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He ended up playing piano, accompanying an aspiring singer. And they stunk. The show's host, legendary Taipei funnyman and all-around entertainment impresario Jacky Wu, was always on the prowl for new talent, but he took one look at the nervous kid at the piano and the croaking vocalist and thought, forget it, back to the burbs for this duo. "I really wasn't impressed," says Wu. "The friend's singing was lousy." Then he saw the music. "I took a look at the musical score over the judge's shoulder and I was amazed. It was complex and very well done." After the taping, Wu, who at that time owned Alfa Music, headed backstage to meet Chou, who was wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. "My first impression of Jay was that he was so shy, so quiet," Wu recalls. "I thought he was retarded."

But Wu was swayed by the music. He had seen dozens of sneering pretty boys with slicked-back hair who could barely read a high C, and here was this shy, awkward pianist who seemed like he could scrawl a symphony in his sleep. Wu would do more than write him his first checks as a songwriter—he would also inadvertently give the kid a place to crash between hits, would allow this suburbanite to turn an unused space behind a sofa into a miniature pop-music factory as he wrote tunes for late-'90s acts such as PowerStation and Taiwan-ese diva Valen Hsu. "Jacky is like my elder brother," says Chou. "He taught me how to be an artist, to be professional and to be dedicated to my career." But Chou was doing more than transcribing catchy little ditties at six bills a pop (hit)—he was inadvertently helping to define a sound, an emerging Taiwanese pop presence and style that would, within three years, transform the island into the epicenter of Chinese pop.

But the master still doubted his apprentice could be more than a songwriter. "I didn't think Chou could make it as an entertainer," Wu admits, "because he's not so handsome." It wasn't until Wu handed over the reins of Alfa Music to his friend and fellow singer J.R. Yang nearly a year-and-a-half later that Chou would go from being idol-maker to idol.

"I asked him if he'd written anything for himself," Yang explains. Chou played him Ke Ai Nu Ren (Lovely Woman), a song he had already recorded on borrowed time—hanging around the studio 24-7 did have its advantages. "After four minutes the song finished, and I asked, 'What are we waiting for?'" The kid was living in the studio anyway. Recording the first album in three months was practically a vacation.

Chou kicks back on that leather sofa today, wearing an off-white wool cap pulled low over his brooding, brown eyes, and a black velour tracksuit. He went from being studio geek to pop star overnight, almost too quickly, and he carries the emotional and psychological vestments of that fame and success uneasily. He's all straight answers, monosyllabic responses, yes ma'ams and no ma'ams. Grunts. Nods. Evasive eye rolls. Where is the smoldering sexuality and boy-misses-girl pathos, the mannish lad who gives his soul ballads depth and feeling?

Then he begins talking about the music, and you remember, yes, the music. Take that away and you're left with this slab of a boy who looks like he wants to climb back over that sofa and hunker down in his old, creative lair. My music, he explains, my music should be like magic. It should have variety. It should be ephemeral, changing, evolving. He goes off on musical theory and Chopin and how the cello is different from the violin and Chinese five-tone versus Western 12-tone melodies. "It's my magic," he says again, shaking his head, looking at you all earnest and sincere as if he needs you to understand.

And then he opens up, revealing his yearning to find a girlfriend, his own shyness that has him growing his hair long over his eyes so he isn't distracted by his fans' staring.

Finally, he leans in close: "Let me tell you about diao."

Diao is a Taiwanese slang usually translated as "cool" or "outrageous." It literally means "penis."

"It's my personal philosophy," he explains, "but it has nothing to do with religion. It means that whatever you do, you don't try to follow others. Go your own way, you know?"

He sits back, shakes his hair out of his eyes and nods. This is serious. This is deep. This is the metaphysical mechanism that he feels explains his pop stardom, as opposed to his musical talent. "It's like, the ability to shock. The way I think of shocking people is to do things that people don't expect in my music, in my performances. Like during my first Taipei show last year, I was performing Long Quan (Dragon Fist) [Chou's favorite tune from his Eight Dimensions CD] and I took off on a harness and flew out over the audience. That was diao."

Diao is an internal process, a mystical path that makes extreme demands and forces stringent measures. It requires, mysteriously, that Chou forgo wearing underwear, a lifestyle choice that is endlessly vexing to his mother. "He used to wear underwear as a child," she sighs. "Maybe it is something he started since working with Jacky Wu." Chou himself will not elaborate. The diao that can be spoken of, apparently, is not the eternal diao.

