The best music I heard in 2022

All this music was new to me this year, if not necessarily to the rest of the world. I’ve listed my favorites by release date to highlight the more recent ones:

  • Sun Ra Arkestra – The Living Sky (2022). The latest release by the posthumous Arkestra is one of the gentlest and most purely beautiful albums in the Sun Ra canon. Even Marshall Allen’s squealing alto playing, which never seems to land straight on a note, fits into the mellow grooves. 2022 also saw new reissues of two of the best Sun Ra albums from the 1970s, Omniverse and Universe in Blue.
  • Steven Lugerner – It Takes One To Know One (2022). A charming trio recording — bass clarinet, bass, drums — in which two younger musicians enlist jazz elder Albert Heath to deliver fresh interpretations of modern jazz tunes.
  • Matthew Shipp Quartet with Jason Hao Kwang – Vision Festival Wednesday June 22 (2022). Now that I’ve started going to concerts again, I’m including live music in this list. This was without doubt the best performance I saw this year — a stunning hour-long improvisation driven by Shipp’s powerfully thematic piano and extraordinary sounds from Kwang’s violin and viola. The performance is archived online but honestly I haven’t dared listen to it again for fear the initial impact would be lost.
  • Dave Easley – Byways of the Moon (2021). Fellow practitioner Susan Alcorn has called the pedal steel guitar “the last musical instrument borne of the mechanical age,” and Easley’s recital shows how its potential in a jazz context has still been barely tapped.
  • Bill Frisell – Valentine (2020). Frisell’s stripped-down guitar trio, with long-time partners Thomas Morgan on bass and Rudy Royston on drums, is marvelously responsive and delivers a distinctive and very personal sound. I saw this group in concert this year and their interplay had advanced even beyond where it was on this excellent record.
  • Lucky Thompson – Complete Parisian Small Group Sessions 1956-1959 (2017). Thompson had one of the most beautiful tones on tenor saxophone of any jazz player, but never got recorded as much as he deserved. This collection of sessions from his sojourn in France is just classic jazz.
  • Jason Roebke – Cinema Spiral (2016). Bassist Roebke leads an octet of top-notch players from the Chicago scene through pleasingly complex tunes. To me the vibe was reminiscent in the best way of the more avant-garde Blue Note recordings of the 1960s.
  • William Parker – O’Neal’s Porch (2002). An incredible record that reworks the “freebop” of Ornette Coleman’s quartet (sax, trumpet, bass, drums) with a radically different and funkier rhythmic approach (this 20th anniversary appreciation has good context). I also enjoyed this year’s Universal Tonality, a release of some of Parker’s large-ensemble recordings from the same period; it’s less consistent but the high points are very high.
  • Ornette Coleman – Sound Museum: Hidden Man (1996). Coleman famously blew up traditional jazz ensembles with his pianoless quartets of the 1960s, so it’s surprising and pleasing to hear just how good he sounds here with the “standard” backing of piano, bass, drums.
  • Julius Hemphill – Fat Man and the Hard Blues (1991). Composer and alto saxophonist Hemphill is generally acknowledged as the guiding spirit behind the World Saxophone Quartet, one of the essential groups of the 1980s. After leaving the WSQ he started recording with an all-saxophone sextet which, for me, is even better.
  • Scientist – Meets The Space Invaders, Heavyweight Dub Champion, Rids The World Of The Evil Curse Of The Vampires, Encounters Pac Man, Wins The World Cup, Big Showdown At King Tubby’s, Dub Landing, Dub Landing Vol. 2 (1980-82). This run of albums on the Greensleeves label was perhaps the last gasp of classic dub reggae before electronics changed its sound forever. I listened to them all this year and there’s not much to choose among them: every one is killer (perhaps the albums with sports metaphors slightly edge the video-game-themed ones). Starting in 2016, these were reissued, for unclear reasons, under the names of other musicians, but the Scientist sound is consistent.
  • Art Pepper – Winter Moon (1981). I’d always heard this was a good record but didn’t quite believe that jazz-with-strings could escape boring middlebrow tastelessness. Once I listened to it I had to admit it’s wonderful, with some of Pepper’s most gorgeous ballad playing.
  • Marvin Gaye – Here, My Dear (1978). Much of what has been written about this classic album focuses on the lyrics rather than the music; Gaye was going through a divorce at the time. It’s not the subject matter that makes it great, though, but the music, a novel soundscape of complex, subtle funk. Stanley Crouch wrote a fascinating essay in 1979 on how it cut across boundaries of jazz and funk in new ways.
  • Enrico Rava – Enrico Rava Quartet (1978). This session pairs Rava’s lyrical trumpet playing with the earthier style of the legendary trombonist Roswell Rudd; the tunes are lovely and the interplay is top-notch. Reportedly Rava’s favorite of his own albums.
  • Burning Spear – Man in the Hills (1976), Dry & Heavy (1977). In preparation for seeing Burning Spear in concert this year, I filled in some of the gaps in my previous listening. His run of albums in the 1970s was just great, with horn ensembles that make for a deeper, more complex reggae sound. And he still puts on a great show at age 77.
  • Pepper Adams – Plays The Compositions of Charlie Mingus (1963). One of the first and best Mingus tribute albums, recorded with input from the composer himself. Adams’ powerful baritone works wonderfully as the lead voice.
  • Sonny Stitt – Sonny Stitt / Bud Powell / J.J. Johnson (1957). It’s easy to overlook all those unhelpfully titled jazz jam session records from the 1950s, but don’t skip this one: it’s pure, fierce bebop, recorded when the style was still fresh. Thanks to Ethan Iverson for the tip.

Previous lists: 2021 | 2020 | 2019 | 2018 | 2017 | 2016 | 2015 | 2014

The best books I read in 2022

As usual, this list is a purely subjective account of the books I most enjoyed reading this year. In each category my favorite is the first one, the others are in no particular order.


