In the 1980s, in my hometown of Lujia Village, Huji Town, Huimin County, after the autumn harvest, the villagers were idle, and the village would pay for artists to read books. In addition to the one who talks about the book, there is also a companion who is responsible for taking the luggage of the musical instrument, pouring tea and water, and receiving the reception.
They picked an empty field in the middle of the village, set up the drums, and the storyteller drank water next to him and waited for the master. Estimating that the time was almost up, he got up and went to the drum, took the board in his left hand, and held the drumstick in his right hand, "bang bang bang" and "bang bang". The music of this warm field is like a rallying call, and the villagers who are still busy at home quickly put down the bowls and brooms in their hands, and rush to the place with the maza or the bench. There are greedy aunts and aunts who still do needlework. Not long after, the empty field was full. Waiting for the space, some take the soles of their shoes, some sew clothes, some snort melon seeds, some rub dry smoke, rub them in their mouths and slowly suck them in, and some sit there with their hands open, as if waiting to applaud or clap their hands. There are also those standing on the periphery chatting idly, and there are also people who rely on the firewood stack, such as a few of us elementary school students.
The books spoken are usually "Yang Jiajian", "Hu Jiajian", "Xue Jiajian", "Yue FeiChuan" and so on. It takes a long time to finish a book. The art form of storytelling should be the West River Drum. The storyteller mainly sings, and after a few sentences, he will drag a very long, nasal "eng'eng" sound, so long, like a big period. There are also recitations in the middle or before and after singing, mainly to explain the origin of the story, the main characters and their relationships, or to interact with the audience, strengthen the artistic effect and so on. In the storyteller's colorful performances, there are thousands of armies and horses fighting, parents' teachings on their children's feelings of home and country, the spirit of young heroes, children's love, and clown gags. When it comes to happiness, the storyteller's nose and eyes are smiling; when it comes to sadness, the eyes are moist, the corners of the mouth are down, the voice becomes solemn, and the nasal cavity is very heavy also has the element of crying; when it comes to the awe-inspiring righteousness, it stands tall, the sword eyebrows are upside down, and the tiger's eyes are round. Led by him, the audience sometimes laughed, sometimes clapped their hands and applauded, sometimes covered their faces and wept, and sometimes stunned. The melon seeds forgot to sniff, the soles of the shoes forgot to na, and the cigarette butts almost burned their hands.
For a while, I and a few friends were fascinated by "Yang Jiajian", and it was said that the storyteller female artist from Huimin County was Liu Lanfang's apprentice, which was a good story. One day I was so fascinated that I forgot the class time, and suddenly remembered that the squire had run back to school and had already taken the second class. The teacher was so angry that he let him stand outside the classroom, and he couldn't bear it, so he changed his mouth: Whoever has memorized the multiplication mantra will go in. Therefore, I was not punished even though I skipped class. Sitting in the classroom for half a day, my heart pounding, and I still remembered the storytelling field: a classmate listened to his grandfather, and then it was time to talk about yang Sanlang being trampled by random horses and dying, alas, it was really tragic, or the old Yang family was full of loyal martyrs. Does the storyteller cry when he says this? Will the uncles and aunts who listen to the book be angry and scold the mother? teacher...... Oh, the teacher was looking at me fixedly, and I had probably been looking at her with a straight eye for a long time.
Every year, starting from the twelfth day of the first lunar month, it is the Huji Town Book Club. The book club is said to have originated in the Yuan Dynasty and has a history of more than 800 years. At this time of year, artists from all over the world gather here, play twelve points of spirit, and do their best to compete with their peers in the open and in the dark. There is no referee, and the decision to be high or low is only to see whose book yard is crowded and applauded. In 1985, when every household in the countryside was basically an adobe house, Huji Town built a high-rise building and built a qu art hall for the book club. That year the book club reached its peak. National music artists Jiang Kun and Liu Lanfang were invited. Pedestrians on each village road are like flowing water, first converging on the avenue, then converging in Huji Town with the momentum of the ocean, and then converging with the surging momentum to the Quyi Hall. So, at the age of ten, I tightly held my parents' hands, and really felt what it meant to be watery, let alone go home or go to the Quyi Hall, I couldn't go in any direction, and I was almost squeezed into meat in the same place. Since then, I have suffered from crowding phobia, especially after hearing that a child had been squeezed to death in the Quyi Hall — I don't know if it's true or not, just heard about it — and this fear was even heavier.
That year, I didn't squeeze into the Quyi Hall, let alone go in, and then I won an award for writing an essay and went inside to receive an award, and when I was in junior high school, the school organized a movie to watch there "Mom Loves Me Again". That's all I have of quyi hall.
Forget when it started, storytellers came less. One year a young handsome guy, talking about a book, then asked: How about I sing pop songs to you? Do you love to hear it? The young man has always been very good at interacting with the audience, and everyone naturally said yes. So he stopped talking about books and sang songs: "Blood-stained Style", "Fifteen Moons", "Young Ambitions Don't Worry"... The old people feel fresh, the young people's blood is boiling, and the heart of the eldest girl and the little daughter-in-law are shaking. In contrast, storytelling seems to have become a cliché. About a year or two later, he didn't come, and the old storyteller didn't come either.
In addition to hearing about books, my sisters and I also like to listen to the commentaries in an immersive way with a pillow-sized drama box (radio) at home. Yuan Kuocheng's "Romance of the Three Kingdoms", Shan Tianfang's "Three Heroes and Five Righteousness", Tian Lianyuan's "Sui and Tang Dynasties", Liu Lanfang's "Yang Jiajun" and so on. From the north house holding the box to the fire house on the east side, I forgot to put salt in the stir-fry, and the mother's call became the wind in my ears. That was decades ago, and now I open my phone before going to bed to listen to Shan Tianfang's "White Brow Hero" on the Himalayas. But none of this is as enjoyable and memorable as the book, perhaps because of the storyteller's wonderful performance? Maybe it's because of the emotional resonance of the villagers in the field? Maybe it's because of the panic of skipping class and the snickering of not being punished? Maybe. Editor-in-Charge: Zhang Ziqiang
![A generation of storytelling masters Shan Tianfang[fig]](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAP///wAAACwAAAAAAQABAAACAkQBADs=)