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Lai Bi-de: From Hong Kong Streets into the Golden Age of Cantopop

(This article was written by Renjian Xiangsu and published by TMTPost with authorization)

By Renjian Xiangsu

"Here comes the God of Wealth, here comes the God of Wealth—good deeds bring good rewards."

"We working stiffs are running all over town, and it’s straight-up wrecking our stomachs."

And then there’s that instantly singable chorus everyone knows just from reading the lyrics: "Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks Monica."

Younger listeners may not have heard these songs in full, but most have encountered them in various contexts—some through short videos featuring "The Wanderer’s Heart," others using the phrase "half a pound, eight ounces" to complain about work, not to mention the annual Lunar New Year staple "Here Comes the God of Wealth," played on endless repeat.

But few may remember that behind all these songs lies the same name: Lai Bi Tak.

To many viewers, he is better known as a familiar face from Hong Kong TV dramas and films—such as the village schoolteacher in "Flirting Scholar" or Uncle Bao in "Come Home Love: Lo and Behold."

Yet this supporting actor, often lingering at the edge of the frame, stood at the very forefront of Cantonese pop music in his youth. He wrote hits for Samuel Hui like "The Wanderer’s Heart," "Mahjong Heroes," "Dimples of Smile," and "Here Comes the God of Wealth," and penned the Chinese lyrics for Leslie Cheung’s "Monica," a landmark song in the history of Hong Kong pop music.

He rarely wrote about grand rivers, heroic epics, or the rise and fall of nations; instead, he excelled at capturing the everyday—a job, a round of mahjong, a fleeting romance, or a proverb every neighbor could understand.

On August 6, news broke of Peter Lai's passing at the age of 76.Peter Lai's life almost entirely overlapped with the most pivotal half-century of Hong Kong pop music.

When Hong Kong people began singing about their own lives in their own language, he moved from the streets into the recording studio; when Cantonese pop entered its superstar era, he wrote that fast-paced song which altered Leslie Cheung’s destiny—yet gradually stepped away from the center of the lyric-writing scene; and as the record industry declined and classic Hong Kong pop became part of collective nostalgia, he had already become a supporting actor on television dramas.

Half a catty, eight taels—peck even at chicken scraps

Put in half a catty of effort, yet expect to get back a full eight taels

It’s tough making a living these days

Where can you find an ideal world where half a catty truly equals eight taels? (Pipe dream!)

We wage slaves spend our whole lives enslaved by money.

—"Half a Catty, Eight Taels"

Lei Bi-de, originally named Lei Cheng-jiu, was born in Hong Kong in 1950. His father passed away when he was nine, after which he lived with his mother in straitened circumstances—they stayed in wooden shanties and he only completed primary school, later sporadically attending night classes. Around the age of ten, he accompanied his mother selling newspapers in Central, and subsequently worked as an office boy at a trading firm, a gas station attendant, a rental car driver, and a private chauffeur.

Among the first generation of Hong Kong lyricists—who later became a constellation of stars—his background stood out as particularly unusual. James Wong graduated from the University of Hong Kong; Lo Kwok-chim attended The Chinese University of Hong Kong; and Cheng Kwok-kong had been a schoolteacher. Lei Bi-de lacked formal schooling; his Chinese language training came from an entirely different system:Newspapers, martial arts novels, Cantonese opera librettos, and the spoken Cantonese he heard daily on the streets.

His uncle was the renowned Cantonese opera performer Lian Ci-bo. After his father’s death, his uncle supported and looked after him, giving him frequent opportunities to interact with opera troupes and Cantonese tunes. When Lei later spoke about writing lyrics, he often claimed he had never received formal training—he simply picked up a pen and wrote. While this 'innate talent' narrative may not fully explain his skill, the influence of Cantonese opera on his work is unmistakable:He paid close attention to tonal harmony, was well-versed in colloquial expressions, knew how to craft lines that flowed smoothly off the tongue, and understood how to convey worldly sentiments with wit and humor.

