Finding His Sound: Minyen Hsieh Reflects on Jazz, Identity, and Taiwanese Democracy
Plus, links and book club on Karissa Chen’s Homeseeking
Hello dear readers,
Many apologies for being out of touch; we’ve had some serious family health issues. We appreciate all the feedback we received on our last post, which addressed a divisive topic in Taiwan—perhaps one of the few issues in recent memory to split progressives so sharply. (The fact that it was written in English offered some degree of insulation from controversy.) We’re grateful to everyone who takes the time to read our work.
Minyen Hsieh (謝明諺) may well be the most important figure in Taiwan’s jazz and improvisational music scene today. A saxophonist, composer, and tireless performer, Hsieh has spent the past decade expanding the possibilities of what jazz can sound like in East Asia. From raw, explosive improvisations to meditative, cross-genre collaborations, his work reflects not only technical mastery but also a constantly curious openness to the world. Now in early forties, he has become a vital node in a growing transnational network of musicians spanning Taiwan, Japan, Europe, and beyond.
I (Albert) have known Minyen for over twenty years. Once upon a time, I dabbled with jazz guitar. (Don’t get any ideas—I was never that good!) One summer, after coming home from college, I heard about a late-night jam session at Riverside Music Café in Gongguan that welcomed musicians of all levels. I started showing up pretty regularly, just hanging out and soaking it all in.
One night someone called out “C Jam Blues”—a simple melody composed by Duke Ellington in 1942—and a few of us stepped up to try our hand. We fumbled through the tune—until Minyen jumped in. With confident phrasing and a fearless solo, he pulled the song into shape and made everyone on stage sound better than we were. I was in awe. Offstage, he turned out to be warm and open; we bonded over late-night dumplings, traded album recommendations, and talked about the jazz scenes in New York and Taipei. He told me his dream was to study abroad and make a life in music.
Since then, I’ve watched from afar as he’s done just that. After studying jazz in Brussels, he returned to Taiwan in 2011 and became an indefatigable presence in the local scene. Whether curating performances, mentoring younger musicians, or playing late sets in Taipei’s clubs, Minyen has helped shape a uniquely Taiwanese jazz idiom—one that’s global in reach but rooted in local experience. His sound is expansive and inclusive. He draws from hip-hop, R&B, folk, electronica, experimental theater, and traditional Taiwanese forms, and his collaborators span a dizzying range—from straight-ahead jazz quartets to free improvisers, modern dancers, and filmmakers. Since his debut album in 2014, his discography runs to eighteen albums.
We were lucky to sit down with Terry recently for an extended interview, and he was as gracious and thoughtful as ever—generous with his time, unguarded in his reflections, and expansive in the way he spoke about music, history, and politics. He shared not only his experiences as a musician, but also his evolving political consciousness, his views on music education in Taiwan, and how he sees his role in a broader cultural ecosystem. What follows is an edited and condensed version of that conversation.
At the end of the conversation, Minyen mentioned his recent collaborations with Japanese free jazz artists. We’re happy to report that he has an album, Punctum Visus - 視角, forthcoming in late June. We’re looking forward to what I’m sure will be his boldest statement yet.
If you’re ever in Taiwan and are interested in hearing some of the latest, cutting-edge stuff in jazz, please check out one of Minyen’s gigs; he plays regularly around the island.
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Albert: You moved back to Taiwan in 2011, right? Since then—over the past ten-plus years—what major changes or trends have you noticed, compared to before you went abroad or when you had just returned?
Minyen: It’s been a process of steady growth and expansion—not just in jazz, but across a bunch of other music genres too. Over the past decade, the whole “independent” or “indie” music scene (獨立音樂) in Taiwan has grown a lot. There’s been a big rise in rock bands, hip-hop, and more. Jazz here is really connected to those scenes—there’s a lot of overlap and collaboration.
In recent years, we’ve seen music festivals popping up all over Taiwan. One key reason, I think, is government support—especially through cultural policies. Institutions like the Ministry of Culture (which used to be the Council for Cultural Affairs, 文建會) and the National Culture and Arts Foundation have provided a lot of grant funding. Even though the real energy still comes from the grassroots, that government support has made a real difference.
Thanks to all this, the music scene has become vibrant; compared to before, it’s changed a lot.
Economic development in Taiwan has also played a part. I feel like things have stabilized since around 2017 or 2018, and since then, music events and cultural programs have gotten a lot more diverse.
For instance, we’ve seen big venues like the Pop Music Centers in Kaohsiung (高雄流行音樂中心) and Taipei (台北流行音樂中心) go up. While I don’t totally agree with the idea of centralizing everything into one huge complex, you can’t deny that these places have brought new opportunities and hosted a ton of events.
