Rocking Boundaries: Made-in-China Feminism and an All-Female Chinese Band in Tokyo
In the Chinese music scene, women have traditionally been confined to roles embodying elegance and obedience. This is exemplified by groups such as the 12 Girls Band, whose success, built on performing traditional instruments such as the guzheng (古筝) and pipa (琵琶), aligns with societal expectations of femininity, reinforcing Confucian stereotypes of Chinese women as ornamental and prioritising cultural commodification over artistic autonomy (Yung and Saffle 2010).
Similarly, China’s rock music market has been overwhelmingly male dominated, influencing everything from cultural narratives and themes to audience expectations and industry representation. Women in rock are often marginalised as passive admirers of male success or relegated to supporting roles that facilitate male musicians’ creative visions, rather than being recognised as legitimate creators in their own right (Larsen 2017). This imbalance is stark: as of 2020, about 70 per cent of music artists with official accounts on Chinese online platforms were male (Lai 2023). Female rock musicians, catering to male audience preferences, are frequently expected to project a ‘sexy’ yet ‘non-confrontational’ stereotype. For instance, the band South Acid MiMi Dance Team (南方酸性咪咪领舞队) found themselves with show posters on which they were labelled as ‘Girl band!’ or ‘Hot girls playing electronic music!’—descriptions that emphasise their appearance, not their music (Chen 2016). Conversely, male musicians are readily associated with the ‘authenticity’ of rock culture and celebrated for their individualism and rebellion. This disparity is further entrenched by market preferences that prioritise male-oriented content, both domestically and internationally. Additionally, systemic biases within the industry exacerbate these challenges, with female musicians often reporting experiences of gender discrimination.
Against this backdrop, the emergence of all-female bands in China—from the pioneering Cobra (眼镜蛇), the first all-female rock band in the country to achieve fame, to the newly established FloruitShow (福禄寿), who gained prominence through the online reality music show The Big Band (乐队的夏天)—marks a subtle yet significant disruption of gender norms in the music industry. However, the success of many of these groups is often tied to contracts with established rock music companies, which grant them professional management but at the same time subject them to market-driven narratives. By contrast, there exists a cohort of grassroots all-female bands that operate without corporate backing, relying on limited resources to navigate challenges such as gendered expectations of female musicians and to craft narratives that resist the dominance of the male gaze in China’s rock music industry.
This essay examines the story of one such group based in Tokyo, Iceless, an all-female grassroots band comprising four young professionals who were born and raised in China before graduating from prestigious Japanese universities. Through their experience of operating a rock band in a diasporic setting while targeting audiences in mainland China, I explore how Chinese women are negotiating spaces in a genre once defined by masculinity, transforming rock music into a possible medium for feminist expression. To contextualise these dynamics, the next section examines the theoretical framework of Made-in-China feminism (also known by its shorthand, ‘C-fem’).
‘Made-in-China’ Feminism and the Increasing Exposure of Women’s Voices
As proposed by Wu and Dong (2019), C-fem reimagines feminist politics in China by disrupting political, economic, and cultural orders simultaneously. C-feminists critique two key strands in Chinese feminism. The first, rooted in liberal perspectives, views Chinese feminism as rights-based activism against state authoritarianism. This is exemplified by the anti-harassment and street-based advocacy of the ‘Feminist Five’, the five activists who in 2015 were detained for planning a protest against sexual harassment on public transportation. The second, often associated with a neo-left camp, critiques the first strand for neglecting issues of class and systemic inequality, arguing that such feminism often mirrors neoliberal capitalist values rather than addressing deeper social and economic injustices in the context of mainland China (Huang 2016). Against this backdrop, C-fem seeks a more nuanced approach that balances subtlety with insistence on public gender discourse, often using indirect forms such as cultural media.