Newspaper stands were likewise his classroom. In postwar Hong Kong, the newspaper industry flourished—papers delivered not only current affairs but also serialized martial arts fiction, columns, and popular stories. A young man denied further education could still build his own linguistic universe through the writings of Jin Yong, Gu Long, and journalistic prose.

Lai Bi-de’s later ability to shift effortlessly between colloquialism, classical elegance, and wit was closely tied to these experiences.

While working as a private chauffeur, he had ample downtime and began submitting articles to newspapers and magazines, writing a column for Youth Weekly titled 'Chaikovski’s Driver’s Diary.' The name itself already bore Lai Bi-de’s distinctive flair, capturing the clever resilience of a 'street writer' unwilling to yield.

His earliest lyric-writing work to draw attention was 'Heartbroken Tears,' adapted from Wang Ming-chuan’s 'Tears of Longing.' It first appeared in his column and was later performed on television by Tam Bing-man. Around 1975, he also contributed lyrics to 'The Wynners’ Weekly,' gradually entering the pop music scene.

A truly life-changing opportunity came from a dinner gathering. Lei Bi-de was introduced to Samuel Hui, who had previously read his newspaper column and knew he could write lyrics. At the time, Cantonese pop songwriting was on the rise, and the two quickly began collaborating. This marked Lei Bi-de’s entry into the most vital creative scene of Hong Kong popular culture.

This is not merely a simple rags-to-riches story. Lei Bi-de’s emergence as a lyricist precisely illustrates that Hong Kong’s cultural landscape at the time still possessed a certain fluidity: newspapers, television, film, records, and social networks in restaurants were all interconnected, enabling someone without formal credentials to break into the industry through consistent writing and a keen sensitivity to urban vernacular.

Every job he had held before was woven into his widely beloved songs.

What’s meant to be yours will eventually come to you

Don't force what fate doesn't grant you

— "A Wanderer’s Heart"

In the 1950s and 1960s, Hong Kong’s popular music was dominated for a long time by Mandarin-era tunes and English-language songs. Cantonese songs were often associated with traditional Cantonese opera, folk ditties, or humorous novelty numbers, occupying an undignified position in mainstream culture. Even though most Hong Kong residents spoke Cantonese daily, many did not consider it suitable for modern pop music.

Around 1974, the situation changed rapidly.

The theme song of the TV drama 'Love, Laugh, and Cry,' sharing the same title, became a hit, proving that Cantonese songs could be both elegant and modern, reaching households nationwide through television. That same year, Michael Hui and Samuel Hui released the film 'Games Gamblers Play,' in which Samuel Hui sang in Cantonese about urban survival tactics, speculation, and the mindset of ordinary people, thereby carving out another path.

In 1976, the film 'The Private Eyes' was released, accompanied by an album of the same name. The movie depicted the relationship between bosses and employees, labor and exploitation, while the songs compressed office workers’ exhaustion, grievances, and self-mockery into upbeat melodies. It neither sanitized **s’ spoken language nor framed working-class life as grand narrative. The hardship described in the lyrics was strikingly specific: stingy bosses, meager wages, grueling commutes, and the disparity between workers’ efforts and their rewards.

‘Half a catty, eight taels’ was originally a colloquial expression imbued with the distinctive Hong Kong vernacular’s playful irony. The Hui brothers turned it into a film and then incorporated it into a song, transforming an ordinary phrase into a social metaphor for that era.

‘Heroes of the Mahjong Table’ better showcases Peter Lai’s talent. Borrowing the vocal style and structure of martial arts ballads, the song depicts a panorama of characters gathered around a mahjong table. Titles, gestures, wins, losses, and facial expressions from the game appear densely packed—neighbors and locals all become heroic figures, and every twist of the tiles feels more intense than a martial arts showdown.

Contemporary songs such as 'The Price Hike Frenzy,' 'Indenture Contract,' and 'Here Comes the God of Wealth'—judged by their titles alone—already form a set of keywords reflecting 1970s Hong Kong society: wages, prices, contracts, making a living, and getting rich.

With the economy taking off and manufacturing expanding, a consumer society gradually took shape. Ordinary people believed hard work could improve their lives, yet they also knew they remained subject to employers, prices, and luck.

