the ketuk gen

Take a seat, Henry. Grab the chair from the dinner table. Impressive piece of furniture, isn’t it? Javanese influence, Henry. Javanese. I had it shipped in some twenty years ago. Old. It belonged to one of those ancient Javanese kings. I adore it to death. The solid wood. The intricate carvings. The silent mythical stories it holds. It was expensive. And it cost almost my life. My life. Ahh, is that what you are here for, Henry? The sweeping saga of my life? Sweeping saga. Really Henry, you have your ways of boosting my self-esteem.

My story, like those imbedded on the chair that you are sitting on, is a spin of truth and yet seems so surreal. Even to me. Even after the fact that I’ve lived through it. The sanctity of it still haunts me, like I am still dreaming; as if I have not touched the ground all these years. Surreal, Henry. It disturbs me sometimes.

Like the every green albeit overused phrase captured in Romeo and Juliet, I shall begin by pondering on where do I begin? I am a creaky sixty year old, meandering in this world way too technologically advanced for me to comprehend and values too odd for me to characterize. I wish I was twenty again. Yes, twenty. Yes, that’s where I shall begin.

Kuala Lumpur, with all its fiery multi-cultural ambience, as a result of some 200 years of colonial power, was where it all took off. Some 50 years into independence, Malaysia, then was truly the salad bowl of different values, colors, and voices. We came together, through an unjust and yet undisputed constitution, and assimilated into a unique Malaysian brand but still at the same time retained some sense of our racial differences.

We were the prototypes of a post-colonial society. Somewhere back in our heads, there was a feeling of ineptness, that our colonial predecessors, the “mat sallehs” were a class above us. Everything foreign and Western was good. Parents were scramming to send their children overseas for a foreign education. Pushing them to reside in a “white” country for the rest of their lives. Such a mockery of ourselves, Henry! Our own national pride was almost non-existent, such a shame. I feel embarrassed recalling such a disgraceful socio-cultural fact. Well the only hilarious thing out of it was that people returned home from their education in ‘tanah putih’ with funny accents. Trying to put on a foreign accent when in actual fact, nobody could understand them. But you, Henry, I see, are a true blue Malaysian with your proud “lahs” and “mahs”. I appreciate that. Truly.

The city, bustling with so much energy and persistency saw the flourishing cultural and arts scene being pioneered by the celebrated generation of Malaysians born in the eighties. We were ‘anak malaysia’, truly born and bred in this land regardless of where our parents had come from.

It was such glorious days. The handful of us, seeking the lifestyle of freedom of expression and intellectual zest. That was all we saw, that was what we were. They called us the ‘Ketuk’ Generation. A symbolical re-enactment of the Kerouac-inspired ‘Beat-Generation’ in 1950’s America. Although ‘ketuk’ literally mean hitting rather than beat, we were passionately driving the same vision, the same force and the same energy in bustling out of the norm. Defying the mental stream that drove everyone else then.

In such a fusion environment, we thrived. Almost suffocating in the whole Asian conformist institution of “don’t ask, just do,” we fought. Oh Henry, we did.

Well, Henry, to answer your question of how much we had impact the social conditions then, first, I have to tell you; my story can only reveal so much of what had happened around me. I choose to reveal tales of my close ones, and yet to reaffirm, the ‘ketuk generation’ was an entire movement of its own with multitude of anecdotes which I cannot wrap around in simple words in just this short time of our meeting.

Look at that picture on the wall, Henry. Yes, that one to the far right. The four of us. The good old pals. Bonded by inner rebellion. The desire to change the world in some way.

At twenty, I had ambitions stretching beyond a plausible capacity. Idealist. Too many ideas in my head. I had wanted to achieve so many things at once. Too afraid I might be wasting my youth and yet un-forgivingly forgetting that I am only then a young dreamer.
I grew up with a single mum whom still in her; resides the inner spirit of a “hippie rock” reverie. With her fiery will and strength, topped off with an unconventional post-war British-Malayan education; she nurtured me sub-consciously to be a fascist.

