Self-Taught Fiddler Sharpens Up Square

Through the chilled autumn air, a shrill, quasi-melodic screech pierces the rumbling din of cars, buses, and intermingled conversations that form the acoustic character of Harvard Square.

The sound emanates from the two-stringed jinghu, a Chinese opera fiddle, played by Zhi Z. Zhou, who is in his early 60s. Sitting on a cold concrete planter outside the Harvard Coop, Zhou is sporting bleach-white K-Swiss sneakers, blue jeans, a crisp white button-up shirt, and a blue fall jacket.

While playing, Zhou stares transfixed at his jinghu, only breaking his concentration to go to the bathroom or to wash his calloused hands with bottled water. It’s an intense focus that leads some to erroneously conclude that he is blind. He doesn’t even look up when a toddler puts a dollar bill in the empty Kleenex box he keeps on the ground.

Most pedestrians rush by, but a few tourists congregate beside him, listening.

“I don’t like the sound of it. It’s very freaky,” says Eduardo B. Alonso, a visitor from Spain. “The sound is very....” Alonso pauses, unable to describe the sound. After a pause, he makes a chopping motion in the air with his hands while making a whirring noise. “That’s what’s it’s like,” he concludes confidently.

Visiting from Korea, Kyung-Wa Park listens to Zhou as she waits for a friend. “His music is very comforting to me, because it’s from Asia. Even though it is Chinese, it still reminds me of Korean music. But, his skill is in a narrow range, and he doesn’t change his rhythm,” she says.

Zhou’s music has become a fixture of the Square for Harvard students.

“I’m just fascinated by him,” Benjamin C. Cosgrove ’10 says. “I truly admire how he’s always working. And I think it’s good that he’s presenting something we otherwise wouldn’t hear.”

“His playing is so-so, not like he’s a professional or anything,” Jason Pan ’09 writes in an e-mail. Pan plays the erhu, a similar Chinese string instrument, in the Harvard Chinese Music Ensemble.

Zhou readily admits to being far from a professional level, but he says he simply enjoys playing his beloved instrument. “When I play, my troubles and worries seems to vanish,” says Zhou, speaking in Mandarin through a translator.

A LATE START,

BUT LASTING PASSION

Born in 1944 as the eldest of five children, Zhou grew up in the Chinese port city of Nanjing.

His father was an enormous fan of Peking opera, a centuries-old form of Chinese opera. This love was instilled in the young Zhou, who grew up listening to the music on the radio.

In 1966, after watching a friend play the jinghu, which figures prominently in Peking opera orchestras, 22-year-old Zhou took up the instrument as well.

When the Cultural Revolution began a few months later, modern revolutionary opera was promoted over the traditional forms of Chinese opera. According to Rulan C. Pian ’44, professor emerita of East Asian languages and civilizations and of music, the Communist Party replaced the heroism of traditional Chinese opera with nationalism.

Zhou started out learning modern pieces, but with the revival of traditional opera after the Cultural Revolution ended, he returned to the music that his father loved. Today, Zhou’s 20-piece repertoire mainly consists of traditional opera.

Since Zhou had a late start and was already working when he started practicing the jinghu, he did not develop the experience needed for admittance into a conservatory, where a jinghu program normally lasts eight years.

“It’s just like how so many students are trying to get into Harvard,” Zhou said. “Only the best players who practice for long hours can get in.”

Nevertheless, Zhou would practice for two hours each day after returning home from work. He declined to comment on the nature of his job under Mao Tse-Tung’s regime.

He may not be a professional, but his self-taught style is appreciated for its simplicity.

“He doesn’t try to be colorful, like professionals do,” Pian says. Describing Zhou’s music as “pleasant,” Pian says “it’s wonderful to have him. He gives Harvard Square a special color...and his playing definitely takes courage.”



FIDDLER IN THE SQUARE

In 1996, Zhou immigrated to the United States to join his mother and uncle, who were already living in the Boston area.

Zhou soon started work at a Chinese restaurant, washing dishes, cutting up vegetables, and unloading trucks. With limited English, this was his only employment option, Zhou says.

After work, Zhou would practice the jinghu in his apartment, just as he had done in China. However, Zhou’s new neighbors threatened to call the police. The embattled artist took to practicing outdoors, atop a hill in Boston Common.

Three years ago, a fellow Chinese musician suggested that Zhou relocate to the Square, where he could earn money while practicing.

Following this advice, Zhou brought his talents to this side of the Charles, and he quit his restaurant job shortly thereafter.

On “good days” when it’s not raining, Zhou takes the T or the number 1 bus to Harvard and plays for two to three hours. He declined to reveal how much money he makes fiddling in the Square, although he did say this is his only source of income.

“Regarding finances, don’t ask,” says Zhou, who is single and childless.

His Kleenex box is mostly filled by non-Asian passersby, who also tend to compliment Zhou’s playing more than Asian listeners.

Zhou garners the most compliments on days that are neither too humid nor too dry. He explains that the snakeskin drum of his instrument is very sensitive to humidity, and extreme conditions will affect the quality of the reverberations.

“I am not as good as the professional players, but I know what ‘good’ is,” Zhou says.



A DANGEROUS PROFESSION

Performing in the Square is not without peril—Zhou’s collection box has been nabbed five times.

The first time, a few teenagers stole three dollars from the box, but they were apprehended by the police.

Another time, a woman pretended to give a dollar, but actually stole one from his box. Zhou grabbed her and insisted she return the dollar. Her male companion started yelling at Zhou and insisted that she did not take anything. Zhou relented and let the woman get away with his dollar.

The worst theft occurred when “a bald white guy,” as Zhou described the man, grabbed the box and fled. The box was then brimming with 20 to 30 dollars. Zhou ran after the thief but tripped and fell, scraping his arms.

Now, Zhou continually empties the box as it fills up, transferring the cash into his wallet, leaving a few bills to prime the box.



AND THE ONE-MAN BAND PLAYS ON

Despite the occasional petty thefts, Zhou has no plans of depriving the Square of his flair for fiddling anytime soon.

Over the years, Zhou has listened to cassettes and pored through books authored by jinghu masters to hone his musical skills.

“Even though I’m old, I’m still trying to figure out how to get better,” Zhou said. “I’ll keep playing as long as I can move my hands, as long as I’m in good health. This is my love. This is my passion.”

—Lulu Zhou contributed to the reporting of this story.