural identity.
A journey within and beyond colonial orders
Performers hired by Japanese companies were not necessarily loyal adherents of the imperial agenda. For those based in Tianjin, Japanese colonial influence was already a familiar reality, often generating terror and resentment due to daily regulation. The city’s entertainment district, where many performers worked – Nanshi (南市), also known as the “Three No-Cares” (Sanbuguan三不管) – was a bustling hub for storytelling teahouses located at the intersection of the Japanese concession and the old Chinese city. For popular performers involved in the project, such as Chang Baokun, commuting across the Japanese concession – between the traditional teahouses in Nanshi and the entertainment emporium at the Taikang Department Store (Taikang shangchang 泰康商場) in the French concession – was a routine part of daily life. During their residence in Tianjin at the turn of the 1940s, performers would witness the transformation of Japanese colonial power, from a marginalized, profit-seeking force exploiting the sex and drug trades into a dominant colonial authority.Footnote 31 With Japan’s expanding military successes, colonial authority became increasingly visible in everyday life. For performers, the most striking memories at the turn of the 1940s were shaped by the propaganda of the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere, which had been promulgating since 1938, and the “Public Security Strengthening Campaign” (zhi’an qianghua yundong 治安強化運動), which was launched in 1941 (Wei Reference Wei1985, 201). Performances were subjected to censorship by the puppet police (Luo Reference Luo1993, 61). Some Japanese-sponsored authors approached performers, commissioning them to sing lyrics promoting goodwill or praising Japanese rule. Performers might also be coerced into performing under the auspices of the “New Citizen Committee” (Cao Reference Cao2003).
Participants of the 1941 project likely did not fully grasp the political propaganda underlying the project. For the young performers, whose average age was just 22, a recording project sponsored by a Japanese company represented a desired career opportunity. The colonial capital itself held strong appeal – much like performing in the foreign concessions of Tianjin, appearing in such a prominent setting signified a meaningful step forward in a performer’s career. Those invited to well-equipped theaters in concessions, with higher ticket prices and a more well-to-do Chinese audience, were said to be “ascending to the hall of elegance” (Wei Reference Wei1985, 250). Moreover, by the 1930s, both Western and domestic gramophone companies had been recording native storytelling performances for nearly three decades, establishing a broad consensus that such recordings enhanced performers’ economic value and professional stature (Gao Reference Gao1984, 12). This recognition extended to the performers involved in the project. All the performers, except for the youngest, Lotus Girl, had prior recording experience. For the two Xihe drum singers – who received fewer invitations than the xiangsheng performers, such an offer from a gramophone company carried particular prestige. In her memoir, Wang Yanfen described her 1935 invitation from the Pathé company as a turning point in her career (Wang Reference Wang1989, 198). Managers and agents of live venues also capitalized on the project’s publicity potential. Before Lotus Girl departed for Chōsen, the manager of Qingyun Teahouse (Qingyun chayuan 慶雲茶園), where she regularly performed, hosted a banquet in her honor to announce the news. Guests presented her with a red lotus, a symbol of the hope that she would become “red” – famous – after her trip, creating a spectacle that captured public attention (Li Reference Li2003, 24).
The political agenda of the project may well have been overshadowed by the performers’ personal sentiments. Beyond career advancement, the journey to Chōsen sparked excitement and curiosity among the temporarily assembled troupe, particularly given the sense of security provided by the sponsoring Japanese company. For young female performers, such as Lotus Girl, the journey represented newfound autonomy. Still under the supervision of family elders, she managed to circumvent her father’s authority, cut off contact with him, and enjoyed a rare degree of independence, freely spending most of her earnings along the way (Li Reference Li2003, 25). Traveling to Chōsen was an exciting journey that combined both familiarity and novelty. Trains were not exotic to these performers, who often commuted by rail between Beiping and Tianjin for contracted performances (Wei Reference Wei1985, 201). Nevertheless, they typically stayed in one place for the duration of a contract – usually one or two months – rather than embarking on a brief, half-month journey, with seven days spent in transit. Chōsen, which remained largely unfamiliar to most performers, sparked a sense of curiosity and intrigue.Footnote 32 Travel to Chōsen had only recently become accessible to residents of North China. Prior to this, routes between Chōsen and Tianjin had depended largely on maritime travel. By 1936, however, the completion of a direct railway linking Beiping and Pusan significantly enhanced overland connectivity. This development culminated in the launch of the “China-Manchukuo-Chōsen Express Train” (shi man sen Chokutsū 支満鮮直通) by the South Manchuria Railway in October 1938, which reduced the travel time from Beijing to Pusan to just fifty hours (Komuta Reference Komuta2015). A local tabloid vividly captured the atmosphere, noting that the young travelers were brimming with excitement from the moment they boarded the train (Youyi huakan 1941a). The experience combined elements of the familiar and the novel, offering a sense of comfort rooted in routine mobility, while igniting curiosity about the unfamiliar terrain that lay ahead.