There was always a conscious effort on my part to be different, to be alternative. Just a simple way of putting it Henry, I couldn’t wear the same pink skirt that all women are wearing. Maybe that was the reason why I failed out of my piano class when I was 15, I just couldn’t play all the classical pieces that the rest of the girls could. It wasn’t because I was a bad pianist; I just didn’t want to play what everyone else was playing.

At 13, I found my weapon of ‘world domination’, that’s how I had labeled it. Yes, you laugh, Henry. By a chance coincidence, I took wing under a writing mentor who at that point was the sub-editor of Malaysia’s biggest academic publishers. Skillfully polished in both Malay and English Language, my desire and self pride took flight. At 16, I had decided that my mark on the world will be the day I am banned from China because of my writings. Why China? You ask, Henry? Just simply depicting one of the biggest powers in the world. I couldn’t have gone against America; I was too mesmerized with Carrie Bradshaw to not want to go to Manhattan at least once in my life.

In the same year of the resolution, I landed myself a stint with one of the major English dailies. That, Henry, that was the start of my journey in becoming one of the world’s most controversial persona.

Inevitably though, I had succumbed to my mother’s constant appraisal of the ‘tanah putih’ and had decided to pursue a business degree in respect to my mother’s wish. At twenty, I flew to Sydney, and had taken a halt in my ‘world domination’ plan.

I met Alda sometime before I had left the country. Alda Evan Tan. Coming from a mixed descendent of Spanish, Filipino and Chinese, he looked rather surprisingly like a Japanese samurai. Maybe it was the long hair or those small eyes; he looked attractive in his own exotic way.

Alda was, like me, a dreamer. Someone who anchored big dreams about pursuing his passion in life relentlessly and not giving into society’s conforming expectations of the youth. He struck his first chord at a tender age of thirteen, almost the same time I had discovered my “world domination” plan and had built his life around music ever since. Maybe it was this little common factor on our background that bonded us so much. But that, Henry, I shall elaborate later. I want to tell you more about Alda. This passionate visionary. He was a bundle of talent in which he couldn’t really see in himself sometimes.

As a young angst and dorky looking teenager, he, like a million other kids had played rock music and dreamt of becoming the next big thing, perhaps like Kurt Cobain. To die at 27 and remain a legend forever. But, I guess, the one thing that had kept him from going overboard on the drugs, sex, and rock & roll wagon was his faith. His family, as a result of a pious Filipino Catholic mum, holds strongly in their religion. Hail Mary’s uttered under a breath is not an uncommon thing in their house.

For a big chunk of his initial music career, he made rock his choice of expression. And as I take pride in conjuring an image of him, he defies the stereotype of a modern day drug-using, alcoholic, chain-smoking muso. He, within the capacity of his religion and life principals, had dabbled in none of the vices.

Defying the society’s crazy chase for paper qualification, Alda dropped out of high school at 15 to pursue music. By 22, after some 2 odd years since the blossom of our romance, he was one of Malaysia’s finest and most sought after jazz bassist. Leaving rock and roll only to the glory of his youth, he pioneered Malaysia’s fusion jazz-funk industry with his critically acclaimed band Cosmic Funk Express. Ah, Henry, I see the name rings a bell in you. You are an ardent music fan, aren’t you?

Back to the picture on the wall, Henry, see that beautiful lady wearing the flower printed dress? She’s a storyteller. An amazing one. Shelley Leong.

Having had lived a big part of her teenage life as a dutiful Chinese daughter in the ‘picture perfect’ family – yes Henry, I mean the big house, the big dog, the great dad, the sympathetic mum, and the supportive siblings- she went through a career crisis in her early twenties.

She had earned a prestigious degree from the University of Sydney and even scored a landmark mile in her career by joining the famous Price WaterHouse Coopers. Everything was set in place and perhaps, at that point, nobody, even herself had thought that she would ever return to Malaysia. Until her crisis happened, of course. Stuck in a nine-to-five job which she didn’t feel for, she left Sydney and returned to Kuala Lumpur. Passion burning in her heart.

Harboring the dream of walking the halls of the Berklee College of Music in Boston, she took up a preparatory music course in a local college which was really, the stepping stone for her musical career.