As feminism continues to develop in China, the struggles and life choices of young female professionals in urban areas have garnered increasing attention in both online activism and cultural production (see, for instance, Xianzi 2021; Yang 2023). While often perceived as privileged due to their job security and middle-class status, these women bear disproportionate societal expectations related to family and reproduction compared with their male counterparts. Men are often encouraged to focus on career development during their twenties and thirties—without fear of devaluation in either the marriage or the labour markets—whereas women face intense pressures from their ‘ticking biological clocks’, which underscore the reproductive urgency and possible age discrimination in the workplace (Chi and Li 2014).
The association between womanhood and motherhood is deeply rooted in Confucian and patriarchal traditions, which regard women’s ultimate success as achieving marriage and children (Gui 2020). Despite these norms, a noticeable shift has emerged in urban China, where marriage rates and birth intentions are steadily declining. In 2022, the national marriage rate dropped to a historic low of 4.8 per 1,000 people, and birthrates fell to the lowest levels in decades, resulting in the first population decline in more than 60 years (Richter 2023). Alongside these shifts, gender inequality discussions are gaining prominence in cultural spaces within the country. For instance, female comedians are increasingly addressing previously sidelined topics—such as menstruation, body shaming, and the preference for male offspring—bringing these discussions into mainstream entertainment and content creation.
Nevertheless, as debates about C-fem suggest, it is crucial to contextualise these trends—such as the apparent increase in agency over marriage decisions and the seemingly more open environment for feminist expression—within the broader sociocultural dynamics of mainland China. A key factor shaping how apparent demographic shifts or feminist themes are presented in cultural spaces such as reality shows and music is the subtle, yet pervasive censorship enforced not directly by the state, but by private platforms (Yang 2023; Amar 2020). Censorship is often enforced through mechanisms such as content moderation on cultural products and surveillance. Occasionally, this is accompanied by direct intervention by the state in the form of repression of feminist activists or nongovernmental organisations deemed a threat to social stability (Yang 2021).
These censorship dynamics differ in diasporic settings, particularly in Western countries. For example, in contexts like the United States, content creators using Mandarin as their main language face alternative forms of regulation, such as platform moderation, audience backlash, and cultural stigma (Prager 2019). These diasporic content creators who target the mainland Chinese markets remain bound by local cultural expectations within China while also engaging with feminist discourses in international settings, navigating a delicate balance between these influences (Shi and Hazel 2019). This is the case for Iceless, to whose journey as a diasporic band writing lyrics targeting a Chinese-speaking audience, performing in Tokyo’s underground scene, and promoting their music in mainland China I now turn.
Diasporic Agency and Feminist Rock: The Case of Iceless
The four members of Iceless relocated from China to Tokyo to pursue higher education at prestigious Japanese universities. After graduation, they secured stable employment in fields such as business, IT, and academia, leveraging their fluency in Japanese and professional expertise to achieve financial independence and visa stability. Unlike peers who did not engage in transnational mobility or returned to China after completing their studies, these women showed enhanced agency by facing and overcoming the everyday challenges of both studying abroad and building independent professional careers in a foreign country.
The formation of the band Iceless in 2024 represents another deliberate manifestation of this agency. Balancing full-time careers with their passion for music, they write songs, practise skills, and perform during their off-work hours. Their lyrics, written in Chinese, target Chinese-speaking audiences in China, Japan, and globally. According to two founding members, Q and H, the motivations for forming the band were simply to ‘play the music we like’ (玩自己喜欢的音乐) or because they thought ‘it’s cool’ (因为酷). Most of their earliest songs (until the time of my interview with them in November 2024) have been lyrical pieces reflecting on themes such as the monotony of urban working life, with the only exception so far being a fast-paced track with strong beats that tackles gender themes, ‘Security and Cleaning Staff Protecting Silly Bear Paradise’ (保安保洁保卫笨笨熊乐园).
