From "Onwards" to the Soul of Hou Hsiao-hsien: Lim Giong, the Gentle Rebel of Our Time
If the Taiwanese pop music scene of the 1990s was a neon-lit, dance-pop fuelled whirlwind, then Lim Giong was the one guy brave enough to turn down the volume and walk into the quiet of a cinema. Our generation remembers that passionate young man in the white shirt, belting out "Onwards" at Taipei Main Station. But if you ask about him now, the old-school film buffs will tell you that the kid later sold his soul to Hou Hsiao-hsien, dedicating himself to the silent, yet deafening, Taiwanese landscapes captured on film.
More Than Just a Singer, He Was an Era’s "Key Change"
For many, Lim Giong is defined by the album that revolutionised Taiwanese pop, *Onwards*. Back then, he seemed to channel a raw, untamed energy, transforming Hokkien pop from a genre of tragic fate into something cool and confident, the soundtrack for city youth. But honestly, Lim himself wasn't satisfied with that chapter. The thrill of being in the spotlight became a huge weight on his shoulders. He was like a player who’d stumbled into a game, won the prize, and then realised it wasn’t the game he wanted to play.
This rebellion against the mainstream collided perfectly with the most vibrant period of the Taiwanese New Wave cinema. His meeting with Hou Hsiao-hsien was, in a way, destiny. One was a singer tired of the music industry machine; the other, a director obsessed with raw realism, almost anti-drama. Together, they truly redefined what it means to marry sound and image.
When Words Fail: Lim Giong as Hou Hsiao-hsien’s "Ear"
If you ask me what Lim Giong means to Hou Hsiao-hsien’s films, I’d say he’s the ear behind the camera. Hou’s films are full of space—long takes, wide shots, and a seemingly offhand focus on everyday life. Scoring such images is the hardest part. Too much music feels sentimental; too little, and it risks feeling empty. But Lim always finds the perfect emotional beat.
In *Goodbye South, Goodbye*, he didn’t use sweeping orchestral scores to tug at heartstrings. Instead, he used layers of synthesisers mixed with the sounds of wind, trains rolling over tracks, and a hint of dreamy guitar. What we hear isn’t traditional film music; it’s an emotional "atmosphere." It’s like standing in the rural south, watching Jack Kao and Annie Shizuka Inoh fritter away their time, feeling that humid, sticky, slightly resigned yet free sense of the place. Lim uses sound to bring the invisible wind and the palpable sweat right to your ears.
- *Goodbye South, Goodbye*: This isn’t just a score; it’s another layer of storytelling. The electronic beats reflect the anxieties of a changing era, while the haunting vocals express a lingering nostalgia for the fading past.
- *Millennium Mambo*: The iconic opening sequence, with Shu Qi walking down a long corridor for several minutes, is paired with Lim’s mesmerising, cool electronic music. It instantly transports the audience into that fin-de-siècle Taipei. That murmured "Hao Hao" and the music have become a classic moment in cinema history.
- *The Assassin*: Here, he pushes it even further. The music becomes minimalist, almost mimicking the wind and birdsong, returning the visuals to a primal sense of "energy" and "rhythm." He’s no longer crafting a melody; he’s making sound an intrinsic part of the space itself.
Out of the Spotlight, Still "Going Onwards"
Over the years, Lim has virtually disappeared from the screen. He’s won a Cannes Film Festival award for Best Original Score, yet he still rides his bike through Taipei streets, buys herbs in Dihua Street, and spins tracks as a DJ in clubs. Some say he’s changed, become eccentric. But I’d argue he hasn’t changed at all. Deep down, he’s still that kid who refuses to be defined or bound by rules. It’s just that he once resisted with his voice, and now he uses sound to "simulate" entire worlds.
When us old-school film fans get together, talking about Hou Hsiao-hsien’s films and the Taiwanese movies we grew up with, Lim Giong’s name is always a source of immense pride. He’s proven something in his own way: a true creator doesn’t always need to stand in the spotlight. They can become the light itself, cast onto that white screen, illuminating the truest reflection of our home. This is Lim Giong—a singer who once urged us to "go onwards" and ended up being the artist who keeps us in the cinema, asking us to really *look* at Taiwan.