Old Beijing traditional folk arts share a turbulent history, riding the peak of their popularity before the turn of the century before being all but wiped out during upheaval of the Cultural Revolution (1966-76) when many performers were deemed capitalist sympathizers. In recent decades such folk arts have enjoyed a revival, although waning modern-day appeal among people in the capital means most are shadows of their former selves.

Yu Xiaozhang is one of Beijing's last folk stalwarts and a consummate hand on several ancient instruments, including stringed instruments the huqin and sanxian, as well as the niujiaogu made from cattle bones. A veteran performer who has toured the country, today he runs a workshop to share his knowledge with anyone interested in recreating the music that once echoed throughout old Beijing's labyrinth of hutong.

Drumming up support

Yu, 60, comes from a prestigious line of old Beijing traditional folk art performers. His grandfather, Yu Dekui, is revered as one of China's top 10 sanxian virtuosos, who famously performed for actresses Hu Die and Zhou Xuan, and former premier and revolutionary, Zhou Enlai. Yu, born in 1878, also shared the stage on numerous occasions with legendary Peking opera performer, Mei Lanfang.

Yu Xiaozhang keeps his grandfather's legacy alive through performances inside a small hutong workshop named Kuideshe - built in 2006 and named in honor of his grandfather - in Yanshoujie Hutong, Xicheng district. "I stroll around the hutong or park in the morning, and start performing after lunch until midnight," Yu told Metro Beijing of his daily routine.

Though never reaching the pinnacle of fame enjoyed by his grandfather, Yu is nonetheless well-known in Beijing for his lively brand of jingyundagu, or drum singing. The musical style brings together percussive rhythms comparable to a canzonet with spoken or sung narratives. Away from his hutong workshop, Yu often performs at wedding ceremonies, which earns him a modest income.  

"I don't charge visitors to the workshop for my performances," he explained, adding that donations usually offered anyway. "The enjoyment people receive is enough for me."

Folk art a family affair

Kuideshe's narrow doorway faces a passing community of residents, its width virtually equal to the room itself. Tulip-patterned walls are adorned with aged photographs of Yu's family.

Some depict notable scenes, such as Yu performing with his son, who works as a software designer - an unlikely career path in a family of folk art performers, but one nonetheless supported by Yu.

"I don't want my son to take over the workshop and my business, although sometimes I ask him to perform with me on stage. Performing is fun, but it can't pay the bills and provide us with a living," he noted.

At the fall of the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912), Yu Dekui established the original Kuideshe musician's club in Tianqiao, Chaoyang district, then one of Beijing's most popular performance districts. But the most famous member of the Yu family, Yu Xiaozhang claims, is his maternal uncle, Ma Fulu.

After making a name for himself in Hong Kong as a troubadour, Ma successfully toured the Chinese mainland and overseas garnering superstar acclaim before 1949.

Yu's father, Yu Shaozhang, was a famous violinist and Peking opera singer, who built his reputation as an eclectic musician in Beijing during the Republic of China (1912-49) era.

Upon first glance, it's easy to assume Yu Xiaozhang is an aging eccentric. The incongruity of his modern windproof vest and his worn Mandarin cap reflects the long-standing showman's determination to stay true to his roots.

He relates to Metro Beijing how, over the last 70 years, his family has suffered multiple hardships undermining both their livelihoods and musical craft.

During the 1970s while looking for work, Yu Shaozhang was rejected by employers due to his family's performing background. "During the Cultural Revolution, my father was denounced as a capitalist roader," Yu Xiaozhang recalled.

After 1979, Yu Xiaozhang was left unemployed and bewildered like many performers deemed imperialists. In the years that followed, he toured the country in the shadows of his grandfather, father and uncle, and shared old Beijing's cultural charm with the rest of China.

"I could keep the audience seated for 15 to 20 minutes, even if some of them didn't know what I was doing or didn't like traditional folk arts and music. They saw me very much as an outsider," Yu said. "I traveled to many places, but when I came back 20 years ago I couldn't retrieve my [Beijing] hukou (household registration), which made me feel like a homeless performer."

Throughout his extensive tour of China, Yu made about 30 yuan ($4.80) per performance. Today, his earnings remain modest but are enough to cover the 3,000 yuan per month he needs to rent Kuideshe.

Ensuring the beat goes on

As a one-man band in the ever-dwindling circuit of old Beijing traditional folk art performers, Yu's principal concern as a pro bono artist is to surprise visitors who stumble upon his workshop, which he describes as a "great place in a narrow hutong."

As he demonstrates his musical talent, a warm smile creeps across his face.

He performs a sample of his routine, wielding ambidextrously the niujiaogu and shaking their attached bells. Enacting a dance sequence, he claps each cow shoulder to his own and knocks their joints together, the whole time chanting in his gravely voice over the pulsing beat.

Yu insists he does not mind playing second fiddle, or sanxian, to his famous family members, saying his only goal as a performer is to entertain to the best of his ability. "I respect my celebrity family," he said. "But I don't have any regrets for not being as famous as my grandfather or uncle." 

One of the main concerns for Yu is the waning interest among people towards preserving traditional Chinese culture, particularly old Beijing folk arts.

"The government claims they want to preserve [traditional folk arts], but they don't want performers like me because folk artists can't generate enough revenue," he lamented.