The journey to Chōsen under the protection of a Japanese-sponsored company offered greater security than the performers’ domestic train journeys. This contrast may have served as a reminder of their dual oppression – as both Chinese and entertainers—shaping their distinct experience of colonial modernity. Their travel permites (chuguo zheng 出國證) were issued on behalf of Teichiku. Accompanied by Tao Huaguang, assigned by the Japanese company as a coordinator and interpreter, they passed through the Shanhai Pass (Shanhaiguan 山海關) into Manchukuo without facing strict inspection. In their daily life, however, train stations were often sites of colonial hegemony. Even during domestic travel between Tianjin and Beiping, performers frequently suffered insults from Japanese soldiers and puppet police. Storytelling troupes, in particular, were targeted due to the eye-catching instruments they carried, which marked them as debased entertainers. They were often subjected to harassment, including flirtation, violence, or forced impromptu performances to satisfy the police’s assertion of authority (Wei Reference Wei1985, 202). This smooth, privileged passage, supported by Teichiku, also stood in stark contrast to the experiences of individual performers traveling to Manchukuo on their own. After 1937, with increasing turbulence, Japanese censorship, and curfews in Tianjin, invitations from teahouses in Fengtian, drawn by its relative economic stability, provided a means of livelihood. Manchukuo, however, presented a perilous colonial environment fraught with fear and repression. In Fengtian, performers faced severe hardships, including exploitation by teahouse managers who colluded with Japanese authorities and the persistent threat of violence from Japanese soldiers. The brutal death of Qiao Liyuan (喬利元 1898–1939), a renowned zhuizi (墜子, a ballad singing genre popular in Henan Province) performer, at the hands of Japanese forces and their puppet army, sent shockwaves through the storytelling community of Beijing and Tianjin. Rumors of his suffering circulated widely through gossip, fostering a sense of dread among performers considering travel to the Japanese-occupied Fengtian (Hou Reference Hou and Hou1982, Ma Reference Ma1983).
Although the journey took the troupe across a foreign land and through Japanese-occupied Manchukuo, it was nonetheless woven into the itinerant tradition of storytelling performers through the enduring networks of the storytelling community.Footnote 33 Since the late Qing, storytellers had traveled to the Northeast, with some eventually settling there. This history of sporadic immigration made the recording troupe’s journey feel less foreign, as performers could connect with those who had already established themselves in the region. Before leaving Tianjin, the two xiangsheng performers received a request from their master to visit his fellow apprentice, a Manchu pingshu (評書) storyteller who was originally from Beijing and had settled in the Northeast beginning in the 1920s. When the train stopped in Fengtian, the xiangsheng performers took a four-hour detour to visit their master’s peer (Youyi huakan 1941b). The performers’ overseas journey was thus reframed through their itinerant traditions and personal connections. These ties, which largely persisted despite the shifting political landscape and colonial domination, downplayed the journey’s nature as a political performance in service of the colonial authority.
