Category: CISA

Technically, the hardest part is matching the tempos, textures, and keys of a bunch of already heavily processed audio samples. These clips weren’t made to go together. Some are over-compressed TikTok audio grabs, others are chopped-up Vocaloid vocals. Stitching them together without making it sound like a total car crash takes way more effort than you’d expect.

But beyond that, the real challenge is cultural: Language and meme barriers.

A meme remix doesn’t really work if you don’t get the original meme.
It’s like trying to enjoy an inside joke you were never part of.

So when I’m stacking together “来财” remixes or looping “娜艺娜” like a chant, I know that for a lot of people—especially non-Chinese audiences—it just sounds like noise. Without knowing the background, the livestreams, the joke formats, or the tone shifts, none of the playfulness comes through.

Even some of my Chinese classmates only find it funny because they’ve seen these sounds on Douyin a hundred times already. The humor and appeal of this kind of music is totally embedded in context.

That makes this kind of remixing super localized. It’s hard to “translate” it without over-explaining the joke (and killing it in the process).

That difficulty is actually part of why I wanted to do this.

It reminded me of another bigger issue: China’s complicated relationship with electronic music.

In the 1990s, electronic music entered China in a weird way. Instead of coming from underground clubs or experimental art scenes, it kind of exploded via mass-produced, low-budget, offbeat dance tracks made from workers who lost their jobs. Factories pumped out CDs of cheesy techno loops and 8-bit melodies with no structure, no dynamics—just relentless repetition.

And people loved it.
Because it was new. And loud. And cheap.

Fast forward to today, and that legacy is still here.
Millions of people, especially from working-class or rural backgrounds who never had access to music education or aesthetic training, still resonate with that kind of “crude” electronic sound.

You hear it everywhere:

• The “DJ版本” (DJ versions) of pop songs
• Sped-up and slowed-down edits with glitchy reverb
• Gaudy mashups on Douyin that blast bass with no mix balance

It’s easy to dismiss it as “土味” (tǔ wèi – tacky or unsophisticated taste), but it’s also real. It reflects how sound and technology have developed in a specific socio-economic context.

To some, these tracks are a joke. To others, they’re a party. And to a small minority, they’re actual art? That tension is what I’m playing with.

By making my own “拼好歌” out of remixed memes, I’m not just joking around. I’m also trying to channel that feeling of something that’s both trash and precious, cringe and catchy, hyper-local but weirdly global at the same time.

For my creative audio project, I’ve decided to make a “拼好歌” Track with Only Remixed Memes sound.

I set myself a rule:
I can only use already-remixed audio.
That means I’m not allowed to sample the original version of any meme song or sound effect. I can only sample versions that have already been remixed, reposted, sped-up, mashed-up, or glitched out by internet users.

The goal is to create something that sounds like a chaotic “拼好歌” (more on that term in a second)—messy, noisy, meme-heavy—but also weirdly catchy and somewhat listenable.

Basically: high-effort low-quality.

In recent Chinese short video culture (especially on Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok), 拼好歌 (pīn hǎo gē) has become a joking term for mash-up tracks that sound aggressively DIY. These are usually created by amateur users who stack meme sounds and remixed vocals on top of each other, often without much concern for things like harmony, rhythm, or clarity. But that’s part of the appeal—they’re intentionally messy, meme-saturated, and made to sound viral.

They often include recognizable meme voices, sped-up audio, heavily compressed samples, and random drops or transitions that feel more chaotic than musical. Yet somehow, when done right, they slap.

Instead of composing or sound designing from scratch, I’m collecting recent viral audio memes from Douyin, focusing on samples that have already been remixed by others. Some of my main source material includes:

1. 来财 (lái cái) 

This is the central meme for my track. Originally from a Chinese song with the lyrics “来财啦!” (meaning “money’s coming!”), it became a viral sound because of its upbeat, slightly ridiculous energy. In remix culture, people have turned it into all kinds of versions: trap beats, eurobeat remixes, vocal chops, even chipmunk-style edits.

