TAIPEI (Taiwan News) — Tennyson King (百城), a singer-songwriter whose family roots stretch from Hong Kong to Canada, draws inspiration from the road, bringing songs that heal to diverse audiences.
He sings with warmth, honesty, and a spirit of connection. "A lot of the things I write about are things that healed me," King says matter-of-factly, his words landing somewhere between philosophy and confession.
That healing did not begin in a studio. It began with a one-way ticket and a decision that sounds reckless until you realize he meant every word of it: quit his job as a music teacher, sell everything, and disappear far away.
He began the life of a so-called "rubber tramp," a term he lifted from the film "Into the Wild," in which the real-life protagonist lives in a van and chases something that might not even exist.
King admits he bought a good van, one suitable for sleeping. His first tour of Australia was not expertly planned or well financed; he just followed the coastline with a guitar and a surfboard, playing shows in cafes and any other place that would take him.
He says there is a mythology around the lone troubadour, endless horizons, and a kind of romantic detachment. King dismantles that idea in real time.
“I always think I’m a lone wolf,” he says. “But it weighs on the soul.”
It is weddings missed. Birthdays skipped. Children growing up in photos you scroll past while waiting in airport terminals. It is sleeping on couches, floors, vans, and terminals where time does not exist. It is playing a show for three people and still having to believe it matters.
And it is the goodbyes. “So many goodbyes,” he says. “You meet people—friends, romances, and collaborators—and then you leave. You might never see them again. And that builds up.”
He practices three to four hours a day when he can. Less on tour. Always chasing something just out of reach. There is no illusion about the industry either: streaming pays nothing, venues are disappearing, and the grind is relentless.
But then there are moments that justify it. A songwriting workshop with students in Taiwan. A room full of strangers transforms into collaborators. Six songs written in an afternoon about running into an ex at a night market.
“That connection,” he says, “I would do all the boring admin work in the world for that.”
A place that feels like a family table
If the road strips things down, Taiwan builds something back. King has circled Taiwan three times now, but this trip hits differently. Less like a tour, more like a return to something he did not know he was looking for.
It is not Taipei that inspires him; it is the Indigenous communities beyond it in Hualien and Taitung. “They welcome you like family,” he says. “It’s like a huge dinner. Food, songs, stories. By the end of the night, everyone’s dancing.”
This cultural immersion cannot be replicated or faked. Cigarettes were passed around, and cheap beer was poured freely. Songs shared without translation. It is also where his music starts to shift.
King has been quietly building a new sound: Western folk-pop structures layered with traditional Chinese instruments, zhongruan, luqin, and percussive textures that were not meant for pop songs but somehow bend into them anyway.
“I like that tension,” he says. “Different systems, different ways of writing. You meet in the middle.” It is not about fusion for aesthetics. It is about connection.
“The language of music is universal,” he says. “Even if you do not understand the words, you feel when something’s about to break or resolve.”
Aftershocks
Not every memory is warm. One of the darkest stretches of touring came in the aftermath of an earthquake in Hualien. Shows were canceled. Roads were broken. Buildings split wide open.
And yet, one venue asked him to come anyway. “They wanted to show people it was still safe,” he says. “To bring some life back.”
He remembers the train ride, the damage visible in flashes. Then the aftershocks, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The disorientation of lying in bed and feeling the ground move beneath you. “I had never felt that before,” he says.
The show itself was something harder to define. “People were just grateful,” he says. “Happy we were there.” It was not a triumph. It was something quieter. Necessary.
King’s current obsession is not just travel; it is language. Mandarin. Cantonese. Not as gimmicks, but as frameworks.
Festivals like Jade Music Fest have pushed that exploration further, giving artists space to perform in languages that do not always get radio rotation. “It’s helped me lean into it,” he says. “To actually pursue it seriously.” He lights up talking about other artists in that orbit, voices reshaping identity through sound.
Sebastian Gaskin, whose R&B carries the weight and pride of Indigenous identity. Eunice Keitan, blending soul and storytelling. Aiko Tomi, pushing pop into something chaotic and alive. Preview performances are at Vinyl Decision beginning on Tuesday at 5 p.m., (Kristin Fung, Eunice Keitan & Cliff), Wednesday (Scott Hsu, Aiko Tomi), Thursday (Van Lefan & Jacq Teh, Scott Hsu)
Safe travels
There is a phrase that follows King everywhere: safe travels. It is what you say at the end of something that matters, knowing it probably will not continue.
It is in his songs now. In the spaces between verses. In the way he talks about people who flicker in and out of his life like passing stations.
Because that is the real story here — not the van, or the festivals, or even the music.
And somewhere along the highways of Taiwan — between aftershocks and family dinners, between loneliness and belonging — Tennyson King is still chasing the same fragile idea: that if you keep moving, keep listening, and keep telling the truth, somewhere might finally feel like home.