The performers’ experiences in Keijo further complicated the framing of their journey as a political performance promoting the New Order in East Asia. Rather than embracing the colonial vision, Japanese-occupied Korea emerged as a spectacle of a “foreign country” (waiguo 外国) when viewed through the performers’ China-centric perspective. The arrival of Chinese performers piqued the curiosity of the local population. Unlike other Chinese travelers, who typically wore Western-style suits, the performers’ traditional Chinese attire marked them as culturally distinct, standing out from the local Korean population. Due to the pressure of the onlookers’ gaze and in search of novelty and amusing cultural encounters, they adjusted their clothing to fit the colonial setting. Male performers changed into Japanese-style garments, while Lotus Girls adopted the “Prosper Asia Uniform” (xingyafu 興亞服), and Wang Yanfen opted for traditional Korean dress. Beyond these exotic sartorial experiences, the performers’ observations often reflected a sense of cultural superiority, especially in response to unfamiliar Korean customs. A notable instance involved two female performers who expressed shock upon witnessing Korea’s mixed-gender public bathing practices, which they deemed incompatible with the “inner chamber tradition” (guige qi 閨閣氣) that defined respectable Chinese womanhood. Their reaction, rooted in pride over China’s role as the guardian of orthodox Confucian gender norms, reveals a China-centered worldview that casts Korea as a culturally inferior vassal state.Footnote 34 Ironically, this hierarchical perspective undercut the very discourse of East Asian cultural integration that their Japanese sponsors sought to promote.Footnote 35
There is relatively little information about the recording process itself, but a few surviving traces reveal the unique dynamics at play when Japanese companies undertook projects involving Chinese folk performances. Unlike other cases, this 1941 project appears to have imposed minimal working pressure or managerial demands for efficiency. The intensity of this recording project differed from those involving Chōsen and Taiwanese performers previously conducted by Japanese recording companies. For example, some Chōsen kisaeng recalled the anxiety caused by the constant demands for new songs in preparation for their sessions (Choi Reference Choi2018). Similarly, a 1934 Taiwanese recording project conducted in Tokyo required the completion of sixty songs in just three weeks, highlighting the immense pressure placed on the performers (Wang Reference Wang2013, 42). In contrast, during the 1941 project, the performer who recorded the most pieces – six – completed them over the course of two days. This turned out to be even more intense than originally planned, due to the technician’s illness and the resulting delay. The performers also had time to travel around Keijō, further suggesting that the political and propaganda significance of the project may have overweighed the insistence on production efficiency (Youyi huakan 1941a). Moreover, the 1941 project’s efforts to preserve local elements eased the performers’ pressure, as they were performing familiar repertoires and cooperating with accompanists they had previously worked with. In contrast, most overseas recording projects involving Chōsen and Taiwan performers assigned newly composed popular songs to native singers, given the greater influence of Japanese-style popular songs on local markets. This process required native performers to learn new melodies and lyrics while conforming to the rigidity of collaborating with Western orchestras. Although they were spared the pressures of adhering to a busy schedule and learning new songs, Chinese storytelling performers may have faced other challenges arising from the incompatibility between their traditional performances and modern media standards. Wang Yanfen’s recollection suggests she may have been mistreated by technicians from the Chōsen branch. According to Wang, the technician berated Chang Baokun, who struggled with the length of his performances and wasted many wax cylinders.Footnote 36 Frustrated by the experience, Chang became deeply unhappy and even wrote an article criticizing the recording project, though no copies of this piece have yet been found (Wang Reference Wang1989).
Feed on fantasies
Although Japanese gramophone companies projected a powerful and even hegemonic image in the experiences of performers, their actual practices were constrained by various forces, despite their efforts to expand their business alongside imperialist ventures. Teichiku and its local branch in China likely lacked the privilege and dominance within the local power structure that is often assumed. This limitation became apparent in the company’s need to adjust the recording schedule. Initially delayed by the technician’s illness, the recording project eventually began on August 1, despite his incomplete recovery. The urgency was driven by the contractual obligations of Chang Baokun, who was bound to perform at the Qingyun Teahouse in Tianjin (Xin Tianjin, 1941). In other words, despite Japan’s colonial control over Tianjin at this time, private Japanese enterprises still had to accommodate the schedules and demands of the local teahouse. The Qingyun Teahouse was no ordinary venue. It operated under the patronage of Yuan Wenhui (袁文會 1901–1950), one of Tianjin’s most influential gang leaders. While Yuan collaborated with Japanese authorities in enforcing colonial order, private Japanese gramophone companies may not have wielded equivalent power to negotiate with the local gang. This limitation may have also stemmed from the company’s dependence on local staff, often relatively disadvantaged intellectuals without significant social capital, to connect with performers and their agents to negotiate terms. Seen from this micro-level perspective, the seemingly monolithic authority of colonial power reveals its fissures. Despite the larger structures of imperial domination, local networks retained considerable influence, shaping the actual practices of cultural production on the ground.