  • Geoff Dyer, The Last Days of Roger Federer, and Other Endings. Impossible to adequately describe, a truly unique book–and how many of those are there? Not actually about Roger Federer but also not not about him either; it’s a series of reflections on late style, failure and decline in sport, arts and life. The writing is casual and the connections seem enjoyably free-associative and arbitrary at first, until the rigorous structure begins to emerge.
  • After finishing it I went straight on to read more Dyer: the essay collection Otherwise Known as the Human Condition, from a decade earlier, covers a similar eclectic range of topics (photography, music, fiction and non, personal history) at greater length. Dyer has great taste and, as with the best critics, his enthusiasms are infectious.
  • Sebastian Faulks, The Fatal Englishman: Three Short Lives. One of the many interesting books discussed by Dyer in Last Days; he has a particular interest in nonfiction of literary quality (he also champions Eve Babitz, who I too think is amazing). I don’t often enjoy biographies: too often they are neither analytical enough to be of intellectual interest nor well told enough to be of narrative interest. But Faulks’ treatment of three people who did not live to realize their early promise succeeds on both fronts.
  • Harald Jähner, Aftermath: Life in the Fallout of the Third Reich, 1945-1955. A fascinating exploration of German life during the end of one social order and the creation of another one; it covers everything from “rubble tourism,” mass migration and regional cultures to to jazz dance halls, sex toys, interior decoration and avant-garde art (here’s an excerpt for flavor).
  • I read it together with Volker Ulrich’s Eight Days in May: The Final Collapse of the Third Reich, a less thematic and more plainly narrative account of the period immediately before the one covered by Jähner that usefully sets the stage. Both books are great examples of how interesting the history of transitional and interstitial periods can be.
  • Patrick Radden Keefe, Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland. I had never previously cared enough about UK or Irish politics to educate myself on the Troubles of Northern Ireland, and I can’t remember why I decided to pick this one up. But I couldn’t put it down; the deeply reported detail is impressive and immersive, the stories compellingly told. I can’t speak to how better-informed readers might receive it, but for me it was eye-opening.
  • William Deresiewicz, The Death of the Artist. A well-reported look at how working artists at the middle and low levels of fame actually make a living. The arts turn out to be an excellent lens through which to look at the 21st century service economy, and the lessons here are of broader interest.


  • Willa Cather, The Song of the Lark. Is this the Great American Novel? It is, at least, a great telling of a classic 20th century American story, of someone from a small place who goes to a bigger place to pursue bigger dreams, and what they gain and lose along the way. Which is also my story and the story of so many people I know, American and otherwise.
  • Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. Probably the most popular book on my list–I actually saw people reading it in the airport–and deservedly so: I found it utterly charming and free of cliché. What I enjoyed most was its combination of very contemporary material (video game designers) with a quite old-fashioned narrative voice, wry and opinionated.
  • Lionel Davidson, Kolymsky Heights. Not a great book, but for certain tastes a very pleasing one. The opening is awkward and the McGuffin around which the thriller plot revolves is ludicrously implausible. But the meat of the book is a very detailed process of solving desperate logistical problems in the Siberian winter. Great fun, in other words.
  • Anthony Doerr, Cloud Cuckoo Land. What is usually called an “ambitious” novel, this yokes together quite different narrative strands written in modes of historical fiction, sci-fi and contemporary realism. Doerr pulls it off in a very satisfying way that is not at all gimmicky, in just lovely prose.
  • Walter Jon Williams, Metropolitan. Nothing dates faster than visions of the future, but this 1995-vintage science fiction novel still seems fresh and strikingly contemporary: great technological power coexists with depressing social stagnation, its capabilities used mostly for bureaucracy and status-seeking.
  • James Kestrel, Five Decembers. An excellent historical mystery revolving around the bombing of Pearl Harbor, with vivid evocations of wartime Hawaii and Hong Kong.
  • Damon Galgut, In a Strange Room. A compact, concentrated novel about backpacking and missed connections. “He is intensely happy, which is possible for him when he is walking and alone.”

Previous lists: 2021 | 2020 | 2019 | 2018 | 2017 | 2016 | 2015 | 2014 | 2013 | 2012

Acadian Books & Prints, New Orleans, Louisiana

The Jiang Zemin Consensus

Former Chinese leader Jiang Zemin, who died Wednesday at the age of 96, managed to be underestimated for most of his life, despite rising to exalted heights. He was not considered an inspiring figure when Deng Xiaoping plucked him from Shanghai to run the government after the 1989 purge, and in accounts of the pivotal economic reforms of the 1990s he is often overshadowed by the charismatic and decisive Zhu Rongji.

Yet looking back, it seems clear that Jiang was responsible for establishing many of the basic political and economic contours of contemporary China. The best short summary of his legacy I have seen came from historian Frank Dikötter, in an interview earlier in November; the whole thing is worth reading but here is the key excerpt:

I think that we have been fooled by very superficial impressions of a man who occasionally comes across as something of a buffoon. He likes to burst in song; he has a smattering of foreign languages; it’s rather easy to mock him. But this is a man who really has made all the key decisions.

However you look at it, it is very much Jiang Zemin who has shaped the China we know today: the giant flagship conglomerates; the grip that the party has on the private sector; the shift towards much greater support for state enterprises; the determined effort to ward off any attempts at so-called ‘peaceful evolution’ [i.e., toward democracy]. The list goes on. A remarkable man, if I may say so.

There are two biographies of Jiang, both of them making a good case that he should not be underestimated. Bruce Gilley’s Tiger on the Brink from 1998 offered an early assessment of Jiang’s tenure from a journalist who was on the ground in China for it, while Robert Kuhn’s hagiographic The Man Who Changed China from 2004 has more of the flavor of an authorized biography, valuable mostly for the interviews he scored with Party insiders.

