“Heredities” is a biweekly column by Kira Tang focused on lineages and intersectional identities, exploring senses of connection to heritage, cultures, and histories.
.
I. The Discovery
“I’m telling you, don’t lose your way ho-o-ome, o-o-o-o-ome…”
I fell in love with Amber Liu’s voice before ever seeing her face. I had just started high school when one of her solo songs, “White Noise,” snuck into my Spotify recommendations. In homeroom, I would plug in my headphones and play the song on loop, letting Amber’s honeyed voice—smooth and lilting against a distorted, undulating EDM backdrop—wash over me.
Curious, I pitched myself down the rabbit hole. Amber had first made it big as a member of K-pop girl group f(x), the predecessor of the quirkiness and experimentation of groups like aespa and NMIXX. Despite her singing abilities, Amber was the group’s designated rapper. Amber started out a fish out of water—Taiwanese American in South Korea, her stilted verses jarring alongside her bandmates’ sugary melodies—yet by the release of “4 Walls,” the lead single on the group’s fourth album, Amber’s low, self-assured throatiness swings and lands the punch.
Then there was Amber’s look.
In the music video for their 2009 debut single, “LA chA TA,” the members of f(x) pull up to a red carpet in a hot pink convertible. While her bandmates take turns flipping their hair and flirting with the camera, Amber, then just shy of her seventeenth birthday, looks nonchalantly over her shoulder, her Bieberesque fringe falling over her face in slow motion. Embarrassingly, it’s a moment that my fourteen-year-old self, awestruck and confused, had on replay in my mind.
In later videos, Amber’s hair was consistently a pixie cut, often brilliantly dyed and with the sides shaved. As for her outfits, she wore crisp suits and paired athletic tank tops with button-downs and camo print jackets. The music video for “Get Myself” by FYKE, a song on which she was featured, was one of the few times she wore a skirt and a crop top, accessorized with a long blue wig, necklace, and falsies. “I can’t get myself to change,” she sings, plaintive yet triumphant. She wrestles the wig from her head and throws it to the ground. The echo of Amber’s image lingered the day my mom and I went to the mall to buy my orchestra concert black that fall. As she gestured to flowing skirts and frilly blouses, I hunted desperately for a dress shirt and pants that looked good enough on me to plead for.
On December 11, 2019, Amber released “Ready for the Ride.” “I don’t care what they say ’bout me,” she belts amidst tinkling synth notes and deliberate, pulsating percussion. In the accompanying music video, she yearns for a long-haired lover played by Arden Cho, their faces illuminated by pink, purple, and blue lights in alternating frames. Over the next 48 hours, I ruminated. I used copious amounts of cellular data to watch it on the school bus, nestling my back between the seat and the window so that none of my friends could catch a glimpse of my phone screen.
Then, on December 13, 2019, I realized that my secret would be too difficult to keep. After dinner, I came out as bisexual to my Taiwanese mother. A week later, I went to get a haircut.
II. The Disillusionment
Despite poring over Amber and f(x)’s music on Spotify and YouTube, I did not have social media at the time, nor had I done much research beyond what catalyzed my queer awakening that first week of high school. The following summer, through some lockdown-induced doomscrolling, I discovered that Amber had been embroiled in controversy the month before the release of “Ready for the Ride.” In November 2019, she had reacted to a video of white police officers arresting a Black man for eating on a subway platform, claiming that he “deserved it” for being “super disrespectful.” Her ignorance about systemic anti-Black racism and police brutality reentered Twitter discourse after she attended protests and voiced support for the Black Lives Matter movement in the wake of Derek Chauvin’s murder of George Floyd. Those who remembered that she was born in Los Angeles emphasized her Americanness, arguing that she should have already known better and interpreting her new allyship as performative. Meanwhile, those who were sympathetic towards her reminded everyone that she had spent her formative years in the confines of the K-pop industry.
Regardless of her degree of sincerity, I was heartbroken. While part of me wanted to forgive her, I was angry, and I knew it wasn’t my place to forgive. The possibility that she was now a better person mattered little—it was suddenly clear that she wasn’t the unequivocally uplifting, revolutionary tomboy rebel I had dreamed her up to be, and I felt like an idiot. How naïve I had been to have made her my hero. How silly I had been to have loved her so.
Despite my disillusionment, I found it difficult to let go. I avoided listening to Amber’s music, but I could not stop keeping tabs on her work. Yet, as I grew older and braver, Amber regressed. As I learned more about Taiwanese history and engaged in conversations about Taiwanese American identity, Amber went from having covered “I Want Happiness” by indigenous Taiwanese singer A-Mei in 2017 to chasing a new career and variety show fanbase in mainland China. I came out at school and mustered the courage to write about my queerness in my college applications; Amber stopped performing “Ready for the Ride” and draping pride flags over her shoulders at her concerts.
If I hadn’t stumbled upon Amber, I’m not sure I would have become the person I am today. At a time of uncertainty and self-discovery, her music reminded me that I could follow my own path in defiance of tradition or convention. Yet, in the end, growing up really meant growing away from her. I found my way and learned to stand on my own two feet—in the process, she hurtled into my past.
.
III. The Re-encounter
On January 15, 2024, I found the music video for “Dusk Till Dawn,” released just hours before, in my YouTube recommendations. It had been so long since I had engaged with any of Amber’s music. After a moment of hesitation, I clicked on the thumbnail. “Sneak out, I’ll make it good for ya,” she croons, desperate and husky, over guitar strums and a bass groove. In the beginning of the video, she flirts and dances down the street with a male partner until the end of the chorus. During the post-chorus, purple light suddenly illuminates the back of her cropped jacket and platinum blonde pixie cut. An outstretched arm reaches for her shoulder from behind, and a woman pulls her into a tender embrace, their hands intertwined.
Halfway through the video, I closed my laptop. Alone in my Bingham double, I sat frozen in silence, trying to blink away the tears that threatened to blur my vision.
I used to dream of meeting Amber Liu, either by going to a concert of hers or just by coincidence. Now, I like to think that if I ever did run into her, I would pass her by without a second glance. At the same time, I think a tiny part of me will always know that she changed my life.