Shelley wrote songs that tells a million stories within the words of her lyrics. You could listen to her songs and catch glimpses of people’s lives surfacing through the melody. She had a touching voice that reaches into hearts. Perhaps it was her own life experiences or her sharp observations of the people around her, but she had the talent of capturing episodes of life into her songs.

Two years down the line, she had released her own independent album, aptly entitled, Storyteller and became Malaysia’s little favorite female pop star. She was supported by her own jazz band, Jazz Odyssey, which features her partner, Az Samad as the guitarist.

Shelley was at the peak of her singing career making waves in both Malaysia and Singapore when she finally took flight to Berklee; her journey towards self-satisfaction.

And so, I guessed you already know who the last person in the picture is, Henry. The man with the long black hair and goofy glasses. What do you think, Henry? Unassuming? A little silly-looking? Nerdy, you may even say, Henry? Yes indeed, that’s the picture that he paints to the world. Az Samad, the gentle giant.

With a National Literary Laureate for a father, Az grew up in an environment so creatively charged that it was only appropriate that he became an artist of an expressionist nature. Behind that goofy pair of glasses, lies the working of a man so knowledgeable and talented that I myself reckon he is one of the best persons in the world to have reflective conversations with.

He started playing the classical guitar only in his late teens and had pursued it in a different endeavor unlike many of his counterparts. Picking up the obscure finger-style technique, Az introduced to the then very unpolished local music scene, an entire whole perspective on guitar playing.

With his debut album, he broke a lot of boundaries and threaded too many conventional lines which made him wonder if that was the peak of musical momentum that he could achieve in Malaysia.

At that point, with a very shaky sense of nationalism and seeing his father’s struggle, whom despite being a national laureate had difficult times gaining royalties and recognition from the government, Az took flight to Berklee College of Music together with Shelley.

Perhaps deep inside, each of us but Alda, had left the country with a certain sense of disappointment in our country’s policy. Engulfed with its vision to “Wawasan 2020” to become a developed country on par with Singapore and Japan, the artistic and cultural development was pushed aside in way of heavy focus for science and technology. Arts enthusiasts like us, were harshly brushed away and left fending for ourselves which came as no surprise that many had left in search of better opportunities in foreign lands.

In an interview with the ruling Prime Minister then, I had brought up this issue which of course, Henry, proved useless, because all he did was a 360 degrees political talk around the bush about it which really amounted to nothing.

Mmm.. Fancy a cup of chai latte, Henry? It was one of those many tastes I acquired from living in Sydney. Back in those days, it was a hit, a craze. Every single place had it.
Not interested, Henry? Mmm. I m pretty sure I can convince you. Maybe later.

Sydney did nothing to elevate my writing career, the only input being a writing elective subject I had taken in university. I had slumped into depression because of my inability to express myself and as some may put it; my muse had left me for a holiday. I was trapped in a mechanical cycle of studying for my degree and working to support myself when my mind had gone overboard on my need to be heard and felt. I was always frustrated and in the later part of my stay in Sydney, had constantly taken my anguish out on the people around me and the people I love. Needless to say, the distance had also put an enormous strain on my relationship with Alda.

At the end of my first year in Sydney, I decided to finish my education back in Kuala Lumpur and restore some sense of constructive sanity to my mind. I had regained my job at the newspaper which now included more responsibilities and more creative outlets for me.

Now Henry, my experience in Sydney had prompted me to fight for my country and its worth. With my opportunity at the newspaper, I had emerged to become one of the more opinionated journalists who constantly put the plight of the cultural and arts industry into the spotlight. I wrote carelessly without any sense of self-censorship which on many occasions had landed me in tough positions. And yet, Henry, I didn’t falter. Although I was constantly receiving letters and ‘friendly’ phone calls from the media association, my newspaper silently supported my intrusion of such borders. We were all of course, in for the cause of the literary world.

Three years after my return, my first book was published. It revolved around the sentiments of a Chinese boy born in Malaysia who is enraged by both the constitution and the refusal of China to accept him as a citizen. I had written it as a satirical piece to represent the ethnic Chinese and Indian society, and in an attempt to reach a different audience, I had written in Malay Language. I no longer wanted the attention of the rich educated readers who read English but I wanted to reach out to those who matter.