In my own notes on the history of the 1990s, I’ve been tempted to call the political economy that emerged the Jiang Zemin Consensus. Deng usually gets the credit for restarting economic reforms in 1992 after the conservative turn in 1989, and it does seem that Jiang was initially slow to figure out what Deng wanted.

But once he did, Jiang was able to establish a much more consistent direction than the contentious back-and-forth of the 1980s. Jiang forged an enduring elite consensus on two fundamental issues in China: the relationship between politics and economics, and the relationship between the state and the private sector.

With his formulation that China is a “socialist market economy with Chinese characteristics,” he managed to finally end the long-running ideological debate within the Communist Party over whether market economics could be consistent with a socialist (or more precisely Leninist) political system. Today, almost everyone in China accepts that both market forces and state planning can be deployed to achieve particular goals.

And with his two-track reforms to state-owned enterprises, Jiang reset the balance between the state and private sectors. Thousands of small or underperforming SOEs, mostly belonging to local governments were closed or privatized, reducing the fiscal burden on the government and enlivening the private sector. But the remaining SOEs were consolidated into larger entities and received more direct government supervision and support.

That balancing of interest groups has also proved remarkably durable: in purely quantitative terms, the share of economic value-added generated by the state and private sectors has hardly changed at all since the mid-1990s (see my piece Some Facts About China’s State Capitalism).

For all of Xi Jinping’s power and ambition, he hasn’t yet altered the basic tenets of the Jiang Zemin Consensus.

What I’ve been listening to lately

  • Evan Ziporyn – Philip Glass: Best Out of Three. Apparently this is the first recording of this 1968 work by Glass, a quite pretty piece of interlocking lines for three clarinets. I still like these earlier works by Glass the most. Ziporyn presents two versions, the second played at a tempo one-third faster than the first, and notes: “I know of very few pieces of music that can work at such markedly different speeds, and pretty much all of them are either by Philip Glass or J.S. Bach.” He has also recorded another classic minimalist work played entirely on overdubbed clarinets: Steve Reich’s New York Counterpoint.
  • Lucky Thompson – Complete Parisian Small Group Sessions 1956-1959. Thompson had one of the most beautiful sounds on tenor saxophone of any jazz player, but never got recorded as much as he deserved. Somewhat like Don Byas, who was a decade older, his playing combined swing and bebop in a way that now sounds timeless. This generous 4CD package collects a bunch of otherwise obscure sessions from his sojourn in France, all of which are just classic jazz.
  • Ornette Coleman – Sound Museum: Hidden Man. Coleman famously blew up traditional jazz orchestration with his pianoless quartets of the 1960s, so it’s surprising and pleasing to hear just how good he sounds here with the traditional backing of piano, bass, drums. The difference is that by 1996, when these sessions were recorded, jazz piano playing had had a generation to absorb Coleman’s innovations: Geri Allen proves to be a perfect foil for him.
  • Wadada Leo Smith – Ten Freedom Summers. Fair warning, this massive collection is over four hours of music, and for me probably only about half of it will be a repeat listen. The combination of jazz quartet with a classical chamber ensemble is a mixed bag. Smith’s trumpet playing is gorgeous, and in his use of space and silence he is the true heir of Miles Davis. But I find it hard to love his writing for strings, although it’s clearly an important part of his art; maybe I just don’t have the background for it. Still, your mileage may wary, and the quartet tracks are undeniably brilliant.
  • Freddie Hubbard – Hub Cap. One of the absolute classic 1960s Blue Note sessions of sophisticated hard bop, which I had somehow missed hearing until recently. The lineup is fantastic, with Julian Priester and Jimmy Heath joining Hubbard in the front line, and the writing is particularly good, including Hubbard’s own arrangements and one by the great Melba Liston.

It only looks like ideology from the outside

Ideology seems to be everywhere in today’s China: there is a huge apparatus devoted to propagating the correct official views on the big questions of the day, from the Covid-19 pandemic to financial regulation. Given how much effort the Party and the government put into criticizing incorrect ideas and repeating correct ones, it’s natural to think that ideas are truly central to Chinese politics.

An alternative view emerges from Joseph Torigian’s recent book, Prestige, Manipulation, and Coercion: Elite Power Struggles in the Soviet Union and China After Stalin and Mao, a detailed account of the internal battles at pivotal historical moments in two Leninist systems. Torigian suggests that what in standard historical accounts appear as epic struggles over the direction of the nation were in fact narrow arguments over specific political issues, that were driven less by differences of ideas than by maneuverings to gain personal power. It’s certainly a deflating, cynical view, but given the historical evidence he marshals, it is hard to say it is wrong.

Take for instance one of the most famous ideological statements in China’s recent history, the 1978 decision that the Communist Party should shift its focus away from class struggle and toward economic growth. Generalists like me tend to see this as a major historic turning point, when China’s leadership turned its back on Maoism and embraced pragmatism and markets. This corresponded with a change in leadership from Mao’s handpicked successor Hua Guofeng to Deng Xiaoping. But in Torigian’s account, this statement turns out not to be about “class struggle” in the general sense but only a recent internal campaign:

At the November 1978 work conference, [Hua Guofeng] did not oppose changing the party’s “key link” from “class struggle” to economics. The idea that Deng somehow triumphed over Hua on this issue is wrong. During Hua’s tenure, “class struggle” did not have the same meaning that it had during the Cultural Revolution. Then it meant the campaign to expose and criticize the Gang of Four. … At the Eleventh Party Congress in 1977, the plan of Hua and the top leadership was to finish the “ferreting-out” phase of exposing and criticizing the Gang of Four within the year or a little longer. At the Fifth National People’s Congress in February and March 1978, Hua said that the “ferreting-out” campaign was basically finished on a national scale.

Torigian agues that discussion among the top leadership on was mainly over the precise wording of how to announce the end of “class struggle” in this restricted sense, and that Hua and Deng were basically in agreement on the need to end the campaign.