Lai Peter used humor to process this pressure.

Yet labeling him merely as 'quirky' still underestimates him.

'A Wanderer’s Heartfelt Words' captures the vicissitudes of human relationships and life’s gains and losses, drawing heavily on colloquialisms and traditional moral proverbs. The line 'What is destined will eventually come your way' originated from long-standing folk wisdom; after entering popular music, it became a catchphrase for generations of Hong Kong people. It is simple, yet precisely resonates with the public psyche amid intense competition:People should strive, yet also accept that many things cannot be forced.

'Dimples of a Smile,' by contrast, moves in another direction, employing language closer to the delicate and nuanced style of classical Chinese poetry:

"Your dimples gently shine,

Reflecting the tune of Flowers and Moon

Only hoping our gaze brings comfort to solitude

Every moment shared, every second together

Willing to bow low, today we become birds of a feather.

Lai Bi-de wrote about the ruthless decisiveness around mahjong tables, as well as the wistful joys and sorrows in romantic relationships; with one hand he chronicled rising prices, and with the other, life’s unpredictability.

The underlying tone of his writing was not merely 'vulgar' but distinctly Hong Kong-style 'sam kap dai'—a blend of classical Chinese, vernacular Mandarin, and Cantonese colloquialisms, bearing traces of Cantonese opera, newspaper prose, and street-smart wisdom.

When studying Hong Kong pop music, Anthony Wong noted that with economic growth, job expansion, and the emergence of local identity in the 1970s, Cantonese songs finally became capable of expressing Hong Kong people’s lived realities. Earlier Cantonese songs also used slang, but Lai Bi-de and his generation—alongside Samuel Hui—advanced the form by transforming spoken language from a mere tool for humor into a medium capable of portraying labor, inflation, love, and life’s gains and losses.

Hong Kong people recognized themselves in pop songs not through abstract declarations of identity, but through these concrete aspects of daily life: wages, bosses, mahjong, price hikes, heartbreaks, and dreams of striking it rich.

Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks Monica

Who could ever replace your place in my heart?

— Leslie Cheung, 'Monica'

Around 1982, the close collaboration between Lei Bi-de and Sam Hui, which had lasted for many years, gradually came to an end. The two did not publicly fall out; Lei Bi-de later still referred to Sam Hui as his 'benefactor,' acknowledging that Hui had introduced him to professional songwriting and even helped him secure television work. Beyond this personal shift, however, the Hong Kong music scene had already entered a new phase.

In the 1970s, Cantonese pop songs spread primarily through TV dramas, comedy films, and records. By the 1980s, the star-making industry had matured: television stations hosted singing competitions, record labels systematically packaged new artists, music award shows created rankings and rivalries, and concerts at the Hong Kong Coliseum became proof of superstar status.

The characters portrayed in songs also changed. During the Hui brothers’ era, the most iconic figures were ordinary working-class people trying to make ends meet in the city; by the 1980s, larger-than-life superstars took center stage.Urban romance, fashion, dance, and individual star appeal gradually replaced depictions of working life as the central themes of popular music.

Lei Bi-de participated in this transformation.

In 1984, Leslie Cheung released 'Monica.' The song was adapted from a composition by Japanese artist Kyoko Koizumi, with Anthony Chan overseeing production and promotion for the Hong Kong version, and Lei Bi-de writing the lyrics. Compared to earlier hits like 'Half a Catty, Eight Taels' and 'Mahjong Heroes,' this was an entirely different sound:With its driving rhythm suited for stage performance, the song expressed love as an urgent, outwardly intense urban emotion through its repeated calls to 'Monica.'

By then, Leslie Cheung had already been in the industry for several years, but the success of 'Monica' truly launched his singing career. The song won both the Top Ten Chinese Gold Songs and Top Ten Jade Solid Gold Awards, becoming a landmark track in Hong Kong’s uptempo pop wave. Previously known for his skill in weaving colloquial Cantonese into melodies, Lei Bi-de now demonstrated his ability to master foreign musical styles and craft lyrics fitting idol singers’ stage personas.