2. Hatsune Miku sings ‘Lái cái’

Someone took the vocaloid voice of Hatsune Miku (the iconic Japanese virtual singer) and made her sing the “来财” lyrics. It’s absurd but very on-brand for remix culture, and it adds that artificial, synthesized voice texture I want.

3. 娜艺娜 (Nà yì nà) 

Na Yi Na (那艺娜) is a Chinese internet personality who became famous for her exaggerated live-streaming performances. She’s known for her dramatic, over-the-top style—often singing loudly, wearing flashy outfits, and acting in eccentric ways to attract attention. While some find her entertaining, others criticize her content as chaotic or low-quality. Her fame reflects China’s unique online entertainment culture

4. Tung tung tung sahur

“Tung Tung Tung Sahur” is originally from a viral Indonesian Ramadan clip (as mentioned earlier),A man was recording his pre-dawn meal (sahur) when his spoon accidentally hit the bowl three times—“tung tung tung!”—making a rhythmic sound. The clip became a meme because it was unexpectedly catchy, and people remixed it into songs, jokes, and even dance challenges. But it was later adopted by “American Shan Hai Jing” (美国山海经), a fictional internet persona parodying mythical creatures. This character humorously claims to be a “documentary” (sic) about U.S. folklore, mixing absurdity with AI generated images. (【tung tung tung tung sahur 4k高清版】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1XGdmYvEgf/?share_source=copy_web&vd_source=64cf0bbbe19e5dbc407cface6e4090a9)

The meme became popular because of its randomness—imagine someone pretending to be a “monster” from American legends while shouting the spoon-banging sound.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how remix culture in China has evolved—especially when it comes to short videos.

I remember back when longer videos were more common (YouTube-style vlog culture or multi-part parody videos on platforms like Bilibili). Back then, one of the most distinct genres in Chinese internet culture was 鬼畜 (guǐ chù). It’s a hard term to translate, but it’s kind of like an intense remix video genre that cuts and repeats a person’s speech or movements until they’re rhythmically musical, often turning serious or mundane footage into something ridiculous and catchy. Think of it as a chaotic cross between autotune remix culture and meme edits, but with a very specific Chinese flavor—fast cuts, glitchy visual effects, looping phrases, and a certain absurdity that feels both lovingly mocking and totally over-the-top.

But now, with short-form video platforms like Douyin (aka TikTok in China) taking over, that longer, more detailed editing style is kind of fading. Instead, there’s a whole new wave of “remix” happening—one that’s faster, simpler, and optimized for virality.

One of the biggest reasons for this shift is 剪映 (Jiǎn yìng), a free mobile video editing app developed by Bytedance (the same company behind TikTok/Douyin). It’s so easy to use that almost anyone can create a half-decent short video, even with no editing experience. And what’s really interesting is that it comes with a huge built-in library of sound effects and background music—completely free, totally ready-to-use.

This has made editing super accessible—but it’s also made a lot of videos sound… the same.

There’s this one sound effect, for example, known as “叮咚鸡 (dīng dōng jī)”, which is one of the most typical track of the remix phenomenon that every element people laughed at was stitched in the song. (【叮咚鸡完整版】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1b76zYKEdW/?share_source=copy_web&vd_source=64cf0bbbe19e5dbc407cface6e4090a9) It’s often used in videos to signify something going “viral” or “successful” or “profitable” in a kind of exaggerated, silly way. It’s everywhere now. Like, everywhere.

Then there’s the explosion of something people are calling “来财 remix (lái cái remix)”. “来财” literally means “incoming wealth,” and the remix is based on a sped-up and glitched version of a song that repeats that phrase over and over. It’s loud, intense, and often layered with all kinds of other random sound bites—sometimes people’s voices, sometimes cartoon effects, sometimes just weird noise. These remixes are often made by users with minimal tools, stacking loops on top of each other until it feels like an over-saturated mess of energy. It’s chaotic but kind of addictive.