The diao, of course, has made him wealthy, a millionaire, but he insists all that is a distraction. His mother manages his huge income. His managers run his business and take care of his lucrative endorsements. Though Alfa Music has given him a tony, Taipei bachelor pad, Chou prefers living at home with mom in his childhood bedroom with its single mattress, gray sheets and royal blue walls. Ignore, for a moment, the complimentary Pepsi fridge with Chou's likeness molded on the door and the dozens of music trophies and awards, and it's a typical boy's room. And his home, despite his parents' divorce when he was 14, was, he insists, a happy place. But then where, if he had a contented childhood and then a quick apprenticeship as contract songwriter, did the sadness and pathos that could inform a precocious, soulful R. and B. singer come from? How could a happy kid write lyrics about a drunken father who beats his wife and child as he does on Ba Wo Hui Lai Le (Dad, I Have Come Back), a jilted lover on the brink of suicide as on Shi Jie Mo Ri (End of the World)? "I hear stories and I use them," he shrugs. "I make them up. I go to see a movie or look at the elements of a music video."

Chou is a sponge when it comes to music, absorbing styles and trends and then seamlessly incorporating them into his Oriental-flavored R. and B. "He mixes Western instruments with Chinese instruments, like the di (Chinese flute) and the three-string sanxian," explains Chou's friend and fellow musician Rex Jan. "He's also adopted Chinese five-tone melodies as opposed to Western ones."

It's not as if Chou introduced R. and B. to the region—David Tao and Wang Lee Hom have both been around for a while—but it wasn't until Chou's debut that waves of Mando-rappers and crooning R. and B. singers took over MTV Taiwan. "Chou is definitely setting musical trends," says Hong Kong-based Ming Pao Weekly music critic Fung Lai-chi.

His success as a singer-songwriter has already inspired dozens of imitators eager to achieve a similar mixture of street cred and sales sizzle. "The trend is toward more singer-songwriters," says Mark Lankester, managing director of Warner Music Hong Kong. It seems every pretty boy with a guitar is taking up composing; even Canto-pop bad boy Nicholas Tse is now scribbling his own tunes. And then there's Anson Hu, Hong Kong's junior soul man who recently won Best New Artist at the Commercial Radio awards ceremony. "He's copying Jay," says Fung. "He's even being called the new 'Chinese Jay.'"

What makes Chou's music successful, and distinctive from all the boys who would be Jay, is that when he sings that he is hurting or yearning or that he needs you so bad, you believe him. His delivery is Boyz II Men-smooth, and he hits those notes with a conviction born of having proved himself as a songwriter. Remember, he spent nearly two years in that studio watching and hearing what worked and what didn't, and the results of that dues paying are a confidence and a swagger that comes across on disc. On CDs like Jay, Fantasy Life and Eight Dimensions, you're listening to a man who believes in the musical choices he is making, who knows he is right. He is not singing what some manager in an office somewhere has told him will be a hit; he is singing his heart out, right now, for you.

Chou wants the ball. He's a hoops fiend, and he swears that the only two places he's comfortable are in the studio and on the basketball court. He takes a break from the 64-track and heads out to Taipei's Ta An Park, where he and a few friends have a regular game. It's concrete-court, no-holds-barred pickup—tall guys banging under the rim, small guys at the top or on the wing. Everyone launching jumpers. The only pass anyone wants to make is the one to inbound the ball. But even here Chou seems different. John Stockton-skinny with mad dribbles, he's a point guard among other players, who, no matter where they are on the court, seem perpetually out of position. The game, even at this level, flows through him. He hits open threes, makes behind-the-back dribbles to the rack for easy layups. Chou knows exactly what he wants to do with the ball.

So there's this, too. You see it when he plays. He's a control freak. That's why he doesn't like interviews or awards ceremonies, why he's shy and awkward around his fans, because he doesn't know how to control those settings. But on the court, in the studio, he's the show runner.

No other ethnic-Chinese idol enjoys the level of artistic and creative control over his or her albums and videos that Chou does. According to those who work with him, Chou knows exactly what he wants when it comes to his sound, and he is relentless about achieving it. In order to write one of his hits, Shuan Ji Gun (Nunchaku), he actually taught himself to use the martial art weapon and then appeared with it in the video. Kuang Sheng, who has directed the majority of Chou's videos, says he follows the star's instructions: "Chou has more control than other artists over his own videos. And over time, he is only becoming more controlling."

A month later and Chou is lounging in a swanky Chinese restaurant after his packed-house performance at the MGM Grand. Still wearing his sweaty tank top and carefully scuffed jeans, he seems contemplative, as if he is finally impressed by the enormity of his own achievements. There are a few more worlds for this show-biz Alexander to conquer: TV, movies, going global and hitting the U.S. charts. But Chou seems indifferent to learning English, unconcerned with the producers who beseech him to make a film and, finally, more comfortable and less anxious with the demands of his celebrity. He is growing into the role now, his diao, apparently, has taken him this far and he has learned to trust it. There will be enormous demands placed on this 24-year-old, forces of commerce tugging at him to do this commercial, that magazine shoot, this action picture. Kung fu master or rogue cop? R. and B. or hip-hop? Nike or Adidas?

He shakes his head. The first thing he's going to do is head back to that Taipei studio, to that little nook behind the sofa, where he will lie back, take a nap, and dream up a few more tunes.

——With reporting by Joyce Huang/Taipei

From the Mar. 03, 2003 issue of TIME Asia Magazine

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