Music as Lifelong Vagrancy

I’ve been talking to this man for half an hour and still don’t know his name.

 “The name is not important,” he says, with a smile that flickers like a half-remembered melody. “What’s worth remembering is the story, the alcohol, and the music.”

So, I’ll call him Mr. Stray. After all, he’s a stray singer, running a little music bar by the shores of Earhai.

It’s the third day of my journey through Dali. My footsteps slow as I wander beside the moon-lit lake and hear mingling voices from behind: the soft strumming of a guitar, the rhythmic beats of drums, the low hum of a melody floating through the air like a whispered lullaby. Then, a burst of applause and cheers erupts.

It’s a scene that would compel anyone to step inside.

“Who wants to nominate the next song?” “City of Stars!” I shout, my voice lost in the warm, golden light spilling from the open door.

The music shifts from a gentle hum to a soft, lulling rhythm. The light casts long shadows across the colorful bottles lining the bar shelves, while the singer’s face is momentarily illuminated—fleeting glints of light turning him into a phantom, as though the entire room is suspended in a starry dream.

Mr. Stray and his Partner

Here, time isn’t measured by the ticking of a clock but by the ebb and flow of each song. After countless melodies, the singer finally steps down from the stage. 

“Do you perform here every night?” I ask.

He shrugs with a casual grace. “I play at several places, but this is the bar I own myself.” Then he adds “I used to be a stray singer, shuttling between different cities with my guitar. I like its fluidity, in which the lawn, the dilapidated allies, the cordial parks are all my stage. The universe, basically. It’s cool to see how different people appreciating your music stops for you.”

His guitar speaks volumes of those years on the road. Its worn body features wild and untamed patterns — traces of the places he’s been. “Maybe instruments really do carry the soul of their player,” I thought to myself.

“But after years of wandering, I felt like it was time to come back to my homeland, and to build this harbor where I could establish my roots” His voice flows as he taps the ornamented edge of a drum.

He tells me of his early life, growing up in the rural heart of Yunnan. 

“My family could barely make ends meet, let alone afford an education. I had to leave early, make my own way in the world. Yunnan, in a way, faded from my memory.”

“But coming back wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about finding a place to belong. A community. Music is what keeps me grounded in this vast, boundless world.”

I ask if he ever thought about becoming a professional singer. His skill, after all, is undeniable, even comparable to the stars I’d seen on television. Surprisingly, he confessed that he participated in a well-known musical competition a few years ago. 

“I made it to the top 30. But just as I was about to move on to the next round, the production team asked me to pay thirteen million to continue.” He shakes his head, the disappointment in his voice almost tangible. “It was far beyond what I could afford. And I didn’t want to pursue my dreams in a corrupted system.”

I’m stunned. This is a competition I used to watch as a child. It felt different to hear someone beside me recount similar news I’ve seen in distant headlines. 

“If fame means condescending to power,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, “I’d rather stay a stray, existing outside the rules.”

As the glowing light in the bar echoed with the sprinkling of moonlight on the shores of Earhai, I saw the pointer of the mechanical clock turn to 1:00 am. The air is thick with the remnants of music and the scent of alcohol.

When we waved goodbye, he said he’d fix me something to drink, something which he feels tells the story, and I’d later consider as resonating perfectly with this nameless soul.

It was Freedom Guba.