Standard historical accounts present the 1978 third plenum as the culmination of an ideological struggle between Hua’s retrograde leftism and Deng’s free-thinking pragmatism. What was at stake was encapsulated by a phrase in a People’s Daily editorial in 1977 which became known as the “two whatevers”: “We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Chairman Mao made and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Chairman Mao gave.” The official account of this debate appeared in a note to the Collected Works of Deng Xiaoping, and it has since been followed by many scholars:

After the downfall of the Gang of Four, the Party Chairman, Hua Guofeng, who was in charge of the work of the Central Committee, clung to the erroneous notion of the “two whatevers” and reaffirmed the wrong theories, policies and slogans of the “cultural revolution”. On April 10, 1977, Deng Xiaoping wrote a letter to the Central Committee, proposing that to guide the work of the Party, it should use instead a correct understanding of Mao Zedong Thought as an integral whole. Later, he talked with Party comrades on many occasions, explaining to them that the “two whatevers” did not accord with Marxism.

On September 19, 1977, when talking with the leading member of the Ministry of Education, Deng said that seeking truth from facts was the quintessence of the philosophical thinking of Mao Zedong. On May 11, 1978, Guangming Ribao carried an article entitled “Practice is the Sole Criterion for Testing Truth”, which stated that the most fundamental principle of Marxism was the integration of theory with practice. This was a criticism of the principle of the “two whatevers”. It was this article that gave rise to the debate about the criterion for testing truth.

Hua Guofeng and others tried to suppress the debate, but as the majority of the central leaders, including Deng Xiaoping, were fully in favour of it and took the lead in it, it gradually spread throughout the country. The debate demolished the “Left” ideology that had long shackled people’s minds and laid the theoretical and ideological foundation for the convocation of the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Central Committee.

The attempt by Party historians to paint Hua as the slavish follower of Mao always lacked a certain plausibility: after all, Hua had in 1976 led a coup against the Gang of Four, Mao’s chief hangers-on during the Cultural Revolution. Torigian’s account of this event makes clear that the arrest and trial of the Gang of Four was in fact a coup, in the sense of a violent and illegal change of government, because the arrest was not formally approved by the Party and was accomplished through the use of force. Hua’s willingness to risk instability by forcibly removing Mao’s favorites just a month after the great leader’s death reflected the urgent need he and other leaders felt to move on from the Cultural Revolution. Why, then, would he change course in 1977 and argue so forcefully that Mao’s wishes needed to be respected? Torigian says he didn’t, and it was all a misunderstanding:

New evidence shows that the origin of the “two whatevers” had nothing to do with political or economic orthodoxy. … What, then, did the “two whatevers” actually mean, and why did so many individuals in the elite misinterpret the expression? The key to understanding this puzzle is that the immediate challenge facing Hua was how to show his flexibility without raising concerns that he was moving too quickly to reject the Maoist legacy. Unfortunately for Hua, he handled this problem in a particularly clumsy way, and it was this clumsiness, as opposed to political dogmatism or opposition to Deng, that led to the “two whatevers.”

The “two whatevers” ended up in the People’s Daily not because Hua was trying to send a top-down signal of the country’s political direction, but because Hua’s speechwriters were trying to find a way to ease the concerns of the still-numerous supporters of Mao and the Cultural Revolution. Obviously the expression turned out to be easily misinterpreted, and it upset Deng, for which Hua later made a self-criticism. In Torigian’s account, this sloppy drafting turned out to be a political windfall for Deng, allowing him to portray himself as being on the right side of a major ideological debate. But this ideological debate was largely an illusion, a cover for Deng’s maneuverings against Hua. In order to oust Hua, Deng went on to say a lot of things that he very clearly did not actually mean:

In August 1980, Deng famously gave a speech criticizing “feudal practices” and calling for an institutionalized political system. The speech is often interpreted as a programmatic statement in favor of “political reform.” However, this is a fundamental misreading of the speech’s origins and implications. Criticisms of feudalism and calls for political reform were not a real platform but rather an ideological justification for Hua Guofeng’s removal from the leadership. …

As Deng Liqun freely admitted, “This speech by Comrade Xiaoping in actuality was directed against Hua Guofeng; it was preparation for Hua to leave his position, to find a theoretical justification.” When a friend pointed out that this speech was a reason why many people believed that Deng Xiaoping supported real inner-party democracy and institutionalization, Zhao Ziyang discounted this analysis, saying, “At this time, Deng was primarily addressing Hua Guofeng; he was struggling against Hua Guofeng.”

Torigian’s detailed reconstructions of the politics behind ideological debates are impressive, but also somewhat depressing for those of us trying to understand China’s contemporary policymaking. Much of the evidence he uses for his revisionist account of the 1970s and early 1980s has only emerged fairly recently, and similar detailed behind-the-scenes evidence is much less available for recent decades.

After digesting his book, it’s harder to have confidence in analyses that take Chinese ideological debates and statements at face value. Most of the time, it seems, outsiders to the system do not really know the precise context for the Party’s various political slogans and the internal uses to which they are being put. What looks like a struggle over ideology on the outside may just be a plain old power struggle.

Watching the gap between rhetoric and reality

One of Xi Jinping’s accomplishments as China’s leader has been to narrow the gap between political rhetoric and policy reality. During the tenure of his predecessor Hu Jintao, this gap was so wide as to be a standing joke: various government promises of reform were repeatedly followed by little or no action. Important economic-policy decisions seemed to be driven less by declared priorities and more by expediency and interest-group bargaining. Perhaps in reaction, Xi has focused on making China’s governing apparatus more disciplined, more effective and less corrupt. He has recast the administrative structure to ensure that there is more coherence between his own top-level pronouncements and the actions of lower-level officials.

