Their Time to Shine?: Asian-American artists are gradually making their mark in hip-hop. But mainstream success is still out of reach. Now, the task seems to be resting on one man's shoulders.

It's two o' clock in the afternoon on a relatively quiet Saturday along the shores of Venice Beach, CA. A couple of rollerbladers whiz by. A handful of street artists line the sidewalk, hawking their own oils on canvas. But in the distance, a rather large crowd is gathered around a huge crane and a plethora of bright lights. Upon closer inspection, it appears the passer-bys are gawking at a camera crew and a group of actors. A middle-aged man and his seven or eight year old son walk by and watch in amusement. "What's going on?" he asks. Someone shoots back, "They're making a rap video!" "Oh yeah? Where's the rapper?" Unbeknownst to him, the star of the video is standing right in front of him: A 5'6" Chinese kid named Jin Au-Yeung.

Simon Cowell said all of Hawaii needed to vote to send "American Idol" finalist Jasmine Trias to the final three, and as the phone company later attested, they pretty much did. The 17-year-old from Mililani, Hawaii, won over more than her home state, however, garnering a huge fanbase with her smooth voice, friendly smile and supportive family.

Q: A lot of people thought that your crying last week helped you advance.

Jasmine Trias: I cried because I knew I didn't give my best performance and to hear it rubbed in just hurt. And I guess America responded to that, but I don't know, I'm only human and people cry.

Asian-American rappers press for respect -- and a broader image for the music

It's tough being the first.

Just ask Philadelphia's Scott Jung, aka Chops. Back in the mid-'90s, he was one-third of the Mountain Brothers, the first Asian-American hip-hop act to sign a deal with a major label. But after the initial blast of euphoria and dreams of multiplatinum bling-bling, all the guys got out of the deal was a promotional single and a release from their contract.

"There was that whole thing that they didn't know what to do as far as us being Asian," recalls Chops of the hook-up with Sony-distributed Ruffhouse, which had hits at the time with Cypress Hill, Nas and the Fugees.

The Mountain Brothers survived for a while, releasing their music independently, but whether 21st-century America will be kinder to Asian-American hip-hop remains to be seen. Still, Asian-Americans are becoming increasingly represented in a field in which, as far as most pop consumers are concerned, they're almost invisible.

I had a bizarre moment today while watching TV. I was flipping through the channels and I came across MTV. On the tube was something I had never seen before -- an Asian guy.

It wasn't the revelation of seeing an Asian man on TV (as rare as that may be), it was the context. He wasn't rattling on in really bad English (as I saw last night on The Practice); in fact, it was basically the opposite in dimension and delivery. He was rapping.

A Houston homeboy hopes Asian kids will buy his rap

Apple pie and oolong tea.

In the Houston home where rapper Jeremy Huang grew up, this is what his mother graciously offers a guest -- an East-meets-West treat that mirrors Huang's international urban music experiment.

After years of struggling in a US hip-hop scene with few other Asian-American artists, Huang, aka Witness, has taken his turntable beats and rhymes to his parents' homeland of Taiwan.

For more than three years, Huang commuted 17 hours by plane between Los Angeles, to record music, and Taipei, to get it heard. He finally moved to Taiwan's capital about two years ago to pursue a record deal.

Escaping rejection in the US and bidding to become the Eminem of Taiwan is a novel musical quest with its own barriers. In Taiwan, Huang will be a test case for Western hip-hop -- with the advantage of physically resembling his audience. If it doesn't work, he reasons he'll be no worse off than he was in the US.

Jon Jang, Tiananmen!  (Soul Note)

By Bret Arenson
All About Jazz
May 2002

Though a modern release, this beautiful document of Jon Jang's efforts to infuse the Asian American experience into jazz music can even be seen today as the ground breaking classic that it is. True to the evolving nature of the music, it is one of the most unique and innovative creations of the times. And it has a depth of meaning and soulfulness that is found at the heart of all great jazz. This is an eleven piece orchestra with members from various ethnic backgrounds. The instrumentation is mostly western with three of the musicians using oriental instruments. The entire recording is an extended composition based on the experiences of the composer to the demonstrations of the Beijing protesters and their unfortunate demise. The result is an accurate and powerful portrayal of the cry for freedom and weary wail of the oppressed and the questioning heartbreak of the overlooker.

Although Jang uses Sun Ra's distinctive term of Arkestra, the music may be closer to Ellington's suites or more so Mingus' large band experiments. As do both of his predecessors, Jang merges much of the jazz tradition into his composition, employing elements of swing, bebop and collective improvisation. And of course there is the Asian influence but also can be heard influences from other cultures. Again, like his predecessors, he fuses these elements together with delicate beauty and deft craftsmanship powerfully portraying the deep emotional content of the music.