An upheaval erupted in the literary scene after the publication of my book. I was widely celebrated for my honesty and scope of perspective on the social issue. I came under close scrutiny by the government and yet at the same time was pursued by many publishers to have my book translated in English to reach an international audience. I rewrote it in English and had a publisher translate it in Mandarin. I was an overnight success, gaining fame in South East Asia and of course, China.

Three months later, I was detained by the government under the Internal Security Act (ISA). I didn’t understand why my act, in my opinion, as an expression of love towards my own country had garnered such a reaction. It was only acceptable that we recognize our own multi-cultural factor and continue to harness it, rather than sweeping the issue under the carpet.

I was released a couple of months later after endlessly trying to explain myself and my position, only to realize that China had expressed a ‘polite’ notice that they did not welcome me or my book’s presence in their country.

I had succeeded in my plan. I resumed a senior journalist post back at my beloved newspaper and continued writing books although my political outlook have since proved moderated by my experience in ISA.

Alda, the love of my life, had stood by my side even though at times, he was intimidated by my untactful writings and expressions. Our dramatic relationship was punctuated by infinite highs and lows which sometimes drove us to the edge. And yet, like some woven ‘mengkuang’, there seem to be a constant connection which never ceases.

Cosmic Funk Express, with the release of its first album, had made international waves gaining a very large educated music audience. The entire whole jazz-funk movement had revolutionized the popular music scene in Malaysia, elevating it to another level. It was as if the band had set a new standard of music for the country.

And yet, Alda had still bigger dreams for his own endeavors. After his success with the band, he continued polishing his skills on the double bass and with the reputation of the band behind him, strived to break solo into the international market.

He took two months’ break off the local scene and set off for America searching for more opportunities. His second big break came, when he was asked to tour with the popular jazz saxophonist, Charles Lloyd. A year down the road, Alda had successfully brought Cosmic Funk Express into the world’s leading music market, America.

But what the band never saw when it first started was the fact that it had successfully use music, an artistic venture to put the name of Malaysia in the eyes of the world, not through science and development achievements as how the government had planned.

Alda had become a sought after bass player who regularly worked on prolific music projects with other top-notch musicians. His presence on stage had become his way to communicate to the world.

Az, on the hand, Henry, had abandoned the need to crave stardom and on-stage fame. His musical ambitions now spanned into further craving for higher technical knowledge and skills. At the end of his degree in Berklee, he had become such an accomplished musician that the faculty had offered him a teaching spot.

And yet, Az had hesitated. There was a tugging feeling in his heart to return home to share his knowledge and to contribute to his own country like his father. At that, he left Boston and returned home.

Music enthusiasts were overjoyed with his homecoming and Az was received with celebratory applause over the success of the album that he had released before he left Malaysia. His reputation had preceded him and a lot of popular upcoming artistes sought after his works and compositions.

In the short two months that he had returned, although brimming with success, Az felt immensely empty and unsatisfied only because his educational process has taken a standstill. Being the person who had always seek out new things and challenges, he craved being in a learning environment.

In conjunction with Malaysia’s 54th Independence Day, Az had been asked by the Ministry of Culture to rearrange the national anthem. On the day of the performance, Az froze on stage and suffered a break down from his internal distress. He left the show and disappeared without a trace only to reappear five months later after Shelley had made public that she was pregnant with his child.

Shifting in your chair, Henry? Unbelievable? It is hard to be a genius, they say, Henry. Az is a living proof to me, it’s true.

When he re-emerged into the public, Az was a much calmer and composed figure. It was as though the time off had set out his priorities and perspective on life. Teaming up with Alda, they both set out on a painstaking task of setting up the Stellar Foundation to raise funds to build Stellar Music Conservatorium, South East Asia’s very first reputable musical institution. Alda’s affluence in America and Az’s alumni in Berklee had helped brought in some of the finest musicians to teach in the conservatorium.

The conservatorium became the fitting piece to Alda’s lifelong dream, Az’s need to work in an institutional environment and Malaysia’s call for an artistic expansion.