To take just one, highly consequential, example: after Xi declared a “battle” against financial risk in 2017, the annual growth of banking-system assets slowed sharply to 7-10% in his second term from the 15-17% of his first term. The shift was a dramatic contrast to the repeated failure of the Hu administration to rein in the credit boom they had unleashed in the response to the 2008 global financial crisis. In the initial stages of Xi’s financial-risk campaign, there was a lot of skepticism that Chinese regulators would ever meaningfully control the growth of debt. Now, the crackdown on debt has gone so far that it has triggered major financial problems at property developers, with huge knock-on effects on the real economy. If anything, the problem is that regulators have been too zealous in implementing Xi’s top-level priorities, and haven’t done enough bargaining with affected interest groups.

The size of the gap between rhetoric and implementation is therefore an important indicator of Xi’s power, one that he himself is focused on (he has given many speeches criticizing officials for passivity or inaction). In the runup to October’s Party Congress, which is all but certain to cement a third term for Xi as Party chief and all-round supremo, there has been a lot of fantasizing about scenarios in which his power would be more limited. These range from him being deposed in a coup to having to share power with supposed “reformers.” None of these are particularly realistic: despite plenty of grumbling, there’s no evidence of any organized or effective internal political opposition. The Party Congress is most likely to feature high-level rhetorical affirmation of Xi’s signature goals, and a new leadership lineup that is dominated, though perhaps not completely, by Xi loyalists.

But, as Jude Blanchette suggests in a typically thoughtful recent piece, it will be worth watching for any sign that the gap between rhetoric and reality is widening back to a historically more normal size:

Prognosticating on China’s future has always been an invitation to be proven wrong. But the most sensible starting position is that Xi is not going anywhere, and for all the apparent setbacks China is now facing—many of which can be directly tied to actions taken by Beijing in recent years—the discrepancy between public frustration and an organized leadership challenge remains significant.

This opens up a third path for Xi somewhere between unchallenged dominance (which he may well lose if problems continue to mount) and full-on leadership change (which he is unlikely to have to confront): Xi as a bruised autocrat with China as a diminished global power. In this scenario, Xi is able to retain his grip on power, but without the elan and appeal that seemed to follow him over the 18th and 19th Party Congresses. His major policy pronouncements would receive a polite reception, and then be ignored summarily or (purposefully) misconstrued. Policy paralysis and policy dislocation would typify the rollout and implementation, or lack thereof, of new government regulatory efforts.

The excerpt is from CPC Futures, a useful, and free, recent volume from the East Asian Institute in Singapore that compiles several pieces explaining political and economic trends under Xi.

Currently, the best candidate for a Xi policy pronouncement that fails to get translated into reality is the slogan “common prosperity,” which summarizes a general desire to narrow income and wealth inequality. Xi rolled out the slogan with much fanfare in 2021, writing it into the five-year plan and devoting a high-level meeting in August to its discussion. At the time, the term was associated with the crackdowns on internet platforms and real-estate developers, the sectors responsible for creating most of China’s billionaires. But by early 2022, the slogan seemed to be a lower priority in official propaganda, with Premier Li Keqiang mentioning it only once in his annual government work report in March (see my previous post What happened to common prosperity?).

A quick search in Baidu Index, the Chinese equivalent of Google Trends, quantitatively confirms these impressions. The screenshot below is an index of how often the term “common prosperity” appears in news reports: there’s a huge spike around Xi’s meeting in August 2021, which then rather quickly falls back to previous levels.

It’s understandable that such a longer-term aspirational goal would be less urgent at the moment, given the serious shorter-term challenges the government has had to deal with this year. But it’s still notable how little substantive progress the working machinery of the government has made on it: there is no sign, for instance, of a promised “action plan” for common prosperity. The slogan has certainly not vanished from official discourse, and given Xi’s firm control over the propaganda and ideology apparatus, it is highly unlikely that there would be any formal retreat from common prosperity. The Politburo meeting in August specifically mentioned that the Party Congress would cover how to achieve common prosperity, so the term seems likely to feature prominently in Xi’s speech setting out his agenda for the next five years.

The question is what ends up happening in practical terms as a result of this declared priority. It is possible, for example, to imagine a scenario in which Chinese officials and scholars spend months discussing and debating how to deliver common prosperity per Xi’s instructions, and then, at the end of an exhaustive exploration of possible options, decide that the best course is to make some modest adjustments to existing policies (such as more funding for regional development initiatives in lagging areas). Any signs of officials slow-walking Xi’s priorities, or talking them to death, would be indeed be a significant change from the current rush to show eager participation in his campaigns.

What was the Cold War, and is it over?

I belong to the first generation for whom the Cold War is mainly history rather than lived experience. By the time I went off to college and started learning about the wider world, the Soviet Union had already collapsed. Even though the events of 1989-90 were in fact very recent, to me they did not seem like the news of the day but history that had already acquired the aura of age and inevitability, like the Protestant Reformation or the French Revolution. Communism seemed faintly ridiculous and largely irrelevant; even the left-wing student radicals invoked it as more a symbol of opposition to mainstream America than as a serious system of ideas. This impression was only reinforced when I moved to China in the late 1990s: China at the time seemed to be busily dismantling the apparatus of socialism and building ties with the US and the rest of the world.

That’s my excuse, anyway, for why I never got around to learning much about the Cold War; I had managed to acquire the quite mistaken impression that it was not something urgent to understand about the world. When in 2022 foreign-policy commentators began busily proclaiming “the start of a second Cold War” (Gideon Rachman in the Financial Times) or that “the Cold War never ended” (Stephen Kotkin in Foreign Affairs), I realized that I could not evaluate those claims because I did not have a clear definition of my mind of what exactly the Cold War was. So, I read a book about it: Odd Arne Westad’s The Cold War: A World History. Although it’s a long book with lots of details, the Cold War is helpfully defined on the very first page:

The Cold War was a confrontation between capitalism and socialism that peaked in the years between 1945 and 1989, although its origins go much further back in time and its consequences can still be felt today. In its prime the Cold War constituted an international system, in the sense that the world’s leading powers all based their foreign policies on some relationship to it.

