Jennifer Conrad reports on a new author, somebody who knows everybody:
Zachary Mexico sits curled over a bowl of noodles. He sips from a glass of red wine, the drink he'll consume in a steady stream throughout the night—sometimes in a champagne flute or tumbler, because that's what the Beijing bars offered.
The 29-year-old American is in Beijing to promote his first book, China Underground. His real surname isn't Mexico, but he adopted the moniker "in the tradition of Jewish men changing their last names, like Bob Dylan" for writing and playing in rock bands and for reasons he's long since forgotten or isn't copping to.
"People always think that China is this huge Communist country, where people all dress the same," Mexico says, explaining the impressions he hopes to counter. China Underground delves into the scenes and interesting characters Mexico discovered during his 15 years of living off-and-on in China, including studying abroad in high school, spending part of college at Beijing's Qinghua University, and running a nightclub for two years in Kunming, in the southwestern province of Yunnan.
The people profiled in the book navigate a rapidly changing China. He hangs out with "The Slacker," a pot-smoking, girl-crazy owner of a cafe in hippie town Dali, whose lifestyle is a rejection of the consumerist culture springing up around him. He meets the creator—a "chubby, nerdy guy"—of a student film that's sympathetic to Ma Jiajue http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-03/17/content_315545.htm, a Yunnan University student from a poor background who, feeling out-of-place and picked on, bludgeoned his roommates to death with a sledgehammer. Ma was executed, but he became something of a cult hero for committing a Chinese version of Columbine, sticking up for bullied outcasts.
Mexico befriends "Jimmy Boy," a Nigerian drug dealer who entered China on someone else's passport and works Shanghai clubs looking for expat clients. Mexico got the dealer to reveal the intricacies of how drugs flow into China by saying he wanted to go into business with him.
It's easy to see why Mexico gets so many people to open up. With shoulder-length brown hair that's always slightly askew, he's instantly affable. We met briefly the night before at the nerd-chic British band Young Knives concert, and he immediately showed off his Grateful Dead T-shirt and high-top Chuck Taylor sneakers, both purchased with "charity money." You see, his apartment in New York City burned down http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/25/nyregion/25fire.html?ref=nyregion right before he left on this book tour, and he lost almost all of his belongings.
Today, he sports a black leather jacket (just bought from his friends' shop up the street), a white T ($40, from Bloomingdale's, he says, joking that he's turning a little yuppie), Levi's, a brown hoodie that someone left at his house ages ago, and the same Dead kicks.
And Mexico knows everyone. As we leave the bar, he says goodbye to the staff and asks them to tell the owner, his friend, hello. A short cab ride later, we're in front of Yugong Yishan, a venue that's hosting a private party for a new line of Ray-Ban sunglasses. Mexico knows the owner from way back, so after a couple of phone calls, someone steps out and thrusts invitations into our hands. Inside, he sees more friends: local musicians, the owner of a punk club, the guy who booked the previous night's show, some guy he's not sure how he knows.
We're standing at the bar with Bian Yuan, the ridiculously stylish frontman for Joyside. Tonight, he wears a khaki trench, striped sweater, zebra print scarf, and leather pants. He's like a Chinese David Johansen (the singer of '70s glam band New York Dolls), Mexico observes. As we sip free and terrible sparkling wine, Mexico explains that his family owns the swimsuit company his great-grandfather founded. They have a patented suit that "pulls in your stomach and makes your *** stick out."
New Pants, a local band that perfectly replicates New Wave styles and sounds, plays, followed by the British act The Kills. The room is thronged with Chinese hipsters with fringey haircuts, black-rimmed glasses, and skinny designer jeans.
The show winds down around midnight, and Mexico is on his cell phone again. We go meet one of the book's subjects, Shao Xiaoli, A.K.A. "The Screenwriter." Growing up, Shao's father was a projectionist in a movie theater in Sichuan, and the family lived in the back. Now a Beijing Film Academy grad, he cowrote the screenplay for Breaking the Silence.
We're in a cozy, smoky bar with pool tables and cats wandering around. We sit at a round table with Chinese red wine in champagne glasses, joined by a friend of the screenwriter who works in film development.
Shao is obviously excited to see his old friend Mexico (they met because while Mexico waited out SARS traveling around Southeast Asia, Shao left Beijing for Kunming and crashed in Mexico's bed) and asks about the book. His hair is shaggy, he chain-smokes, and his eyes are bloodshot. He takes black and white photos of us, resting his digital camera on a mini-tripod he fiddles with all night.
Sometime after 2 a.m., Shao seems disappointed that everyone's fading—he wants to continue drinking. He takes Mexico and me to a restaurant and orders bowls of pulled noodles. He talks about his plans, but since my Chinese is as shaky as his English, Mexico often acts as translator. He's writing the script for a TV series, but that gig is just for the money. He's starting a group that will bring together the country's 20 best screenwriters—including himself, naturally. And he's working on a plan to screen German films in China.
I can barely keep my eyes open, Mexico seems disappointed he's tired so early, and Shao looks like he could stay up till dawn, if we were a little less lame. Despite the advanced hour, the restaurant still serves several tables.
I hop into my final cab of the night. The boys share another, heading home—or possibly to party a little longer, now that they've ditched the reporter. It's 3-something in the morning, and there are a million stories buzzing around Beijing.
