Beijing's Revolution

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Such excesses by the authorities will almost certainly diminish once the Games are over. And in any case, it's increasingly obvious that as the capital's creative sectors bloom, so does the ability of those working in them to circumvent or ignore the rules. That has helped shape a second city hidden under the bland façade of broad boulevards and marbled ministries, argues Hu Xudong, a noted poet, columnist and professor of literature at Peking University. "Underneath the official Beijing we have another Beijing that's more like Latin America than China," he says. The city's other art scenes are supercharged as well. "Ninety percent of China's film directors live here, and so do most of our writers." Today, Hu concludes, "Beijing is a place of real magic."

Perhaps the best place to experience Beijing's special energy is Zhongguancun, a western region of the city where numerous universities and colleges are located, including China's two top academies, Peking and Tsinghua universities. When I first visited Peking University, the area surrounding the campus consisted of grimy single- or double-story brick buildings and open fields in what was then the outskirts of the city. Now it is a bustling commercial hub of shopping malls and glass-and-steel office buildings filled with China's leading media and technology companies--giants like Microsoft and Google and hundreds of tiny start-ups. Victor Koo, a thirtysomething Internet pioneer, moved the headquarters of his company, Youku, China's most popular YouTube equivalent, to the area in April. "You have to be here," Koo says. "From a recruiting standpoint alone, this is where everyone is."

Maybe I'm a little too old to appreciate a heaving mosh pit screaming for an encore, but there's no doubt they're nurturing their own kind of dream down the street at D-22, Beijing's bleeding-edge rock club. Its fans say the unassuming club, right between Tsinghua and Peking universities, houses one of the most exciting music scenes in the world, a hothouse for new talent that rivals London's or New York City's. From the crimson walls of the second-story balcony hang 13 portraits that have become the club's hall of fame--local bands like P.K. 14, Joyside, Hedgehog and Carsick Cars. D-22's sophistication and huge variety--one night it featured a performance of classical Chinese opera between sets--trigger memories of the stultifying Beijing of the old days. Back in the early 1990s, I was proudly escorted to the happening place at the time: a poky bar in the diplomatic neighborhood, featuring plastic stools and rickety tables. My memory of the entertainment is hazy, but I think it involved someone crooning syrupy ballads while accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar. On a typical Saturday night at D-22, by contrast, the jam-packed crowd sways and screams, with drunken German exchange students moshing alongside long-haired Chinese musicians checking out the competition. A young Chinese woman in tight denim shorts dives from the stage onto the crowd and is passed hand to hand around the room before being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. Carsick Cars launches into the song Zhongnanhai--the name of both the central government compound and a popular cigarette brand. In what could pass for political commentary--or possibly following some critical impulse obscure even to themselves--people in the crowd shower the band with loose cigarettes.

The godfather of this scene is Michael Pettis, 50, a former Wall Street bond trader who is now an economics professor at Peking U. A longtime music fan, he began to investigate the Beijing rock scene when he moved here in 2002. He wasn't impressed. "Beijing at the time was a provincial city. It was not that interesting," Pettis says. "Bands could only get an audience to the extent that they copied New York or London." Pettis, who ran a club in New York City in the early 1980s, decided to open his own place. "I figured, if we do it, after four or five years we're going to get an audience, and there will be an explosion in Beijing," he says. "We were shocked. Two years later, I would say that Beijing is one of the top five or 10 cities in the world for music."

To be sure, some old habits linger. On July 4, Pettis was told that though his club had previously not needed a license, he now had to apply for one and could not stage any shows until he received it. He hopes and expects that such stringency is temporary and that when the Olympics have come and gone, things will return to normal. "I can't wait until they're done," he says with a sigh.

That's a common refrain. Beijing may have been put in a straitjacket for the Games. But it's come too far too fast to be closed down for good. The day after the closing ceremony of the Olympics, watch out for cigarettes and girls in denim shorts flying through the air.