Westad’s definition of the Cold War has two aspects: that of an ideological conflict between two totalizing and incompatible systems, and that of an international system, which forced many different issues and conflicts among countries into alignment with that ideological conflict. I found this is a useful distinction, as the arguments for a contemporary Cold War generally focus on the second aspect, the pattern of international relations. There’s no question that, since the invasion of Ukraine, the US and Western Europe are in increasingly direct rivalry with Russia and China. The continuity of this division with that of the Cold War period is what Rachman and Kotkin focus on in their essays.

But it’s harder to see a similar ideological conflict underway today. Westad consistently emphasizes how in the twentieth century both the US and the USSR were highly ideological states, organized around universalizing ideas not just national interests. Both countries were led by elites who believed that they were spreading the right ideas about the way to organize human societies throughout the world, and that their right ideas were mortally threatened by the other side’s wrong ideas. “It was its ideological origins that made the Cold War special and hyperdangerous,” Westad writes. The existential struggle between capitalism and socialism made every minor issue seem like a terminal conflict, encouraging both sides to raise the stakes.

While there have been occasional attempts on both sides of the current divide to paint it as essentially ideological as the same way as the original Cold War, these are less convincing. I found this interview with Chinese foreign-policy scholar Wang Jisi, translated by David Cowhig, to be a useful contribution:

Q: The question of whether there is a “new cold war” between China and the United States is now more controversial in academic circles. How do you see this issue?

A: Compared with the U.S.-Soviet relationship during the Cold War, the current U.S.-China relationship is still different in many ways. First of all, neither side can resort to “bloc politics”, so the U.S. and China will not become a bipolar opposition like the U.S.S.R. By “poles”, I mean attracting other countries to unite around them and form a united camp. The United States wants to do this, but it is difficult to do so. China, for its part, does not seek to build such a camp. In contrast, as the gap between other countries and China and the United States grows, the future may turn out to be a world in which the two powers stand side by side, but there will not be two camps as there were during the Cold War.

Secondly, from the ideological aspect, the competition between China and the United States is not as obvious as the ideological confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union, but is mainly a manifestation of nationalism. Therefore, there is no ideological struggle between China and the U.S. like the one between the U.S. and the Soviet Union back then.

His analysis that what is underway is a conflict between national interests rather than totalizing ideologies seems correct to me. The US foreign-policy elite is historically prone to prone to seeing global events in ideological terms, and has tried to portray the current division as one of democracy and liberal values in opposition to authoritarianism. This is par for the course for the US; as Westad notes, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, “American foreign policy rolled on, unperturbed by any significant adjustments in strategic vision or political aims.” Since the US saw itself as the victor in the ideological conflict, its ideology was not in need of adjustment.

On the other side, though, the role of ideology has changed. Although Russia and China famously proclaimed a “no limits” partnership just before the invasion of Ukraine, this is founded more on a shared desire to resist US power than any shared ideology. The leaders of both Russia and China have articulated some grand theories underpinning their foreign policies, but both are more interested in national greatness for their respective nations than exporting a universalizing system of thought. The pattern is less of two broad ideological camps than of varying forms of opposition to US global leadership.

This is more or less the pattern that Ken Jowitt predicted in his essay “The Leninist Extinction,” originally published in 1991 (it’s available in his book of the same name, which I’ve previously praised here). Given how fresh the collapse of the Soviet Union still was at the time, the piece is remarkably insightful in its broad analysis of the consequences (though some of the specific predictions have not panned out). It’s worth closing with a lengthy excerpt of what now seems like quite a key passage:

The primary axis of international politics has disappeared. Thermonuclear Russia hasn’t, but the Soviet Union/Empire most certainly has. Its “extinction” radically revises the framework within which the West, the United States itself, the Third World, and the countries of Eastern Europe, the former Russian Empire, and many nations in Asia have bounded and defined themselves.

The first imperative is to anticipate national environments characterized by conflict (along both civic-ethnic and regional fault lines) and an international environment whose primary characteristic will be turbulence, not the stereotyped, fundamentally apolitical quality of international life during the Cold War. Turbulent environments produce more than their share of simultaneous emergences for a significant number of national and sub-national elites. An emergency environment calls for different political skills and leaders than the stereotyped bipolar environment of largely contained, and occasionally ritualized, emergency characteristic of the Cold War. On balance, in a turbulent world environment, leaders will count for more than institutions, and charisma for more than political economy.

Liberal capitalist democracy has generated a heterogeneous set of opponents: Romantic poets, Persian ayatollahs, aristorcrats, the Catholic Church, and fascists. However, for all the genuine and substantial differences separating these diverse oppositions, one can detect a shared critique. Liberal capitalist democracy is seen as one-sided in its emphasis on individualism, materialism, achievement, and rationality. The Roman Catholic preference for the family over the individual and the Nazi preference for “race” in place of the individual are radically different critiques, but the general critique is the same: liberal capitalism fails adequately to provide for the essential group needs and dimension of human existence.

As long as the West retains its partisan liberal capitalist democratic identity, it will regularly generate movements–internally and externally–opposing or attacking, attempting to reform or destroy it; movements that in one form or another will emphasize the value of group membership, expressive behavior, solidary security, and heroic action.

All of these have indeed come to pass: a “turbulent” international environment, an increasing role for charismatic leaders, and the persistent popularity of critiques of liberal values. The legacy of the Cold War is still very much with us, but its particular style of global ideological conflict probably is over, having been replaced with something not yet properly named.

What will self-reliance mean for China?

Self-reliance seems to be an important value for Chinese leader Xi Jinping. In a public discussion with agricultural experts in March, he invoked the term to urge attention to food security: “Who will feed China? China has to put its faith in self-reliance, and feed itself!” Xi declared, “in a resounding tone,” according to the account in the People’s Daily. In Liaoning province in August, on a tour of a robot manufacturer, he used it again in the context of technology: “We must adhere to self-reliance, make developing the strength of the country and the nation the basic point, and firmly grasp the initiative of development.”