In addition to their constraints within the local power structure, Japanese gramophone companies were marginalized within the wartime economic system of the Japanese Empire, receiving insufficient support to effectively carry out their business plan (Nakamura & Kaminsky, Reference Nakamura, Kaminsky and Duus1989). As they sought to expand operations, they faced a pressing challenge: the growing shortage of raw materials and the logistical difficulties of establishing factories in China to mitigate this issue. According to a 1941 business report by Nippon Phonograph Company, the most urgent concern in the first half of the year was the search for and development of alternative materials (Nihon chikuonki shōkai 1941a). This may explain Teichiku’s attempt to set up a factory in Beijing in 1940, hoping to secure more affordable and stable supplies. However, founding new factories on the mainland proved difficult, as gramophone companies received little to no support from the Japanese government during the war. The experience of another company, Guoyue, in establishing a factory in Beiping underscores these challenges. Since 1939, Guoyue had repeatedly submitted applications to open a new factory. Like Teichiku, it first faced resistance from the local community. A dispute arose with a Chinese man who claimed ownership of the land targeted for the factory – a conflict emblematic of the broader tensions between ambiguous imperial-era property rights and the ongoing processes of urban modernization, which had plagued development efforts since the 1900s. Although Guoyue ultimately won the legal case, the dispute significantly delayed the construction of the factory. Further complications arose when the company sought the necessary permissions from Japanese authorities. It was not until January 1941 that the company finally secured official approval from the North China Liaison Office of the East Asia Development Board (Xingyayuan Huabei lianluo bu 興亞院華北聯絡部), and only in May 1942 did it receive permits for the arrangement of equipment (Zhang Reference Zhang and Fu2021). While no records survive detailing Teichiku’s factory efforts, it likely faced similar bureaucratic and logistical obstacles. Tabloid reports suggest that the company’s recording project, which was announced alongside the founding of the Tianjin branch in 1940, was advertised for an extended period before finally commencing in late July 1941. This delay may have been due to expectations to complete a local factory in Beijing, which ultimately never materialized (Youyi huakan 1941a).
Beyond the difficulties of establishing factories, Japan’s gramophone industry as a whole faced a harsh winter during the total war period, despite being tasked with supporting colonial propaganda. The strained financial and operational state of Teichiku likely also contributed to its Chinese subsidiary company’s limited production capacity and sluggish progress. Although archival material on Teichiku is scarce, business reports from peer companies help illuminate the broader struggles shared by the industry in the early 1940s. In its semiannual report covering June to December 1941, the Nipponophone Company described how the gramophone industry endured significant setbacks both within Japan and abroad as a result of the Greater East Asia War. Two wartime policies had especially severe consequences for the industry: the asset-freezing orders (shisan tōketsu rei 資産凍結令) issued by the U.S., which temporarily halted gramophone exports, and the reimposition of commodity taxes (buppin zei no sai zōchō 物品税の再増徴) along with other domestic financial controls.Footnote 37 Together, these measures disrupted sales in both domestic and international markets. Although Japan’s wartime expansion opened new access to the Southern Co-Prosperity Sphere (nanpō kyōei ken南方共栄圏), which offered potential export opportunities, the results remained uncertain. In line with state directives, the company began prioritizing the production of wartime-commissioned goods, declaring that its objective was to “fulfill its national mission through the progress of our enterprise” (Nihon chikuonki shōkai 1941b). Despite this optimism, however, the company’s financial performance in the first half of 1942 fell short of expectations. Both the record and radio sectors underperformed, and anticipated gains were deferred to the next fiscal term. The report also reflected the cumulative toll of the conflict, noting that the company had faced considerable challenges since the outbreak of the “China Incident,” although it claimed to have fully mobilized its internal resources to strengthen wartime operations (Nihon chikuonki shōkai 1942).
Beyond the economic sacrifices, it remains doubtful whether Japanese companies succeeded in delivering their intended propaganda through the production. Local audiences often interpreted the project through their own frameworks of taste and connoisseurship, which frequently diverged from the narratives promoted by Japanese firms. For instance, one of Tianjin’s notable tabloids, Youyi huakan (遊藝畫刊), covered the performers’ journey in a lively, anecdotal style.Footnote 38 Drawing on interviews with the performers, the piece prioritized a firsthand, travel-notes perspective that deconstructed the abstract colonial mission behind the journey.Footnote 39 Moreover, while the Japanese company promoted Sun Chenghai and his hybrid music as the centerpiece of the project, local reports give the impression that popular Tianjin-based performers, such as Chang Baokun, who captured greater public interest, were the true stars of the journey. The article lists the pieces these performers recorded in detail, but it refers only briefly to Sun Chenghai and Wang Yanfen’s participation, noting merely that they “also recorded a few Xihe tunes” (ye guan le ji duan xihe diao 也灌了幾段西河調) (Youyi huakan 1941a). In this sense, local audiences engaged with the project through familiar star appeal and genre loyalty, bypassing the regional tastes the Japanese company identified and the hybridized East Asian musical affinity it sought to promote.