And then there’s the National Kaohsiung Center for the Arts (衛武營). That was one of the first national-level venues built outside of Taipei, and it’s been extremely active in organizing music-related activities.
Overall, the entire music ecosystem has grown. More people are studying music now, and jazz and pop are gradually making their way into formal education and gaining broader recognition.
Michelle: When did the government start getting behind musicians? Was it something that came about because of pressure from the grassroots? What do you think led to that shift?
Minyen: I’d say it definitely started from the bottom up. A lot of those early music events, whether in rock or the performing arts, carried this strong anti-establishment vibe. But over time, people began to realize that if you want to build something bigger and more lasting, you still need some level of public sector support.
So, some folks started applying for grants. Others even got involved in the system itself, trying to change things from the inside. Freddy Lim from the metal band Chthonic is probably the most well-known example; he got involved in cultural policy pretty early on and pushed for change.
If you look back even further, there were grassroots initiatives like music awards. Aside from the more mainstream Golden Melody Awards, there was the Golden Indie Music Award (金音獎), which a group of people launched independently. It was a response to the limitations of the Golden Melody Awards, a way to create their own standards and uplift musicians with different styles and values.
Efforts like these slowly started to influence the government and helped push forward some actual institutional changes.
Albert: You touched on how music education has shifted in the past ten years. Could you talk a bit more about what’s changed? What have you seen firsthand?
Minyen: When it comes to jazz, there were a few early pioneers who really pushed things forward—people like Shyen Lee (李賢), and the duo Chipin and Kaiya (啟彬與凱雅). Then you’ve got folks from a more recent generation, like Yuwen Peng (彭郁雯), Cheng-Yu Lee (李承育), and Stacey Wei (魏廣晧).
These people weren’t just performers or teachers; they were organizers too. They put together large-scale events, like summer jazz camps, and often collaborated with American foundations or educational organizations. That brought in a lot of international resources from the U.S. and Europe.
They also worked closely with the schools where they taught, and even with local government cultural departments. These partnerships helped formal institutions start recognizing the value of jazz.
Take the National Theater and Concert Hall (兩廳院), for instance. Before the 1990s, those kinds of venues wouldn’t touch jazz. It was still seen as lowbrow, or background music—like something you’d hear in a hotel lounge, not “serious” art.
But that’s changed. Their annual “Summer Jazz Party” (夏日爵士派對) is a great example. It started in 2003, and since then it’s become one of the longest-running programs they’ve produced in-house. It’s never been canceled. And it’s also become one of the most important jazz festivals in Asia. That shows how jazz has gradually found a place in mainstream arts and culture spaces.
On the academic side, a lot has changed, too. More and more universities in Taiwan are offering jazz-related courses. We don’t yet have full-fledged jazz departments, but most music or applied music programs now have jazz divisions. Students can now earn bachelor's and master's degrees in jazz, and some schools are even planning doctoral programs.
People like Stacey Wei, Chipin and Kaiya, and Cheng-Yu Lee were at the forefront of bringing jazz into academia. At first, it might’ve just been a few elective classes, but over time those evolved into structured programs. Now you can major in jazz, and a Ph.D. program doesn’t seem too far off.
It wasn’t easy getting there. I know in Stacey’s case, for example, he used to commute long distances every week—first to Chiayi, and now to Hualien. The pay wasn’t great, but he still did it. He understood that if you want to build something inside the system, you have to step into it first. He had a clear vision and knew it would take long-term effort.
But most importantly, there were students who wanted to learn. And when musicians see that kind of interest and passion, they start thinking about how to convince schools, venues, and institutions to step up and offer support. Through these opportunities, students can learn and grow.
That, in turn, creates more chances for local musicians or those coming back from overseas. It becomes a kind of virtuous cycle, with everyone lifting each other up.
Albert: You just mentioned that before the 1990s, jazz wasn’t even allowed at the National Concert Hall. Is that something people in the jazz community today generally know? In the U.S., jazz has this strong association with freedom and breaking with tradition. Do you think musicians in Taiwan share that kind of awareness?
Minyen: I’m not totally sure. I think a lot of people might know about it, but they probably don’t have a deep understanding—especially younger musicians. Their sense of jazz’s historical background, or how it developed in Taiwan, tends to be a bit limited.
I think that also ties into how musicians are generally seen here. In Taiwan, musicians have traditionally been treated more like performers or entertainers. As long as you’ve got gigs and steady work, that’s seen as enough. So, you don’t actually find that many musicians who are historically conscious or who actively think about that kind of context.