The lyric-writing process for this song, with its nursery rhyme–like title, evolved from intuitively creating a text aligned with the melodies to strategically addressing gender themes. Iceless envisioned the song as both ‘cool to play’ and potentially ‘controversial’, mindful of the risk that it could be interpreted as overly radical and against social harmony (社会和谐). As the initial lyric writer, Q did not explicitly touch on gender themes but chose to depict a dystopian fantasy land as a metaphor for a society constrained by overt surveillance and deeply entrenched social norms. In her original lyrics, this place is inhabited by ‘strawberry rabbits’ serving as cleaning staff and ‘creamy bears’ acting as security personnel, all dedicated to upholding social harmony and stability above all else. The inhabitants are compelled to ‘discard their dreams and talents’ and endure a never-ending cycle of reproduction. While Q refrained from explicitly linking this dystopian society to any specific system, she believed that the song’s message would resonate with audiences who experience similar constraints in their own lives, no matter in what context.
Q told me that writing lyrics about this dystopian fantasy land was made easier by her diasporic position, which offered her the capabilities and space to reflect on social issues she once considered untouchable. The reasons for this are varied. First, unlike her experiences in China, she found it easier in Tokyo to connect with like-minded Chinese-speaking groups—especially women—who shared her perspectives on gender inequality in East Asian societies as well as musical preferences. This diasporic setting not only provided her with a network of supportive peers but also created an environment in which she felt emboldened to experiment with themes that elsewhere might be deemed politically sensitive. While Japan is also a society marked by gender inequalities, including disparities in income and social status (Hara 2018), Q emphasised the unique sense of freedom she experienced as a foreigner living in Tokyo. Her outsider status placed her beyond Japan’s entrenched gender norms, while the physical and psychological distance from China allowed her to step away from traditional expectations of womanhood and family roles. This dual detachment empowered her to approach themes with greater boldness, including topics that subtly critique societal constraints.
However, the lyrics soon changed as the other band members chimed in. H, the keyboardist and a business owner who also manages the band’s marketing, admired Q’s ability to craft literary and nuanced lyrics that seamlessly aligned with the melodies. However, she felt that the original metaphorical and ambiguous approach might not resonate effectively with audiences who may lack Q’s perspective in connecting a dark fairytale to real-world social issues. After several rounds of negotiation, H convinced the others to adopt a more direct approach, zooming in on the struggles women face in traditional patriarchal marriage. The reworked lyrics ultimately took a bolder stance, presenting feminist critiques through dystopian imagery (see Figs. 2 and 3).
The directness and radical nature of the final lyrics lie in the band’s bold critique of patriarchal norms, which prescribe a standardised life path for women centred on reproduction and selfless loyalty to their in-laws. Drawing from their observations of people around them, Iceless unboxed themselves from the structural constraints placed on women, offering a sharp, personal perspective on gender inequalities. Lines such as ‘Gentle and submissive, a model for all women’ and ‘Devoted and selfless, without a trace of complaint’ indicate the persistent societal expectation, rooted in Confucian and patriarchal traditions, that women’s value lies in caregiving roles. Similarly, the line ‘Throw away your past, throw away your dreams. Forget your talents, forget your ambitions’ highlights the enduring association of womanhood with motherhood, emphasising the familial sacrifices demanded of women regardless of their professional achievements. The line ‘Happiness is hard-earned, take time during the cooling-off period’ references the 30-day divorce cooling-off period in China, highlighting institutional complicity in prioritising the preservation of marriage (Ma 2018), even for women enduring domestic violence.
This transformation—from Q’s metaphorical critiques of surveillance to a direct focus on gender norms within marriage—was not just an artistic choice but also a strategic negotiation of how feminist messages can be conveyed effectively. While, as we have seen, the diasporic setting in Tokyo allowed Iceless the freedom to experiment with bolder themes, they remained aware that such explicit critiques could raise obstacles when trying to reach audiences in mainland China. Before attempting to promote their music more widely, they first tested audiences’ reception in Tokyo.
