The authentic life: Li Ronghao and Li Bai
Courtesy of Felix Fuchs
In Li Ronghao’s song "Li Bai," we are presented with a satirical portrayal of an artist. The one who believes themselves a misunderstood genius, harboring disdain for the common unrefined ways of the masses. The type of person you meet easily online. So while the song critiques modern pretentiousness and self-delusion, beneath the satire lies a broader reflection on the struggles of contemporary life, where societal expectations and personal identity often clash. This is the struggle of young people today, in China, in Korea, and many other parts of the world. That it can be expressed so wonderfully in a pop-rock song is testament to the continued importance of art, irrespective of how many views or commercial success it achieves.
The influence
Li Bai is generally known as the "Immortal Poet," famous for his flamboyant personality and love of wine. He cultivated an image of a wandering, free-spirited artist, often rejecting societal conventions, and blending moments of intoxicated joy with reflections on the impermanence of life. His disdain for court politics and his eccentric behavior limited his political success but he cared not, focusing instead on a Taoist way of life surrounded by nature, mountains, and, in particular, his favorite drinking partner: the moon. Even his death comes to us in a romantic fashion: According to one story, he drowned while attempting to embrace the moon’s reflection in a river, a fitting end!
What’s most interesting to me about Li Bai is that if I speak to a young Chinese person, they will often be able to recite some of his work. In particular, “Thinking on a Quiet Night” normally rolls off the tongue of most as easily as their VPN-accessed Insta accounts. That particular work goes like this: “The moon is bright before my bed. Making the ground look white like frost. I raise my head and look at the bright moon. I lower my head and think of my hometown.” Another popular one is “Drinking alone under the moon.” That one begins thus: “Amidst the flowers, a jug of wine. Drinking alone without my kin. I raise my cup at the bright moon. The moon, me, and my shadow have become three people. But the moon doesn’t know the joy of drinking, and my shadow just follows my body. Yet the moon and my shadow are now my companions. A joy that can last to springtime!” Beyond ideology, this is a culture in which university students can recite Taoist poetry. And then creates popular rock songs with this as the theme.
The song
The artist in Li Ronghao’s song wants to live like Li Bai, indulging in drinking and escapism, while simultaneously looking down on those who partake in the same behavior. A duality easily seen in modern society, where many try to cultivate an image of sophistication and culture, their social media stories filled with Espresso martinis and over-priced steak dinners, while far too often at odds with the realities of their own lives. There is a collective yearning to transcend the mundane — even if it means adopting a veneer of pretense.
The first verse has the artist view his interactions with the world not as genuine engagement but as research for his poetry, a way to understand the vulgarities of the masses from an imagined pedestal of superiority. Whether it’s attending events that one doesn’t fully understand or sharing quotes from foreign movies online, the act of appearing cultured can overshadow genuine personal growth.
The second verse focuses on the “drunk virtuoso poet.” The grand exit from a bar intended as a romantic moment of nonchalance backfires when he vomits from overindulgence. Yet even this act is reframed in his mind as artistic — the vomit resembling a watercolor painting. This absurd reinterpretation underscores the lengths to which people go to maintain a sense of superiority, even in moments of failure. From the pressure to achieve outward success to the necessity of “saving face,” the polished narrative often takes precedence over the truth.
The ultimate fantasy
I’ve written before how many in Asia talk of past lives, of “inyeon,” and meeting again in their next time around the universe. Coming from a Western culture, I was often quick to brush off such comments until I realized how frequently they can appear in coffee shop chats or literature and art. While people probably don’t literally believe such ideas, they have the words and references through which to express them. And so the chorus of Li Ronghao’s track reveals the artist’s ultimate fantasy: to be reborn as Li Bai!! To experience life as a great poet, immune to the judgments that ordinary people face. To be Taoist. To be celebrated for art and a non-conformist lifestyle rather than the etiquette and achievement society pushes at us. The relentless pursuit of excellence, academic achievements and professional milestones. Who will ever write poems about them? Who will remember those ideas in 1,000 years? But to be a poet! To drink and speak ambiguously. To abandon all social norms and live free from the oppressive chains of the social gaze. What courage that would take.
What makes the song’s satire so much fun is its relatability. We’ve all encountered the persona it critiques, or perhaps as in my case during my Hemmingway and Hunter S. Thompson inspired 30s, embodied. The condescension toward the normie at the bar coupled with the self-aggrandizing fantasies is a reminder of how easy it is to fall into the trap of self-delusion. In modern life, where societal pressures often demand a delicate balance between individuality and conformity, the tension can be overwhelming. Burnout, isolation and a yearning for authenticity pervade the collective consciousness. The pursuit of distinction, whether through artistic endeavors or material success, can then lead to isolation and disconnection from the very community one seeks to impress. This is the paradox we tussle with daily.
The rebellion of “Mono No Aware”
Perhaps the lesson is not to strive for perfection or recognition but to embrace the messiness of life with honesty and humility. To question the personas we construct and the values we prioritize. Li Bai’s poetry reminds us that life’s most profound moments are often found in fleeting beauty. In the “mono no aware” — a reflection in a moonlit river, a cup of wine shared with friends, or a spontaneous burst of creativity.
In a society as fast-paced and densely populated as Korea’s, carving out moments for reflection or expression can feel like an act of rebellion. But this rebellion, as Li Bai’s life suggests, is often the birthplace of greatness. Just as the poet drank with the moon instead of pursuing political favor, in the modern world we might find solace in small acts of defiance against the relentless grind — a late-night walk along the Han River, a sketchbook filled with unpolished drawings, or a song sung only for oneself.
Li Bai, for all his genius, was human. He stumbled, he faltered, and he failed. Yet, it is precisely this humanity that endears him to us centuries later. In a world that often demands perfection, Koreans might take comfort in the idea that life’s worth lies not in its flawless execution but in its authenticity (and in the reality of the vomit).
David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.