The phrase conventionally translated here as “self-reliance” is zili gengsheng (自力更生), which has historical resonances in Chinese that the neutral English translation fails to capture. Zili gengsheng was a key slogan during the Mao era, and Xi’s repeated use of the term in recent years is one of the things that make people think he wants to return to the autarky of the 1950s.

But like many good political slogans, zili gengsheng works to elicit an emotional response–who doesn’t want to be self-reliant?–without necessarily referring to a specific set of policies. The best short explanation of the term I’ve found is in Jason M. Kelly’s recent book Market Maoists: The Communist Origins of China’s Capitalist Ascent, a history of foreign trade policy during the Mao years:

Trade with capitalists was indispensable, but also dangerous. It must be controlled. This view produced an early and abiding tension in CCP trade policy. On the one hand, the Party must remain aloof from foreign capitalists to safeguard China’s independence; on the other, it must “struggle” to engage them. The Party reconciled these divergent aims in the concept of zili gengsheng, or “revival through one’s own efforts.” Zili gengsheng, which became a pillar of economic policy in the Mao era, was never just a policy. It was a disposition, a blend of caution and ambition from which Party leaders could derive the orientation and scope of China’s economic interaction in a given historical context. The term offered a foundation for thinking about the political implications of trade, especially the dependencies and vulnerabilities that accompanied it. Trade could breed dependency if not carefully controlled, and dependency brought vulnerability. In its broadest sense, zili gengsheng meant never trusting one’s fate to outsiders and never placing all of one’s eggs in a single basket.

I think this applies to the contemporary use of zili gengsheng as well. Xi’s use of the term conveys a conviction that China exists in a dangerous world surrounded by rivals and competitors. Because no one else is going to help China become rich and powerful, it must do that on its own, without depending on outsiders. Xi’s choice of this specific term, out of many possible synonyms for self-reliance, is certainly a gesture to the Mao era. But the use of zili gengsheng signals more of a “disposition,” in Kell’s term, than an endorsement of the specific policies of extreme isolation that Mao pursued. China’s central position in the global trading system means the starting point for any pursuit of self-reliance today must be quite different. The total value of its imports and exports is equivalent to around 35% of China’s GDP, a high ratio for a large economy, compared to around 5% in the 1950s.

During the Mao era, zili gengsheng was a general political value with varying interpretations, not a single program. Another very interesting book on trade policy in the Mao era, Lawrence C. Reardon’s The Reluctant Dragon: Crisis Cycles in Chinese Foreign Economic Policy, explains how Zhou Enlai in the early 1960s articulated an alternative to Mao’s version of self-reliance. Zhou agreed that China needed to become self-reliant, as the break with the Soviet Union had led to a major loss of foreign investment, aid and technical advice. But he argued for controlled foreign trade to obtain China’s needs, rather than autarky, and more orthodox socialist planning to guide development, rather than the disastrous campaigns of the Great Leap Forward.

Zhou did argue that “China’s strategic policy is to obtain self-reliance,” but also that “it is impossible to close the door to the outside world to implement communism.” He thought China should export the goods it knew how to produce in order to earn the revenue to import what it needed to develop further. The debate was not over whether China should be self-reliant, but over the best program for achieving that self-reliance: Zhou’s relative and flexible one versus Mao’s extreme and doctrinaire one.

Zhou ended up losing the debate on economic policy to Mao, and the more moderate development model he and others proposed in the early 1960s was abandoned for mass campaigns and autarky during the Cultural Revolution. their ideas lived on, and were an inspiration for some of the initial moves away from Maoist autarky in the late 1970s. But in the 1980s, Deng Xiaoping abandoned self-reliance entirely and pursued a different model, of export-oriented growth and attracting foreign investment. The level of trade openness that Deng endorsed was a fundamental change from what socialist economics had previously considered desirable.

Xi Jinping’s renewed invocation of self-reliance, and related concepts like “dual circulation,” show a discontent with Deng’s outward-focused model and a desire to reduce China’s external vulnerabilities. At the same time, there is a recognition that China’s position as the hub of global supply chains gives it economic power and influence over other countries, which Xi wants to enhance rather than abandon. Given this context, Maoist autarky is not a practical option. Despite the occasional rhetorical gestures to Mao, Xi seems to be more of a strong-state nationalist than a true Maoist (see this previous post, “Who won the battle of ideas in China?“). The renewed pursuit of self-reliance in today’s China may end up being a variation of Zhou Enlai’s strategy of accepting the necessity of trade while guiding it to benefit the nation.

Surpassing America

The further downward spiral in US-China relations since House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Taiwan has laid bare how central the rivalry with the US is to much nationalist sentiment in China. Many Chinese see the US as the only thing preventing the realization of their long-cherished dream of bringing Taiwan under mainland control. But this is a problem that time will solve: once China is big enough and strong enough, it will not have to defer to the US any longer, and can finally exercise its will. One of the most direct expressions of this way of thinking came from prominent Renmin University professor Wang Wen (quoted in a useful summary by Tuvia Gering):

The crux is that China needs to outperform the US in terms of economic power, attain financial and military strength comparable to that of the US, and develop an overwhelming capacity to counter international sanctions. By doing this, the US will no longer be able to form an external force to interfere in our affairs after the reunification and in the long run.