It is difficult to trace the sales figures of the 1941 recording project, but media coverage of the pieces it selected – many of which diverged from local tastes – suggests that the project likely failed to achieve significant commercial success. Although Tao made efforts to include and recompose Wang Yanfen’s “Ten Daughters Compliment Their Husbands” (Shi nü kua fu 十女誇夫), local tabloids covering her trip to Chōsen listed only the three more well-known among the six pieces she was set to record, omitting this particular work.Footnote 40 Furthermore, even the pieces mentioned in these reports were not among Wang’s signature works. Both Wang Yanfen and Sun Chenghai were more widely recognized for their performances of traditional war-related historical stories. Wang, for instance, was celebrated for “Huyan Qing Joins an Open Competition” (Huyan Qing dalei 呼延慶打擂), while Sun was most associated with “Sun Bin and Pang Juan Battle with Wits” (Sun Pang douzhi 孫龐鬥智) (Wei Reference Wei1985, 222–223). Even at the Keijō consulate banquet, Wang chose to perform a war-themed piece (Youyi huakan 1941a). Yet in the 1941 project, such iconic repertoire was replaced by milder selections – centered on everyday life, romance, and brief morality tales – which may have failed to resonate with local audiences as powerfully.
Teichiku’s repertoire choices likely came from its strategy of closely aligning with official propaganda and exercising caution to avoid censorship. Based on their domestic experience, Japanese companies tended to secure better financial returns through alignment with state policy, which had the power to shape market demand.Footnote 41 Much of the domestic content shifted toward welfare music (kōsei ongaku 厚生音楽), designed to promote healthy entertainment (kenzen goraku 健全娯楽) and encourage harmonious family life (Tonoshita Reference Tonoshita2008, Tonoshita Reference Tonoshita2023). This welfare-oriented focus was also reflected in the 1941 project’s program selections. For example, Wang Yanfen’s “Ten Daughters Compliment Their Husbands” celebrates positive family values, while Sun Chenghai’s “Wine, Sex, Wealth, and Temper” (jiu se cai qi 酒色財氣) offered moral admonitions against the four vices, aiming to encourage a healthy lifestyle. As Wang herself recalls, Teichiku gave her a predetermined list of pieces when they first approached her, suggesting that the repertoire had been planned in advance – likely to ensure compliance with government directives (Wang Reference Wang1989). This strategic alignment with official ideologies also helps explain Teichiku’s missed opportunity to capitalize on the popularity of Li Xianglan. Although Teichiku was the first gramophone company to approach the rising film star, its emphasis on themes such as Manchu-Japanese friendship failed to generate significant public enthusiasm. In contrast, Japanese Columbia later successfully cultivated Li as a star of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere by focusing on more personal and emotionally resonant love songs (Yamaguchi & Fujiwara Reference Yamaguchi and Sakuya1987).Footnote 42
The increasingly stringent entertainment censorship enforced by Japanese authorities, both domestically and in occupied territories, likely contributed to the limited distribution of the 1941 project, despite the company’s careful alignment with official propaganda.Footnote 43 In 1940, the Japanese authority implemented a censorship regulation on record releases in China, requiring issuers to submit not only the content but also the names of performers and producers for review (Nakashi ni okeru “Rekōdo” kenetsu kankei 1940a). This policy linked the records to the personal conduct of performers, meaning that the uncontrollable behavior of native performers could further hinder the circulation of records. Transgressive performances, such as those by comic performers like Chang Baokun and Lotus Girl, were easily flagged as offensive by the authorities, potentially jeopardizing the distribution of their records.Footnote 44 For example, on July 19, 1942, these performers were punished by the Government Office of Tianjin Special City (Tianjin tebie shi gongshu 天津特別市公署) under Japanese colonial rule and ordered to cease their performances due to accusations of obscene language (huiyu 穢語) and mockery (manchao 謾嘲) (Xin Tianjin 1942). While there are no direct records indicating that their recordings were banned, radio stations that had contracted them rescinded their agreements over reputational concerns (Funü xin duhui 1942).Footnote 45 Some distribution channels for their records likely took similar precautionary measures to avoid potential risks.