And I’d add that music education in Taiwan has never had a strong emphasis on history. Jazz only entered the formal education system relatively recently. So even though a lot of people want to pursue it and get involved, the system itself is still pretty young. That limits how much impact it can have right now.
In today’s world, where culture is increasingly shaped by technology, people tend to become more fragmented and isolated. That definitely affects how younger musicians engage with the arts and how they find their way into this profession. You see some musicians doing things, but they might not know why they’re doing them. There’s often a lack of connection—to society, to daily life. Not much attention gets paid to social issues or historical context.
Some people even consciously avoid politics altogether. But that ends up creating a vicious cycle: the more disconnected you are, the less you engage—and the more out of touch you become.
You brought up free jazz in the U.S., Europe, and Japan. Each of those places has a totally different musical and social history. In the U.S., free jazz was a direct protest against systemic injustice and racial oppression, taking place as a part of a broader social movement. But in Taiwan, during the 1960s and ’70s, we were still under authoritarian rule and martial law. Many cultural shifts were suppressed here. In reality, we couldn’t participate in that global wave of transformation.
That said, I do think things are starting to shift. In recent years, more jazz musicians in Taiwan have been experimenting with cross-disciplinary collaborations, including dancers, theater makers, poets, and filmmakers. These projects aren’t just about the music itself; they’re about communicating something deeper, sending a message or expressing a vision.
Just yesterday, for instance, I wrapped up a theater piece with Hung Hung (鴻鴻), who’s a director and poet. He reimagined Schubert’s Winterreise in two versions: one stayed faithful to the original German and classical form, and the other featured new lyrics in Taiwanese, which we reinterpreted through jazz.
The original is about someone heartbroken, walking into the winter night toward death. Hung Hung’s version turned that into a story about “the spirits of animals on the eve of the apocalypse.” It’s a reflection on war, injustice, and the deep sense of loneliness and emptiness we often feel today. This piece speaks to our current social climate in a powerful way.
Projects like this push us beyond just technical skill. They remind us that music isn’t only about sounding good or showing off a flashy solo. It’s not just about playing notes. It’s about the full performance—the whole work—conveying meaning, taking a stance. And through working with artists from other disciplines, we’re reminded of why this matters. It’s about expression, connection, and making people feel something real.
Albert: It seems like you’re always trying to connect music with broader social issues—and doing so from a very local, Taiwan-centered perspective. Would you say that way of thinking is still pretty rare?
Minyen: If we’re just talking about the jazz scene, then yes, I’d say it’s relatively rare. But if you broaden the view to include the wider music scene—especially rock and indie—then it’s a different story. There are quite a few artists who are socially conscious, and some are even more radical and outspoken in how they express their views.
Of course, there’s also a big chunk of the industry that’s focused on the Chinese market. And that’s understandable—it’s a huge market. But it means a lot of artists will steer clear of sensitive topics or even self-censor to keep that access open. That’s actually pretty common in Taiwan too.
I recently scored a documentary produced by Taiwan Plus. It’s about how Chinese censorship affects Taiwanese music, and they used one of my compositions in the soundtrack. For me, that felt like a small way to participate in these broader social conversations.
But on the business side—like when I work as a sideman—I have to consider the needs of the group or the lead artist. If they plan to perform in China, and my political stance could put them at risk, then I need to be careful. That’s actually one reason I didn’t share much political content on social media after the Sunflower Movement. I’ve always felt it’s important to draw that line—keep my personal life and my online presence somewhat separate. It also helps avoid trolls and AI bots. Honestly, if you want a glimpse into my daily life, it probably shows up more on my wife’s Facebook wall. [We all laugh]
These days, I’m a lot more intentional about the choices I make. Especially in the past few years, I’ve often turned down collaboration offers that involve going to China—or even to Hong Kong.
Albert: What’s your take on how the younger generation of musicians approaches politics these days?
Minyen: I think it varies. Some musicians are politically indifferent—they feel like whatever they say or do won’t make a difference. But then you’ve got others who are incredibly outspoken and fearless, especially in the hip-hop scene. Some even work as political aides or are deeply involved in activism.
In general, I think a lot of it comes down to which generation you’re from. I was born in the 1980s, and I lived through the last years of martial law. The education system and overall social atmosphere back then were totally different from what young people today have experienced. They grew up in a democracy, so there’s a kind of desensitization to certain issues—but at the same time, you also see they’re more willing to speak up and challenge things. There’s a different kind of boldness.