Unsurprisingly, the gender themes embedded in the lyrics of ‘Security and Cleaning Staff Protecting Silly Bear Paradise’ resonated strongly during their performance in a small music club in Roppongi, a district in Tokyo known for blending luxury and underground culture. The venue, with seating for about 30 people and standing room for more, hosted more than 40 attendees, most of whom were Chinese-speaking women (including myself). As Iceless performed four songs during their 20-minute set, the audience’s response was striking—many engaged deeply, moving with the rhythm and discussing the lyrics displayed on the screen. Their appreciation of the lyrics reflected not only a shared understanding of the song’s themes but also a strong connection to its feminist message.
Tokyo’s diasporic setting offers Iceless a rare space in which feminist expressions can circulate among Chinese-speaking women who, like them, navigate life in a diasporic context—managing professional or academic pursuits while being distanced from both Japanese gender norms and the societal expectations of mainland China. However, the freedom they experience in live performances may not seamlessly translate to digital platforms in China. As the band prepared to promote their work beyond Tokyo’s underground scene, they were forced to confront the question: how far could they push feminist expression before encountering censorship?
Balancing Visibility and Risk
As they considered how to build an audience in mainland China, Iceless was compelled to reassess whether the song’s themes might be perceived as overly aggressive or they risked being labelled as promoting ‘gender antagonism’. In her interview with me, H, who is currently focusing on commercialising Iceless for release on music platforms in mainland China such as CloudMusic (网易云), expressed reservations about labelling the band as ‘feminist activists’ or ‘awakened’. She feared that standing out as a ‘lightning rod’ in the male-dominated industry could invite unnecessary backlash, including possible censorship.
This concern resonates with broader trends in Chinese activism, where many have rejected the label ‘feminist’, viewing it as too radical or extreme (Edwards 2009: 121). H observed that the audience for rock music in the mainland Chinese market—both male and female—frequently reinforces perspectives shaped by the ‘male gaze’. She pointed to examples such as a song by a male songwriter titled ‘Dog Girl’ (狗女孩), which uses pornographic terms to demean women (such as the derogatory 婊子, commonly translated as ‘bitch’). Despite their blatantly misogynistic content, such songs are available on CloudMusic without revision of the lyrics—only the curse words are masked with asterisks to meet censorship guidelines. In worrying about the supposedly excessive radicality of Iceless’s music, H could not help but wonder: ‘If their lyrics can be shared on public platforms, why can’t ours?’
The contrast between the freedom to address gender themes in Tokyo and the anticipated restrictions of publishing on CloudMusic highlights Iceless’s self-censorship practices. While underground cultural creation in China often operates with relative autonomy, the moment artists, writers, or musicians seek to commercialise themselves via reality shows or publish their work—whether through books, albums, or other official channels—they enter a complex process of negotiation with censorship mechanisms (Amar 2020). This is particularly evident in the music industry, where lyrical content is frequently modified to meet censorship requirements—enforced not through direct state intervention, but by private cultural platforms. A notable example is the popular Chinese reality music show The Big Band (乐队的夏天), in which the rock band Hedgehog (刺猬) was required to alter the lyrics of a song from ‘Society is a pain competition’ (社会是伤害的比赛) to ‘Time is a pain competition’ (时间是伤害的比赛), significantly softening its critiquing tune (on the show, see Fan 2019; on the lyric change, see DreamReaver 2019). The stark contrast between the non-censorship of ‘Dog Girl’, which basically remained unchanged, and the significant lyric alterations imposed on Hedgehog forces grassroot musicians like Iceless into cycles of self-censorship, amid vague and varying standards across platforms.
Although Iceless has not yet undergone the formal publication process, they cannot help but anticipate potential repercussions of releasing a song that could be (mis)interpreted as challenging the legitimacy of heterosexual marriage structures—such as removal from platforms or being flagged. As H remarked: ‘If misogynistic songs like “Dog Girl” can be published on CloudMusic, ours should be allowed, too. But if they really don’t permit it, we already understand the reason and have no room to argue.’ This awareness of risk imposes a cognitive burden, prompting band members to engage in anticipatory self-censorship even before any external intervention occurs. Their concerns extend beyond state censorship to anxieties about public reception, as feminist discourse in China is often met with online backlash (Shao and He 2024). As a result, the band grapples with a dilemma—whether to first establish visibility through lyrical songs about urban white-collar life and later test the boundaries of censorship, or to assert their feminist voice outright at the risk of immediate pushback.