This weekend, the San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival celebrates the talents of a diverse group of Asian American musicians and video artists with its fourth annual Directions In Sound showcase. The weekend-long series of events kicks off Friday at Cafe Du Nord with an evening of live rock, followed on Saturday with a night of DJ sets and music video screenings at Studio Z, featuring two South Asian-influenced DJ collectives, New York's Mutiny crew and San Francisco's own Dhamaal.

This campus's Asian American literary set fails to understand a simple concept: When we Asian Americans appropriate African American language for our own, we sound ridiculous.

Using another people's street language is both a joke and a corruption. Sporting a traditionally "black" attitude results in cheap imitation, not expression. Ripping away words like "brothah" and "sistah" from their proper social context reduces their verbal power to nothing.

Jazz rode the 1990s surprisingly well. It was a decade in which the recorded-music market was flat compared to other media; and traditionally, jazz--which has a perennial single-digit market share--is an early casualty of the budget cuts and corporate take-overs that market slumps spawn. But that didn't happen in the 1990s. Moreover, jazz benefited from plunging CD production costs and e-commerce, which created a slew of independent labels and direct marketing conduits. And tens of millions of dollars from public and philanthropic sources, combined with increased corporate sponsorships of jazz festivals from coast to coast (a bid for the jazz audience's alleged upscale demographics), sustained a healthy live performance market throughout the decade.

That absurd stereotype is all the more remarkable considering how much has changed in the classical music world since Mr. Kim left Korea at the age of 12 to study at the Curtis Institute of Music, the elite Philadelphia conservatory. Back in 1961, there were only a handful of Asian students at Curtis and the Juilliard School, and Western classical music was just beginning to attract a broader following in the Far East.

A. Magazine
May/June 1995

Throughout its long and vivid history, Billboards Top 40 charts have been littered with "My Sharonas" and other bits of momentary inspiration by bands who have managed to eke out considerably less than their allotted 15 minutes of fame. But to many musicians, the true measure of success is not a hit pop single, but rather longevity. Hiroshima -- arguably, Asian America's best-known band -- has been fortunate enough to attain that measure of success. With a career that has lasted nearly 20 years and yielded seven bestselling albums (and even a Soul Train Music Award), Hiroshima are the grand old group of Asian America: our jazz version of the Rolling Stones. I met Hiroshima founder Dan Kuramoto, koto player June Okida Kuramoto, and master taiko player Johnny Mori during their recent stay in New York for the Jazz Jam 'Round Midnight, a part of the prestigious Jazz Times convention at the Manhattan Center. They were also promoting their latest album, "Hiroshima L.A.," their first album on Qwest Records, a label owned by a man legendary for his support of musicians of color because he is one himself: pop mogul Quincy Jones.

By Terry Hong
A. Magazine
March/April 1998

In his bold multimedia performance pieces, saxophonist and composer Fred Ho combines politics, prose, and a dash of revolutionary fervor

FRED HO TELLS ME he philosophically doesn't believe in monogamy ("although I'm capable of practicing it") or the nuclear family. He's never had kids...that he knows of. "My projects are my kids," he adds after a pause. "They take just as long to birth and to raise, and cause as much heartbreak." And just before I rush off to get home to my waiting toddler, he tells me, "Most arts writers are not politically equipped to write about me. They're too reductionist and oversimplify my politics."

Special Feature
May 3, 2000

Hundreds of Asian Americans have responded to a call by students at the University of Maryland to protest an on-campus appearance by the Bloodhound Gang, a popular music group.  While the success of their song "Bad Touch" has gained the rock-rap-novelty act a broad mainstream audience, another of their songs, "Yellow Fever," has succeeded only in replaying experiences of racial discrimination and reminding Asian Americans of our marginalized status in popular culture.

In the basement of an Annandale home, amongst weightlifting equipment and some children's toys, the FOB Mob is gearing up to be one of the premier rock bands in the [Washington, D.C.] area.  A giant stuffed bear and a statute of the Virgin Mary watch on, as the group improves with every practice.  Drummer Steve Tran, a 24-year-old "computer geek" and Beatles fan, bangs away at his drumset like a musician with years of experience.  Only his musical instruction videos, sitting on the VCR nearby in pristine condition, belie the truth.  Meanwhile, Greg Han and Mark Chang belt out their lyrics while playing the guitar and bass, never missing a beat.  Get ready, D.C., the FOB Mob has arrived ashore.

I.  Introduction

"Do the shows usually sell out?" I asked the man at Footwork over the phone.

"We always sell out," he answered soberly, failing to note the ideologically loaded double meaning of his response.

It was Labor Day weekend, 1998. I was on my way to Philadelphia to see a performance by the Mountain Brothers, a trio of lyrical Chinese Americans whose non-sell-out, hip-hop music "makes brothers say 'true,' sisters say 'ooh,' white folks say 'right on,' and yellows say 'finally....'"⁽¹⁾ Music critic Oliver Wang had called the Mountain Brothers "Asian America's best shot at hip hop glory."⁽²⁾ After reading through the group's extensive homepage on the World Wide Web, "Woody," "Alex," and I were eager to see their performance.