After 'Monica,' the famous rivalry between Alan Tam and Leslie Cheung began to take shape, and Anita Mui rose rapidly to stardom. Hong Kong pop music moved beyond its formative phase of establishing a local linguistic identity into a golden era of commercial production and star competition. James Wong described the period from 1974 to 1983 as the time when Hong Kong pop developed its own distinctive voice; from 1984 onward, it entered an era of expanding influence across the Chinese-speaking world.

Lei Bi-de stood precisely at the crossroads of these two eras: he helped build the Sam Hui era and left behind a pivotal song for the Leslie Cheung era.

He helped build the era of Samuel Hui and left behind significant works for the Leslie Cheung era. He depicted the everyday lives of people in Hong Kong factories, offices, and around mahjong tables, as well as the passionate love cries sung by stars under the spotlight.

A lyricist’s creative trajectory bridged two leaps in Hong Kong pop: first making Cantonese songs acceptable to Hong Kong audiences, then transforming them into highly refined commercial star products.

However, after the hit 'Monica,' he did not remain at the center of the superstar era. In the mid-to-late 1980s, a new generation of lyricists—including Lam Chun-sing, Anthony Lun, Pan Yuan-liang, and Hsiang Hsueh-huai—entered the mainstream. They faced a different Hong Kong: a wealthier city with an expanding commercial and professional class, shifting the lyrical landscapes of pop songs from factories, neighborhoods, and teahouses toward offices, nightclubs, highways, airports, and more intimate emotional worlds.

Lai Bi-de never fully stopped writing lyrics, contributing songs for Anita Mui, Alan Tam, the Wynners, and various film and TV projects, but gradually shifted his focus toward screenwriting, hosting, and acting.

He wrote an upbeat song for the new superstar era, yet slowly stepped away from the stage himself.

The public remembered Leslie Cheung singing 'Monica,' while the person who penned that name quietly faded back into album liner notes and archival records.

Here Comes the God of Wealth / Here Comes the God of Wealth / Good deeds bring good rewards

Wealth myths / Wealth myths / Earn money the right way

— 'Here Comes the God of Wealth'

Li Bi Peter entered the television industry very early. In the late 1970s, introduced by Samuel Hui, he began writing scripts for shows like 'Enjoy Yourself Tonight,' and later worked as a screenwriter for film studios. By the 1990s, an increasing number of viewers recognized him as a familiar face in Hong Kong TV dramas and films.

On screen, he often portrayed ordinary people—teachers, neighbors, colleagues, or elders—with limited screen time but a vividly authentic local flavor. One of his most recognizable roles to mainland audiences was the private tutor at the Wah household in 'Flirting Scholar.' He also appeared in films such as 'Fight Back to School' and 'The Duke of Mount Deer,' and in his later years played 'Uncle Bao' in the sitcom 'Come Home Love: Lo and Behold.'

Moving from writing about everyday people to portraying them on screen was a natural career progression.

Characters like the mahjong-playing friend in 'The Champions,' the employee bossed around by his employer in 'Mr. Boo Meets Pom Pom,' and the worker trapped by his job in 'Contractual Obligation' already carried the outlines of comedic figures. After becoming an actor, he simply stepped out from behind the lyrics and into the camera lens, continuing to portray the **s he knew best.

This is a common career path in Hong Kong’s entertainment industry. There are no rigid boundaries between lyric writing, screenwriting, hosting, and performing; behind-the-scenes creators often switch roles repeatedly to find their next opportunity. Such fluidity brings possibilities but also means few can sustain a lifelong career relying solely on one creative skill.

The enduring popularity of classic songs does not always correlate with the financial circumstances of their creators.

'Here Comes the Fortune God' has almost become part of Hong Kong’s Lunar New Year culture, and songs like 'A Drifter’s Confession' and 'Mr. Boo Meets Pom Pom' have been frequently covered and replayed over the years. Yet in a later-life interview, Li Bi Peter noted that while outsiders assume classic hits generate substantial ongoing royalties, his actual earnings were far less generous than imagined. He later faced business failures and health issues, at one point requiring friends to help cover his medical expenses.