The dilemma faced by Iceless and many grassroots musicians like them places their music in a liminal space—where feminist expression is both possible and precarious, shaped by the balance between creative agency and external limitations (Thomassen 2014). On the one hand, rock music and live performances serve as vital grassroots platforms for feminist voices. As Zhang and Xiao (2023) observe, live venues offer underground musicians visibility beyond their immediate geographic location, as online circulation of music videos extends their influence globally. For Iceless, live performance, as well as the circulation of their performance videos on Chinese-speaking social media platforms such as RedNote (小红书), allows them to challenge male-dominated narratives and present perspectives often absent from mainstream music.
However, Iceless’s efforts to reach a wider audience in mainland China remain constrained by anticipatory self-censorship, which limits their ability to fully present their band’s identity. These restrictions are not imposed through explicit policies but stem from imagined boundaries shaped by the perceived risks of backlash or bans faced by other musicians. The increasing commercialisation and platformisation of the live music market, along with China’s expanding online censorship, continue to shape musicians’ perceptions of what can be publicly expressed (Zhang and Xiao 2023).
Rethinking C-Fem through the Lens of Iceless
The case of Iceless exemplifies how grassroots female musicians negotiate the complexities of feminist expression, self-regulation, and domestic censorship in transnational settings. While diasporic spaces provide greater creative freedom to explore gender-related themes, the looming threat of backlash and censorship in mainland China necessitates a cautious yet strategic approach, potentially hindering their feminist expression. Iceless’s strategic approach involves leveraging the creative freedom of Tokyo while adapting their commercialisation strategies to navigate perceived censorship in mainland China. This process reflects the self-regulation necessary to make feminist messages visible without inviting excessive scrutiny.
These dynamics underscore the need to reconsider C-fem as distinct from feminist discourses in Western contexts, where overt activism is often facilitated by a broader acceptance of individualism (Song and Wesoky 2023). In China, however, sustaining engagement often requires more subtle negotiation (Wu and Dong 2019). Iceless’s experience mirrors the broader reality for grassroots female artists in China, who find that navigating the shifting and often ambiguous boundaries of permissible discourse is key to survival. Unlike some state-imposed policies with clearcut restrictions, the regulation of cultural products addressing themes such as gender politics in China is increasingly left to private platforms, resulting in a form of censorship shaped by subjective judgements or social sensitivities rather than written rules. This uncertainty forces musicians and creators into cycles of self-censorship, modifying their content based on perceived risks (see also Amar 2020).
Despite their relative privilege as female professionals enjoying a certain employment security, the members of Iceless still face significant constraints in fully articulating feminist themes in their music. Yet, their negotiation should not be seen purely as a limitation, as it also serves as a strategy of endurance. It is exactly this ability to test boundaries without outright provocation that contributes to the evolving landscape of C-fem, setting a precedent for other musicians and helping to gradually ease unnecessary self-regulation in creative practices. The liminality of their music, therefore, is not merely a space of restriction and fixity but one of ongoing adaptation and subtle defiance—demonstrating that even within restrictive environments, feminist voices are persisting, adapting, and reshaping the cultural landscape in mainland China.
This essay is supported by the East Asian cluster of the European Research Council (ERC) Advanced Grant project ‘MIGMOBS: The Orders and Borders of Global Inequality – Migration and Mobilities in Late Capitalism’. I am grateful to all the members of Iceless for warmly welcoming me into their live house and generously allowing me to conduct interviews. Special thanks to the two outstanding reviewers —Ivan Franceschini and Yangyang Cheng—for their insightful and constructive feedback on an earlier draft of this article.
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