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

If the Taiwanese pop music scene of the 1990s was a neon-lit, dance-pop fuelled cacophony, then Lim Giong was the one guy brave enough to turn down the volume and walk straight into the hushed darkness of a cinema. For our generation, he’s forever that passionate young man in a white shirt, belting out “Marching Forward” at Taipei Main Station. But ask an old-school film buff about him today, and they’ll tell you that young man eventually sold his soul to director Hou Hsiao-hsien, pouring it into those quiet, yet thunderous, portrayals of Taiwan that live within Hou’s films.

More Than a Singer, He Was the Era’s ‘Key Change’

For many, Lim Giong’s legacy is tied to “Marching Forward,” the album that reshaped Taiwanese pop music. Back then, he burst onto the scene with a raw, untamed energy, transforming Hokkien pop from melancholic tales of hardship into something stylish and confident—the anthem for a new urban generation. But honestly, Lim himself wasn’t satisfied with that phase. The thrill of being in the spotlight became a huge pressure for him. It was like he’d stumbled into a game, won the prize, and realised it wasn’t the game he wanted to play in the first place.

This rejection of the mainstream happened to coincide with the most vibrant period of the Taiwanese New Wave cinema. His meeting with Hou Hsiao-hsien felt like destiny. One was a musician weary of the pop industry’s assembly line; the other was a director chasing pure realism with a style that felt almost anti-drama. Together, they truly defined what it means for sound and image to become 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, wide shots, and seemingly aimless slices of daily life. Scoring such visuals is incredibly tricky. Add too much music, and it feels melodramatic; too little, and it risks feeling empty. But Lim always finds the precise rhythm, the perfect “breathing space.”

In Goodbye South, Goodbye, he didn’t use sweeping orchestral pieces to pull at your heartstrings. Instead, he used layers of synthesisers, mixed with the sounds of wind, the clatter of a train on tracks, and a touch of hazy guitar. What you hear isn’t traditional “film music”; it’s an emotional “atmosphere.” It’s like standing in the countryside of Chiayi, watching Jack Kao and Shiang-chyi Chen simply waste time, with that humid, sticky air that feels both helpless and free. Lim used sound to deliver that invisible wind and that untouchable sweat right into your ears.

• Goodbye South, Goodbye: This isn’t just a score; it’s another narrative thread. The electronic beats embody the anxieties of a changing era, while the subtle, humming vocals hint at a lingering nostalgia for the good old days.
• Millennium Mambo: The film’s opening—a several-minute-long shot of Shu Qi walking—paired with Lim’s hypnotic, cool-toned electronic music, instantly pulls the audience into a fin-de-siècle Taipei. That single line “Hao Hao” mixed with the music has become an iconic moment in cinema history.
• The Assassin: Here, he takes it to an extreme. The music becomes minimalist, almost mimicking wind and birdsong, allowing the visuals to return to their most primal state of energy and rhythm. He stops deliberately crafting melodies and lets the sound become a part of the space itself.

Working Behind the Scenes, Still ‘Marching Forward’

In recent years, Lim Giong has all but vanished from the screen. He’s won a Cannes Soundtrack Award, yet he still cycles through the streets of Taipei, shops for herbs in Dihua Street, and spins records as a DJ. Some say he’s changed, that he’s become “eccentric.” But I think he’s never really changed. Deep down, he’s still that rebellious soul who refuses to be defined or tied down by rules. It’s just that he used to rebel with his voice; now, he uses sound to “simulate” entire worlds.

Whenever us old-school film buffs get together, reminiscing about Hou Hsiao-hsien’s movies or the Taiwanese films we grew up with, Lim Giong’s name is always one that fills us with pride. In his own way, he proves a point: true creators don’t need to stand forever in the spotlight. They turn themselves into a beam of light, projected onto that white screen, illuminating the truest essence of this land we call home. That’s Lim Giong—a singer who once urged everyone to “march forward,” who ultimately became the artist who makes us stay in the cinema, compelling us to truly see Taiwan.