From “Marching Forward” to the Soul of Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Cinema: Lim Giong, the Tender Rebel of Our Time

If the Taiwanese pop music scene of the 1990s was a cacophony wrapped in neon lights and dance beats, then Lim Giong was the one person brave enough to turn the volume down and walk into the quiet darkness of the cinema. For our generation, our memories hold that passionate young man in a white shirt, belting out “Marching Forward” at Taipei Main Station. But if you ask about him now, the old-school film buffs will tell you that the boy eventually sold his soul to Hou Hsiao-hsien, to the silent yet thunderous landscapes of Taiwan that live within his films.

More Than a Singer, He Was an Era’s “Key Change”

Many people’s memory of Lim Giong stops with the album Marching Forward, which changed the course of Taiwanese pop history. Back then, he seemed to carry a raw power, transforming Hokkien songs from tragic tales of fate into something stylish and confident, speaking for the youth of the city. But to be honest, Lim Giong himself wasn’t satisfied at that stage. The “thrill” of being in the spotlight felt more like an immense pressure. He was like a player who’d stumbled into a game, won the prize, only to realise it wasn’t a game he ever 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 felt like destiny. One was a singer weary of the pop industry’s assembly line; the other, a director chasing pure realism, almost to the point of being “anti-drama.” Together, they truly defined what it means for sound and image to be one.

When Silence Speaks Louder: Lim Giong as Hou Hsiao-hsien’s “Auditory Sense”

If you ask me what Lim Giong means to Hou Hsiao-hsien’s films, I’d say he’s the ears hidden behind the camera. Hou’s films are full of space: long takes, distant shots, and everyday moments that seem to wander aimlessly. Scoring this kind of imagery is the hardest challenge. Add too much music, and it feels melodramatic; add too little, and it risks feeling empty. But Lim Giong always finds the perfect rhythm and mood.

In Goodbye South, Goodbye, he didn’t use grand symphonies to manipulate emotion. Instead, he relied heavily on synthesisers, mixing in the sounds of wind, the clatter of trains on tracks, and a touch of hazy guitar. What we heard wasn’t traditional “film music,” but a kind of emotional “atmosphere.” It felt like standing in rural Chiayi, watching Jack Kao and Vicky Wei idle away the hours, the air thick with a sticky, melancholic yet free scent. Lim Giong used sound to deliver the invisible wind and the intangible sweat straight to your ears.

• Goodbye South, Goodbye: This wasn’t just a score; it was another narrative thread. The electronic beats symbolised the anxiety of a changing era, while the ethereal chanting was a final lingering attachment to the beauty of the past.
• Millennium Mambo: The opening sequence, a long tracking shot of Shu Qi walking, paired with Lim Giong’s psychedelic, cool electronic music, instantly plunges the audience into a Taipei at the end of the century. That call of “Hao Hao,” combined with the music, became a classic moment in cinema history.
• The Assassin: With this film, he pushed it even further. The music becomes minimalist, almost mimicking the sounds of wind and birds, returning the entire frame to its primal “energy” and “rhythm.” He no longer deliberately creates melodies; instead, he lets sound become a part of the space itself.

Behind the Curtain, Continuing to “March Forward”

In recent years, Lim Giong has virtually disappeared from the screen. Even after winning the Cannes Soundtrack Award, he still cycles through the streets of Taipei, buys traditional herbs in Dihua Street, and DJs at clubs. Some say he’s changed, become “eccentric.” But I think he’s never really changed. At heart, he’s still that young man who refuses to be defined or bound by rules. It’s just that he used to rebel with his voice; now he uses sound to “simulate” a world.

Whenever us old film fans get together, chatting about Hou Hsiao-hsien’s movies and the Taiwanese films we grew up with, Lim Giong’s name is always the one that fills us with the most pride. He proved something with his own path: true creators don’t need to stand forever in the spotlight. They become the light itself, cast upon that white screen, illuminating the truest image of this land we call home. That’s Lim Giong – a singer who once urged us to “march forward,” who ultimately became the artist who keeps us seated in the cinema, gazing intently at Taiwan.