Albert: You mentioned being born in the 1980s. Did you realize early on that music played a role in Taiwan’s democratization? Or was that something you came to understand later?
Minyen: If we’re talking about a real political awakening, I’d say that came during the Sunflower Movement in 2014. Sure, I had some background knowledge before that—I’d read plenty about Taiwan’s history. But that moment made everything feel real. Suddenly, it wasn’t just books or theory. People—young people, students—were out there taking real action. Teenagers, people in their early twenties, putting themselves on the line.
That shook me. You can read and care all you want, but seeing people show up like that—it just hits differently.
I remember spending a lot of time outside the Legislative Yuan during the movement. Sometimes I’d bring my instrument and play near the edges of the protest. It was a way for me to participate, but also to observe. That experience helped me clarify where I stood and what I wanted to express through music.
Music was a significant part of the Sunflower Movement in 2014. This was one of the iconic songs that emerged out of the period.
Michelle: Could you tell us a little more about your political awareness before Sunflower?
Minyen: The school I went to as a kid was an experimental one—an alternative, non-traditional setup. That had a big impact on me. It exposed me early on to more liberal and diverse values, which definitely shaped how I think.
My grandfather was also a major intellectual influence. He was born during the Japanese colonial period, and even though his family didn’t have much, he loved to read. He often gave me books about Taiwan’s history.
The stories in those books were completely different from what I was learning in school. I remember asking, “Why don’t the textbooks mention any of this?” That made me start questioning what real history is—and who gets to decide what’s remembered and what’s left out.
Those reflections deepened even more when I went abroad to study. When you leave Taiwan and immerse yourself in another culture, you start rethinking where you come from—your land, your language, your history.
And after coming back, I became even more conscious of those questions. That’s when I started thinking about how to express all of those feelings and reflections through music.
Albert: So how did the Sunflower Movement actually affect your music? Did your style or expression change?
Minyen: I think in subtle ways. I became more and more certain—more grounded in who I am. Like I mentioned earlier, my stance on politics and society has become much clearer over time. And I think that clarity has gradually shaped how I play, whether I’m performing my own music or working on someone else’s project.
When you’re improvising, a key question is: How do I clearly say what I want to say? What’s the phrase I really want to play? I can hear all the sounds, I know the chords and the harmonic structure—but how do I choose what I want to play? What’s my sound, my idea?
I’ve grown more confident in that. I no longer feel the need to strictly follow the changes or adhere to the structure. I’ll play a sound because that’s what I want to express. That sense of conviction comes from having a clear stance and a deeper understanding of society and history.
It’s funny—my first album, Firry Path, came out the same year as the Sunflower Movement. I was revisiting some of those recordings on the tenth anniversary of its birth. It brought up a lot of memories. When I listen back, I realize now that I lacked confidence. I second-guessed everything. I wasn’t sure about any of the tracks—I’d do multiple takes and just pick the one that felt barely acceptable.
Post-production was endless. We kept adjusting the EQ, reworking rhythms—it was such a cautious, tentative process.
But by the time I released my 2018 album As Good as Water (《上善若水》), everything had changed. That album is mostly improvised, and during the recording sessions, I knew exactly what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. Listening back, I felt like I could’ve used almost any take. I trusted myself. I trusted the moment.
And that confidence didn’t come from technical improvement, but rather from self-knowledge. From knowing why I play the way I do.
That’s what jazz demands from you. It asks you to speak your own language in real time. It’s not about following a theoretical formula; it’s about fully believing in the phrase or sound you’re putting out there.
And I think that’s closely tied to political consciousness and historical awareness. The more you read, the more you experience, the harder it becomes for others to shake you. You get better at finding your own rhythm, even in chaotic situations.
And that shows up in the music.
When I was younger, I thought I had to change the world—and that I could somehow do it on my own. But over time, I’ve realized that whether we’re talking about politics or music, you’re never doing it alone. You’re just one person in a much bigger environment, playing one role in a larger community. It’s the same with Taiwan’s jazz scene. If I’m the only one doing well, that means nothing. Real change happens when the whole ecosystem grows—when everyone thrives, the space improves.
So now my focus has shifted. I try to do what I can, what I’m good at, and what I believe in—and I try to turn that into something others can learn from or build on. If someone sees a show I curated or listens to one of my albums and thinks, “Oh, I didn’t know you could do it that way,” maybe that sparks something in them. Maybe they’ll go on to create something even more true to who they are.
That ripple effect—that’s what I find most meaningful. It’s not just about technique; it’s about transmitting a certain attitude. One person can’t change everything, but one person can help others see what’s possible. These days, I’m much more aware that, in both music and politics, I’m just one part of a bigger wave. I try to do my part well and live a joyful life. Sometimes that’s traveling, eating something delicious, or listening to music I love. Those moments matter too.