The idea that it is necessary for China to overtake the US as the world’s leading economic and military power has a long history. Perhaps the earliest and most forceful expression came in a speech by Mao Zedong on August 30, 1956, entitled “Strengthen Party Unity and Carry Forward Party Traditions.” In that speech Mao called for China to overtake the US, specifically in steel production, but also in more general terms:

Once built up, China will be a great socialist country and will radically transform the situation in which for over a century it was backward, despised and wretched. Moreover, it will be able to catch up with the most powerful capitalist country in the world, the United States. The United States has a population of only 170 million, and as we have a population several times larger, are similarly rich in resources and are favoured with more or less the same kind of climate, it is possible for us to catch up with the United States. Oughtn’t we catch up? Definitely yes. …

Given fifty or sixty years, we certainly ought to overtake the United States. This is an obligation. You have such a big population, such a vast territory and such rich resources, and what is more, you are said to be building socialism, which is supposed to be superior; if after working at it for fifty or sixty years you are still unable to overtake the United States, what a sorry figure you will cut! You should be read off the face of the earth. Therefore, to overtake the United States is not only possible, but absolutely necessary and obligatory. If we don’t, the Chinese nation will be letting the nations of the world down and we will not be making much of a contribution to mankind.

As William Callahan explains in his short intellectual history of Mao’s speech–“Surpass“, a chapter in the 2019 anthology Afterlives of Chinese Communism–Mao was here making an early expression of the radical ideas that would in 1958 become the Great Leap Forward. Although more cautious planners in the party criticized Mao for promoting a “rash advance” that ignored social and economic realities, Mao would ultimately be able to prevail and implement his vision of rapid development through mass political campaigns, with disastrous results.

What’s interesting is that the tragedy of the Great Leap Forward and the mass famine that followed did not completely discredit Mao’s vision of surpassing the US. According to Callahan, the 1956 speech was left alone for decades, but enjoyed something of a revival among nationalist intellectuals in the 2000s. China’s rapid economic growth had made it seem plausible that it would eventually become a larger economy than the US, and some thinkers appreciated that Mao had early on “dared to dream” of China as the world’s top power. Here are a couple of examples:

Mao is heroic for [military intellectual Colonel] Liu [Mingfu] because he dared to craft a grand plan to surpass America, stating again that beating the US would be China’s great contribution to humanity. Liu is fascinated by the Great Leap Forward, seeing the outrageous ambition of this Maoist mass movement as the key to China’s success in the twenty-first century. …

[Economist] Hu Angang also quotes the “Strengthen Party Unity” speech at length to argue that Mao and the speech are important because they created “the strategic concept of catching up to, and then surpassing the US.” He elaborates on Mao’s materialist quantitative way of measuring power and status, quoting him to explain that because of its large territory, large population, and superior socialist system, China is the only country in the world that is capable of catching up to and surpassing the US.

The ideas of such strong-state nationalists have been quite influential over the past decade or so (see my earlier post on Who won the battle of ideas in China?), and Xi Jinping himself is reportedly quite focused on the economic competition with the US. What is interesting is that the government, for all its anti-American rhetoric, consistently denies that it cares about overtaking the US. Here, for instance, is foreign ministry spokeswoman Hua Chunying from May 2021:

China’s strategic intent has been open and transparent. We never aim to overtake the US. Instead, our goal is to constantly improve and go beyond ourselves, make sure that Chinese people can live a better life, and that China will contribute more to world peace and development through its own development.

A more recent example came from deputy foreign minister Le Yucheng in a speech on China’s diplomacy in January 2022 (given at the Chongyang Institute for Financial Studies, the think tank run by Wang Wen, the professor quoted above). While overall rather aggressive in tone, he reserved his strongest criticism for US rhetoric about “extreme competition” with China. And in other comments at the event, he disavowed any interest in surpassing the US economically:

Exceeding the US in GDP–we are not interested in it, and this is not what we are going after. To meet the people’s desire for a better life, this is what the Communist Party of China aims for.

These kind of statements remind me of the old journalistic adage to “believe nothing until it has been officially denied.” Of course the Chinese government is eagerly looking forward to becoming the world’s largest economy, and it’s clear that lots of people in the vast quasi-official apparatus surrounding the government think and talk about this eventuality all the time.

But someone has clearly decided that it is best not to say these things too directly. Part of the reason may have to do with the checkered intellectual history of the “surpassing America” meme and its association with Maoist radicalism, which has never been widely popular domestically. And part of the reason is probably that some Chinese politicians have realized it does not actually display great self-confidence to obsess about your country’s standing relative to other countries.

What I’ve been listening to lately

  • Sha – Monbijou. One of the most obvious cultural trends of what we might call the high pandemic era of 2020-21 was a boom in solo recordings, as musicians tried to find ways to stay active and creative despite isolation. Maybe someone will write a book about it one day. This is a gorgeous recording of solo bass clarinet, recorded in early 2020 under the Monbijou bridge in Bern, Switzerland. The style is influenced by minimalist repetition, with loops and drones, and takes full advantage of the natural echo.
  • King Sunny Adé – The Best Of The Classic Years. The huge, spacy sound of juju music, featuring the talking drum and echoing guitars, is one of the great Nigerian cultural creations. Adé had international success with his albums in the 1980s, but having now listened to most of his output, this compilation of his earlier material from the late 1960s and early 1970s is where I would start. Although I’m not really an audio snob, I have to say this sounds amazing on decent speakers.
  • Rail Band – Belle Epoque Vol. 2: Mansa. While Mali’s Rail Band was the launching point for many great careers in African pop music, for me these recordings are mostly a showcase for the guitar genius Djelimady Tounkara. It’s easy to get delightfully lost in his long, spiraling lines.
  • Bill Frisell – Valentine. The valentine of the title is a (very faithful) tribute to Thelonious Monk, but this record is a thoroughly personal statement from Frisell. He plays all the things he likes, from Burt Bacharach to country standards to his own compositions, in his own inimitable style (there’s even a Malian tune). The stripped-down trio, with long-time partners Thomas Morgan on bass and Rudy Royston on drums, is marvelously responsive.
  • Steve Lugerner – It Takes One To Know One. An absolutely charming recording in which two younger musicians enlist jazz elder Albert Heath for a series of interpretations of classic modern jazz tunes, including two by his brother Jimmy Heath. The unusual format — bass clarinet, bass, drums — is one more associated with the avant-garde, and helps keep this take on the tradition fresh.