Having both arrived at the prime in our careers and lives, Alda and I finally took our relationship to the next level. After being together for some 10 years or so, weathered by cracks and withers; it seemed only appropriate for us to don the wedding ring. Happily as we took the news back to our families, his parents had easily thrown the suggestion out the window. Only on one simple basis, I wasn’t Catholic. They couldn’t accept it.

Fate is a funny thing isn’t it, Henry? Perhaps we weren’t made for each other after all.

No, Henry. I didn’t forget about Shelley.

Shelley, with her attractive features, soared like a mighty bird in Berklee. The music course enhanced what she already possessed, the majestic voice. She was offered a recording deal by an American label, which she took up quickly. Her second album was a big leap from her first one. Honed by the knowledge that she had acquired from the college, she diverted into the jazz genre from her singer-songwriter direction.

Her second album became a spectacular hit and she too made waves like Cosmic Funk Express. Shelley had finally taken her own step and realized her vision in life.

After Az had left Berklee, Shelley felt drawn to Sydney again, where she had spent a substantial part of her life in. She had left Sydney because she wanted to pursue her dreams and now that it was already in her pocket, it seemed fitting for her to return.


Armed with her new international fame, she was pretty sure that she would be able to take on the Australian market as well. Shortly after she had arrived in Sydney, she found out that she was pregnant with Az’s child. Her own fiery independence had kept her from revealing the fact, determined to keep the child as her own. But as news of Az’s break down had reached her, she knew she couldn’t fight off the sense of bond that they shared.

She returned home to Kuala Lumpur and delivered their first daughter Eliza. Shelley, once again, had recaptured the local audience with her beautiful voice. Some twenty years later, she won the Lifetime Achievement Award for all the records that she had produced.

And well, Henry; that is the story. We are all old now. Only fragments of nostalgia exist for us. But that, we know, we had a made a difference in our country. Perhaps only the printed words and the songs will continue living after us.

Ah, I hear the sound of keys. Almost the right time of the day. Must be him. Have a cup of chai tea, Henry. It will soothe your senses, I promise.

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I lay back in the comfortable plush couch with my eyes closed. My taste buds tingle from all different kind of sensations; exotic to alleviating. It must be the combination of those spices in the tea that’s causing my euphoria. And in an uncanny way, it’s almost like a perfect blend to the resonance of the music that is enticing my hearing sense. The mellifluous pitch of the piano matched by the steady growl of the double bass exudes a soul so old, so rich that its intensity is beyond my comprehension. I unfold my legs and let out a silent sigh as if afraid that any expression would cause a distortion to the flowing harmony.

I open my eyes slowly to the striking image. The man, whose story I have only discovered a few hours ago, stand towering over his curvaceous solid wood bass in an opulent manner. His fingers maneuver the strings skillfully as if reminding the instrument of its glorious past. The woman, the persistent narrator, taps the keys of the white grand piano in a careful and yet daunting manner. As she sways to the music, a shiny glint immerse from her shirt collar dazzling my eye for a moment. I blink and look closer, only to discover a silver cross dignified by the unmistakable figure of the Messiah hanging on her neck. She turns and caught my eye; in an all knowing way, she smiles.

I close my eyes again. Now, I am truly satiated-lah.


Notes to the text

mat sallehs: colloquial term for white-skinned foreigners

tanah putih: foreign land, more specifically, land with white-skinned foreigners

“lahs” and “mahs”: a Malaysian slang, abbreviations that is added to the end of sentences
*“now I am truly satiated-lah”

anak Malaysia: literally, “children of Malaysia”, referring to the generation of babies born in Malaysia (regardless of ethic groups)

wawasan 2020: Vision 2020, Malaysia’s government policy to achieve a developed nation status by year 2020

ISA: Internal Security Act, the highest police department which supersedes the Federal Law in arresting any individuals considered harmful to the country’s stability.

mengkuang: a Malaysian weaving art; form of art where rattan is weaved in a connected and symmetrical design.


All characters, except for Henry, are based on real life individuals. Az Samad’s father is the famous Malaysian National Laureate, A.Samad Said.