Conclusion
Through the lens of a recording journey of Chinese storytelling performances to Japanese-occupied Chōsen, this article examines the tensions within Japanese gramophone companies’ practices as they attempted to build a transnational media business alongside the expansion of Japanese colonial power in North China. Teichiku’s 1941 project, for example, was designed as a showcase for the East Asian cultural synthesis promoted by the Japanese empire. Different from similar productions in other Japanese colonies, this project placed greater emphasis on incorporating local cultural elements, reflecting a subtle shift in Japan’s domestic policy that increasingly prioritized localism to counter Western influence. However, the top-down design of the project failed to fully resonate with Chinese performers and audiences in the Chinese market. While the performers took part in the project as instruments of propaganda for the Japanese company, their collaboration was marked by ambiguity, as many regarded the journey more as an exotic experience in a foreign land than as a political mission. Their perspective remained China-centered, largely overlooking the intended message of the new order in East Asia imposed by the Japanese. In practice, the gramophone industry’s potential as a vehicle for propaganda was limited by various dynamics. Operating on the periphery of Japan’s military expansion, gramophone companies in occupied territories received minimal support from colonial authorities. Their propaganda-oriented programming often clashed with local cultural preferences and was reinterpreted by local audiences through existing habits of connoisseurship. Furthermore, their efforts to align with propaganda directives and avoid censorship constrained their choices, making it difficult to cater to local tastes – ultimately hindering their commercial success. Although conceived within an imperialist framework, the recording project’s outcome was chaotically shaped by the contingent and negotiated engagements of the various parties involved.
Teichiku was not given enough time to overcome these obstacles. Like other Japanese gramophone companies, it was forced to withdraw from the Chinese market following Japan’s defeat in the Second World War. After the war, a number of songs with propagandistic themes or suspected political overtones produced by Japanese companies were banned by the Kuomintang government. Even native storytelling performances did not escape the censorship regulations of the new regime. In Shanghai, for instance, certain recordings deemed superstitious – such as the xiangsheng piece, “Begging a Baby” (Shuan wawa 拴娃娃), which was included in the 1941 project – were prohibited as part of the postwar campaign to reform public morals (Shanghai 1947). Regardless of political shifts, records produced by Japanese companies may not have sold well, as the gramophone industry in China had already been facing a declining market since the mid-1930s. The growing popularity of radio significantly undercut gramophone sales. On the one hand, people stopped purchasing records as they could now listen to music for free on the radio. On the other hand, many broadcast stations favored live performances, which were more engaging for audiences and offered greater flexibility for inserting profitable advertisements (Shanghai 1932).
The 1941 project’s inherent contradictions, ambiguous political nature, and potential economic failure led to its erasure from both the historical narrative of storytelling performances and the personal memories of some performers after the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Chang Baokun, the star of the project in the eyes of Tianjin audiences, never returned from his second journey to Korea during the War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea. On April 23, 1951, he was killed by a U.S. airstrike while preparing a performance for Chinese soldiers on the battlefield and was later honored as a martyr. His earlier collaboration with Japanese companies – a compromise that complicated his public image – was largely omitted from official biographies.Footnote 46 In her later years, when collaborating with the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference on her oral history, Wang Yanfen recalled only that she had been invited by a Chōsen company to perform in Busan (Wang Reference Wang1989). Similarly, Sun Chenghai’s official biography notes merely that he was recorded by a Chōsen company (Zhongguo quyizhi Heilongjiang juan 668). These misstatements may reflect either the confusion brought about by the rapidly shifting geopolitical landscape of East Asia in the latter half of the twentieth century or a conscious erasure of experiences deemed shameful or politically risky during the early PRC political campaigns. The complexities of this transnational encounter have left behind only fragmented traces, shaped by shifting political discourses, evolving media technologies, collective amnesia, and perhaps deliberate silence.
Acknowledgement
This research was supported by the Association for Asian Studies through the East & Inner Asia Council Grant, and by UCLA’s Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies through the Herbert and Helen Kawahara Fellowship. I am deeply grateful to Andrea S. Goldman and the anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments and suggestions. I also wish to thank the participants of the symposium Performance, Media, and Place-Making in East Asia held at UCLA for their thought-provoking questions.
Competing interests
The author declares no competing interests.
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