-^-for posterity-^-

i am doing my best to learn traditional vietnamese music. i know a few songs but they are all helplessly tinged with western musical taste. they follow melodic patterns and have choruses. i want to learn something authentic.

one form of music that is very authentic to the south of vietnam is called ‘cai luong’. the word ‘cai luong’ literally means reform. this style of music was developed after wwi. it was originally a kind of opera. there would be a plot line and the stories would gently flow into song. the songs are very popular and they take a while to get used to. there is no melody. the singer follows the tones of the words as they rise and fall. the singer determines what kind of stress to put on certain words. things follow a loose framework.

i have spent the last few days trying to learn a very famous ‘cai luong’ song called ‘hoa mua trang’ or white corn flower. the word corn flower might sound a bit strange but a corn flower is rather beautiful. it floats on the water and has petals that violently shoot from the middle.

the song is about a person who was traveling across the river with a group of soldiers. the driver of the boat told them the story of their life. the story focused around the time the americans were fighting in the south. the story is about how this flower came to symbolize her, her mother and her life floating on the river. it’s amazing how poetic the song is when compared to the harshness of war.

i have done my best to translate:

I took a group of soldiers across the river. The boat driver told me a story about a girl. I asked, “what is this girl’s name?” She didn’t reply but pointed to the wild flowers on the river. I asked, “which wild flower is that?” She said, “Corn flowers.” I wondered if she was joking. In a forest of flowers, who pays any attention to the Corn flower?
She suddenly looked at me with much compassion, with her hand she softly stroked my hand and said, “Keep calm.” She told me that here there were no orchids, no lilies, no roses they only have flowers that suffer through the morning dew and sunlight but the color is not faded, but rather it is pure white. The Corn Flowers meets the sun which makes them more brilliant. The Corn Flowers meet the moon which draws a sparkling stroke of light on them. The Corn Flowers are born in the good-natured mountain forests and they beautify life with perfume.
An invader thunderously came into the countryside like a violent whirl-wind, springs quieted and birds suddenly stopped singing. On the river’s dock, my mother said goodbye as father went to follow the fire burning in the woods. At that time, mother became a boat driver and from that time on, I also grew up. The guests that cross the river complement her. They say she is gentle and time makes her beauty splendid. Out of nowhere an official named Chau appeared and wanted to buy us with his silver.
Who buys and sells the Corn Flower? Mother couldn’t agree on a price that would satisfy the official. One day, mother’s heart was broken because I was taken away by the official. Mother looked like she didn’t know what to do. She went to the bank of the river and watched the current flow. When my mother started to remember her husband, she would go over the burnt fields. When she remembered me she would admire the Corn Flower. Mother’s ears perked up when she heard the sound of the pagoda’s bell and every pedal of the Corn Flower would fill her hair. Mother had vivid dreams where she saw me die an atrocious death at the hands of the enemy. My father knew that I was taken away by the enemy and it brought him great pain. The August Revolution drove the misery away. Father constantly returned and admired the Corn Flowers.
The Corn Flower of my parents became more and more beautiful. The Revolution came back to me like a bird with a frayed wing flying through the early Autumn sky. To see me joining the army of the Revolution was like a pure tear gushing forth. To see my countryside for a second and to see the change, to think of it as only a dream. Alas, the Corn flower of my mother, to imagine it so weak and smeared with the color of dust and sand. The Revolution let me experience how I was a pedal drifting in the translucent eyes of my mother. On the side of the river, there was the ferry rushing so quickly like so many years ago. I would row groups of soldiers early in the afternoon and see them off at the other shore. A group of young men would walk up the road towards the battlefield. Now I realize the value of the Corn Flowers. They are my mother carrying people up the river to meet their desires. They are the people living out the desires of my father and brothers.
My parents are the people that went first. Me and the boat lady continue the work of those that came before. From that autumn to now, the Corn Flower still blooms sweetly, filling the spring river as the ferries carry groups of soldiers. Whose shadows are they? Those as pure as the Corn Flower.