Michelle: How do you envision music as a part of transitional justice?
Minyen: It's absolutely a part, though this depends on the kind of music we’re talking about.
Music with lyrics can work a lot like literature or film; it can tell stories, make a point, even call people to action. But even instrumental music, which might not seem political on the surface, can still move people deeply. It can spark thought or shift emotions in ways that words sometimes can’t.
People often say, “Music can change the world.” I think the real change happens when music moves people—and then those people go out and make change. That’s how music influences society: by touching something in our humanity.
Instrumental music might be more abstract, and not everyone connects with it in the same way. But for those who do, it can create this powerful internal shift.
That said, music alone isn’t enough. For real transitional justice to happen, we need actual participation: conversations, protests, reading, listening to people’s stories. It’s in those human connections that true transformation begins.
Michelle: It seems like you knew you were going to study abroad. But did you know you were coming back to Taiwan? Why did you decide to come back?
Minyen: Before I left for Europe, I hadn’t planned on staying in Taiwan permanently. But then I met my wife, and, at the same time, discovered this exciting world of cross-disciplinary collaborations. Suddenly there was so much to do.
I’d been living abroad for six years, and honestly, I was just tired. I wanted to come back to somewhere familiar, somewhere that felt like home. Beyond music, I felt this urge to do something here, to find meaning in the place I’m from. I also wanted to be closer to family. My grandparents were aging, and my parents too. Every time I came back to visit, I could see how much they had changed, and I didn’t want to be so far away anymore.
Around that time, I also started building connections with Japan’s free music scene. Their jazz scene is way more mature than Taiwan’s. When I first started performing there, I approached it as a student, as a kind of training ground.
Those early gigs were all self-funded—I lost money almost every time. But the experience was incredibly valuable. What struck me was the respect Japanese musicians showed us, especially when they found out we were from Taiwan. They were genuinely curious and interested in our background.
As I got to know more people there, many of them told me they envied Taiwan’s energy and freedom. They felt like Japan had become stagnant—socially, economically—while Taiwan still had this sense of potential, and a lot of young people with drive. That moved me. It reminded me that we do still have so much to work toward. And I hope that through the work our generation is doing now, we can help the next generation see more hope, more possibility.
Michelle: What’s your earliest musical memory?
Minyen: Probably my mom singing to us. She used to make up lyrics and sing about whatever was happening in our daily life—riding the bus, caterpillars, little things like that. It was so natural and playful.
Looking back, I think that improvisational creativity was something special. It planted a seed early on—an appreciation for expressing yourself through music without needing to follow the rules.
Some links
Helen Davidson’s thoroughly researched piece in The Guardian reports on controversies related to Chinese ID holders in Taiwan.
Replying to our most recent piece, the historian James Lin writes the following:
The Yaya case exemplifies the balancing act for Taiwan between attempting to nurture a social democracy and the expectation to exert its contested sovereignty. Sara Friedman's book Exceptional States captures this well. This is a book I assign every year in my Taiwan grad seminar, and one that I think excels at showing the interactions between law and society. The book is an ethnography of PRC spouses of Taiwanese citizens. It shows how these individuals are often caught between a legal regime shaped by a Taiwanese nation that must incorporate both the spouses of citizens and ethnic Chinese—who, under the ROC, were historically extended the right to citizenship—while simultaneously asserting its own nationhood. The result is a legal regime that treats spouses of PRC citizens with extraordinary suspicion.
Read our interview with jazz educator and musician Victor Lin, who believes that “everyone in the world is musical.”
Read responses to our interview with Victor, including thoughts from jazz musician Peter Lin, Jacob Hamburger, and Albert.
Will Buckingham and Hannah Stevens are releasing an exciting book that translates stories between Gaelic, English, Mandarin and Taiwanese. Published by Wind&Bones Books, Tâigael is a first-of-its-kind collaborative writing and translation project, bringing together writers from Scotland and Taiwan, to explore language, translation and culture.
Book Club: Karissa Chen’s Homeseeking
For our next book club, we’ll be talking about Karissa Chen’s Homeseeking, an ambitious novel that tells the story of two childhood sweethearts in Shanghai, the migration of Chinese soldiers to Taiwan, and the tragedy of family separation. We'll be meeting online Friday, June 6th at 7 PM EST / Saturday June 7th at 7 AM (Taiwan time). If you’re in Taipei, you can get a copy of your book at Bookman Books.