Rather than summarizing these experiences as 'a bleak twilight,' it is more insightful to understand them within the context of Hong Kong’s entertainment industry development. During the peak era of the record industry, singers, record labels, and television networks occupied center stage. Though behind-the-scenes creators enjoyed recognition and earned fees and royalties, they were not necessarily guaranteed long-term, stable income from even their most iconic works. While Hong Kong pop produced many household-name hits, its creators still had to constantly seek new ways to make a living.

Lai Bi-de’s career pivot broadly coincided with industry shifts. He entered the business as the Cantonese pop market was taking shape and penned his signature works just before the record industry peaked; as the superstar system of Hong Kong pop matured, he gradually moved into film and television; after the record market shrank, he sustained his career through supporting roles in TV dramas; and when traditional television itself began to decline, he transitioned into online programs.

After launching his online TV channel, Lei Bi-de began hosting 'The Nine Secrets,' where he comments on past entertainment industry gossip and current music trends. Known for his blunt speaking style, he frequently singles out singers, idol groups, and talent shows for criticism and has repeatedly declared that 'pop music is dead.'

Factually speaking, Hong Kong pop music has certainly not 'died.' New singers continue to emerge, Cantonese songs still have a stable audience, and digital platforms have given many artists—who previously struggled to enter the mainstream recording industry—an opportunity to release their work. Judging all successors by the standards of Samuel Hui, Leslie Cheung, and Anita Mui inherently reflects a clear generational bias.

However, the 'pop music' Lei Bi-de refers to may not simply mean Cantonese songs that people still compose and perform today.

What he likely misses is an entire cultural ecosystem that has since disintegrated: a handful of television stations reaching most households, with film, records, and radio mutually reinforcing one another—when a singer released a new song, the whole city would hear it almost instantly; the same melodies played in restaurants, on buses, in shopping malls, and on home televisions, creating shared popular cultural experiences across different ages and professions.

When the film 'The Private Eyes' was released, cinema, records, and social experience resonated with each other; when 'Monica' became a hit, televised award shows, stage performances, and celebrity rivalries collectively amplified the song’s reach; during Lunar New Year, 'Here Comes the Fortune God' became a holiday tradition through its repeated playback in public spaces.

The digital era offers more choices but also fragments audiences into countless niche communities. A song can still achieve astonishing streaming numbers yet may no longer possess the citywide public presence it once had. Lei Bi-de summarizes this shift as 'death'—an overly absolute statement—but behind this frustration lies a genuine sense of loss felt by someone who participated in the old industry as public culture becomes increasingly fragmented.

His most significant creative work emerged precisely during the vibrant heyday of Cantonese pop. At that time, Hong Kong people began believing that everyday spoken language deserved a place in songs and that ordinary lives were worthy subjects of popular culture. Half a century later, however, he believes the tradition he helped build has lost its vitality.

This is not a statement that can be simply agreed or disagreed with. It is more like a question left by a bygone era for the present day.

After Lai Bik-kit departs, 'Here Comes Fortune' will still echo during the next Lunar New Year.

When someone complains about work, they will once again mention 'The Private Eyes'; when someone feels disillusioned by the fickleness of human relationships, they will still find comfort in the lyrics of 'A Drifter’s Confession'; when Leslie Cheung’s image reappears on screen, the haunting calls of 'Monica' will instantly transport audiences back to the 1980s.

Many listeners may not know who Li Bitai is, yet they still use the language he left behind.

Among lyricists of his era, some wrote about the underworld, others about nation and home, and still others about youthful sentiments. Li Bitai most often wrote about how ordinary Hong Kong people lived their daily lives.

His lyrics were sometimes blunt, sometimes didactic, and sometimes intended purely to amuse—but they preserved the tone of Hong Kong people from that era: rushing from job to job, sensitive to prices, competing fiercely over mahjong tables, and using a familiar proverb to console themselves after setbacks.

In the 1970s, Hong Kong people began singing about their own lives in their own language, and Lei Bi-de happened to stand right at that starting point—translating the sounds of the streets, the joys of ordinary people, and the hardships of making a living into song lyrics.

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