Coco Lee Was One of Us
More than a singer, the late star was a way for members of the Chinese diaspora to connect with their culture
Words by Arthur Tam
It was the summer before my junior year in high school. Home alone and bored one afternoon, I decided to try out my mom's state-of-the-art karaoke machine, fitted with a complete surround-sound system. Back then, karaoke represented (at least as far as I was concerned) something only older Asian folks did when they were drunk at a banquet hall dinner. So, it never occurred to me that the simple joy of singing might be something I would find interesting, too. I pawed through the assortment of VCDs my mom had collected and landed on one of Coco Lee’s best KTV hits, packaged in a pink cover slip illustrated with drawings of Lee’s most iconic looks, like a long fuzzy coat and go-go boots, complemented by her signature red hair. At that point, I'd only heard a few of Lee's songs and knew little beyond the fact that she was a big name in Taiwan. Nevertheless, I picked up the mic and gave it a go.
The song I fell in love with was "Sunny Day," a perfectly summery mid-tempo dance track with a sultry ballad intro and disco influences. I couldn't read Chinese then, so I was using Lee's voice to guide me through the pronunciation of the characters without knowing what they meant. That didn't bother me, because the melody of the song and Lee's pitch-perfect, joyful voice had me hooked. I listened to and practiced that song probably 100 times before I memorized it by heart. Afterwards, I tried another track on the album, then another, and then another, until I had memorized her hits (up until 2001, anyway).
I spent that summer with Lee, singing my heart out, discovering my own voice and talent, and learning that I thoroughly enjoyed Chinese pop (primarily Cantopop and Mandopop). For my senior year in high school, I performed Lee’s “See You Again” to my choral class (we were called the Varsity Voices), all of whom had probably never heard a Chinese pop song until then. Later, in my early 20s, I entered Chinese singing competitions in Los Angeles and did well enough to make it as a finalist more than once. Each time I was in one, there would be at least a few dozen singers attempting a Coco Lee piece, hoping they could perform like her.
Lee occupied a place in my heart the way Britney and Xtina did for my classmates. She could sing. She could dance. She was sexy, vibrant and colorful, and stood out among her peers in the Chinese music scene, who were more cool, collected and grief-stricken, judging by the tragic love ballads they would inhabit. Lee was so much lighter, spirited, and uninhibited—all the qualities a then-closeted gay boy like myself needed and admired.
Imagine, at the height of her career, taking a risk on a project like that, at a time when East Asia had little to no queer representation in media.
To be sure, Lee is a gay icon. She sang the title song “The Answer” (答案) for Bishonen, a gay Hong Kong indie film in 1998 starring Stephen Fung and Daniel Wu respectively as a sex worker and policeman who fall in love. Imagine, at the height of her career, taking a risk on a project like that, at a time when East Asia had little to no queer representation in media. Though I didn’t really pay attention to her until years later, I loved her for that, and the song brought me to tears each time I sang it: "Love that lives in the heart cannot be thrown off course by the will of others. When you experience true love, that's the answer."
I was shocked and devastated when I heard of her passing earlier this month. I woke up to messages from my cousins in Hong Kong informing me that Lee had tragically taken her own life. They knew how much I loved her. Every time we went to karaoke together, all the songs I selected were hers.
It was inconceivable to us that someone with her optimism, radiance, and determination would have fallen into such a deep depression. But there was so much going on beneath the surface that we were unaware of.
She always wanted to have children, but after rounds of IVF and infertility treatments, there was no success. After 12 years of marriage, there were also rumors of divorce from her unfaithful husband. And then there was her health. She had gone through major leg surgery to alleviate a reemergent, debilitating birth defect, which affected her hips and overall mobility. She posted videos of herself on Weibo struggling to walk through the agony of the rehabilitation process. And few people were aware that she was also recovering from breast cancer—not even her mother knew.
Through Lee, singing and Chinese music, it finally made sense for me to connect more with my culture. Lee undoubtedly had that effect on countless others in the diaspora. After all, she was one of us.
Thirty years into her career, Lee tried to maintain that sunny, bright disposition her fans adored her for. “I want to inspire all girls and women to know their inner strength. You just have to believe in yourself, love yourself, know your worth and go forth,” she said in a voice memo posted on her Weibo in February, speaking about her latest single “Tragic.”
When I entered college (coincidentally the same college as Lee), I minored in Chinese because I wanted to learn how to read and understand the songs I was singing about. Growing up, I spoke English and Cantonese at home, but my parents always wanted me to learn Mandarin as well to expand my cultural knowledge. They tried sending me to Chinese school, but that didn’t take. However, through Lee, singing and Chinese music, it finally made sense for me to connect more with my culture. Lee undoubtedly had that effect on countless others in the diaspora. After all, she was one of us.
Before she was given her stage name “Coco Lee (李玟)”, Lee was born “Ferren Lee (李美林)” to an Indonesian Chinese father and Hongkonger mother in Hong Kong. When she was 9 years old, Lee moved to the United States and stayed there until her first year at the University of California, Irvine. When she returned to Hong Kong for a visit, she entered a singing competition and won second place with her rendition of Whitney Houston’s “Run To You.” Hong Kong gave Lee her big break, but it was in Taiwan that her talent was cultivated and translated for the entire Chinese-speaking world to see and hear. Lee became one of Hong Kong’s biggest superstars, one of the biggest Taiwanese superstars, one of the biggest Chinese superstars, and one of the biggest American superstars. She was multicultural and part of a generation of Asian Americans who leaned on that part of their identity to make it in the entertainment industry. She spoke Cantonese, English, and Mandarin fluently.
She had a type of star quality that translated to both sides of the Pacific, landing her more internationally known gigs like singing “A Love Before Time”—the title song for Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon—at the Oscars and performing the Mandarin version of “Reflection” for Disney’s animated version of Mulan. This may be what made her popular in mainstream American media, but I don’t consider those works to be an accurate reflection of Lee’s body of work. They don’t touch the true quality of her voice and performance capabilities.
In “Hint” (暗示) she hits soft high notes of longing with exceptional control. You can hear the regret and pain of loving someone incapable of receiving it. “Love Gone By” (往日情) is where Lee really sores. Many singers have tried covering this song, but it’s one of those pieces that only the original diva could ever do justice. You can hear Lee's rich vocals building layers upon layers until her true power is unleashed to question "Why is the world so cruel and unfair? For us to have met, only to endure the wind and rain."
I’ve kept up with Lee’s career throughout the years, watching her grow into even greater popularity in mainland China. In 2016, at 41 years old, she won the highly popular singing competition show Singer (歌手) against other established artists. She wiped the floor and proved that she’s got even more to give. Just listen to her cover of “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes and be blown away. But sadly in the last few years, life seemed to have conspired against her instead.
When I was living and working in Hong Kong as a journalist, she was the celebrity I wanted to interview the most. If I had the chance, I would have said: “Thank you for your voice. Thank you for inspiring me to sing and learn Chinese. Thank you for giving us space and expanding our possibilities.”
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Published on July 17, 2023
Words by Arthur Tam
Arthur Tam is a queer Chinese American journalist at the intersection of LGBTIQ+ politics, fashion, and pop culture. He's currently based in New York City, but spent eight years in Hong Kong working for Time Out as an editor focusing on music, fashion, film, and LGBTIQ+ issues. He's also been published in i-D Vice, The Washington Post, Quartz, Dazed and Confused and Another Magazine. When he isn't writing, he's running his Asian-inspired swimwear brand, Tight Tams.