People jokingly call these “拼好歌 (pīn hǎo gē)”, which translates roughly to “stitched-together songs” or “assembly-ready songs.” They’re not polished or professionally mixed, but that’s part of the charm. They sound like someone just mashed a bunch of viral clips together in the most absurd way possible. And they often go viral themselves.

What’s fascinating is that people both make fun of these trends and totally participate in them. In comment sections you’ll see things like: “This is brainwashing,”The line between critique and enjoyment completely blurs.

So while ghostly, elaborate “鬼畜” edits might be fading a bit, they’ve left behind this DNA of repetition, absurdity, and remix logic that’s now thriving in a new, shorter form. The tools are different, the attention spans are shorter, and the sound libraries are more standardized—but the instinct to remix, to play with sound and meaning, to turn speech into music and jokes into rhythms, is still very much alive.

This week in guest lecture Joe Banks mentioned EVP—Electronic Voice Phenomena—which, I‘ve only seen from Annie’s work before. The idea is that you can sometimes capture ghost voices on audio recordings, like, actual voices that weren’t there when the recording was made.

What I found really interesting was how EVP isn’t just about ghosts. It’s also about how we listen, and how much we want to hear something. It reminded me a lot of how Annie’s practice explores how sound carries memory, presence, and absence. The voice becomes fragile, stretched, or filtered through other materials, until it’s barely recognizable.

This made me realize they both deal with a kind of haunted listening. Not necessarily spooky ghosts, but more like the feeling that something or someone is almost there. Or maybe used to be. There’s always a bit of uncertainty. And maybe that’s the point.

Joe said something like, listeners would restore completely distorted sounds to language, and this “groundless meaning” is precisely the core mechanism of EVP auditory hallucinations. It makes me wonder how much of what we hear is shaped by our consciousness. With EVP, maybe people aren’t hearing the dead—they’re just projecting. But even so, that act of listening-with-intent becomes meaningful in itself.

When I was first asked to come up with a practice-research question, one idea immediately came to mind: the Tuhai-derived culture. Before short-video platforms became mainstream, back when I was still in middle school, my favorite place on the internet was Bilibili—often described as the Chinese equivalent of YouTube. But Bilibili is much more than that. It is deeply embedded in niche subcultures, attracting users of all ages and interests.

It might sound odd, but apart from my peers, my dad is also a huge fan of Bilibili. One of his favorite series is a bizarre documentary where a man cooks rare, even borderline illegal, ingredients for his local community. On the other hand, one of my long-abandoned dreams was to become a Bilibili uploader (commonly known as “UP主”) specializing in a uniquely Chinese video genre: Guichu (鬼畜).

Guichu, literally translated as “ghostly livestock,” is a remix genre that originated on Bilibili. It features rapid-fire edits, pitch-shifted speech, rhythmic repetition, and absurdist humor. The genre draws heavily from Japanese MAD (Music Anime Douga) culture, where fans remix existing media into stylized, music-video-like formats. On Bilibili, Guichu videos are not only comedic but often function as satire and political commentary, capturing the platform’s countercultural spirit.

Unlike YouTube, Bilibili is famous for its danmu (弹幕)—real-time, user-generated comments that scroll across the screen as the video plays. This feature creates a collective viewing experience, as if you’re watching the video live with thousands of others. It transforms passive watching into an active, communal event, making the humor and reactions feel more immediate and shared.

One of my favorite Guichu videos comes from a creator I used to follow religiously. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier and the highly contextual humor, non-Chinese speakers (and even some native speakers) often struggle to understand the jokes. Yet that’s part of what makes it so special—the blend of cultural specificity, remix aesthetics, and community-driven creativity.

【【高能Rap】你从未看过的家有儿女】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1fs411t7EK/?share_source=copy_web&vd_source=64cf0bbbe19e5dbc407cface6e4090a9