Nestled in the southwestern corner of China, where the Himalayas begin to loosen their grip and tropical winds drift in from Southeast Asia, lies Yunnan, a province of sharp edges and shifting traditions. It is a place where monsoon-fed valleys and snow-capped ridges coexist, where three great rivers—the Mekong, the Yangtze, and the Nu—run almost side by side in deep, parallel gorges. This unique geography has nurtured an exceptional biodiversity, not just in nature but in people and culture. With over two dozen officially recognised ethnic groups and hundreds of subgroups, Yunnan hums with a plurality of languages, customs, and—most crucially—music.

This is not a place where tradition is a museum piece. Music here is a living, breathing, everyday presence—sung in dialects that sometimes cannot even be understood from one village to the next, yet still pulse with meaning. Songs carry genealogies, courtship rituals, harvest invocations. Music is not merely performed; it is inherited, repurposed, improvised. In a country where cultural uniformity is a political priority, these expressions are more than art. They are acts of resistance.

One person who has dedicated much of his life to listening, recording and amplifying these voices is Sam Debell, a musician and field recordist from London. Together with Elie Rosenberg, he is also the co-founder of Sea of Wood Records, an independent label based in Yunnan that works closely with local artists to bring these deeply rooted musical traditions to broader audiences, without sanding down what makes them unique.

We met Debell last October at WOMEX in Manchester, a fitting setting for someone who has spent decades building bridges between remote villages and the international stage. Amid the chaos of schedule clashes, panel discussions and sonic overload, we ducked into a quiet side room. His manner was reflective but direct, the kind of calm that comes from years of deep listening — to music, yes, but also to the communities behind it.

“I’m the co-founder of Sea of Wood Records based in Yunnan in southwest China,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I grew up in London and—well, it’s not actually a complicated story—I studied Chinese in the mid-90s and as part of that course I was sent to China for a year. During that year, I visited Yunnan, and I took a second year, so I stayed there for a full year.”

That formative immersion planted the seeds of a lifelong entanglement. “During that time I met loads of really interesting people, especially musicians. Not really the ethnic musicians at that point—more the underground music scene in general. But it really fascinated me.” At the time, China was still a closed country in many ways. “You really didn’t feel like you could connect with Chinese people. It wasn’t a language barrier—it was cultural. But suddenly you met these rock and roll kids, and I felt like I could just get on with them.”

It wasn’t an anthropological fascination, it was personal. “It really fascinated me—how did this group of people come about? Why were they different? Why were they independent-minded? That just stayed with me.”

When his formal studies ended, the pull proved irresistible. “I moved to Yunnan and got involved in the music scene—mostly playing at first, but also running venues, bars, and organising events.” By 2004, Sam had opened what he says was the first ticketed music venue in Kunming, the provincial capital. “A ‘small’ town of eight million people! But really, it is small compared to other Chinese cities. Most of those millions don’t affect the music scene; it remains quite tight-knit.”

A tight scene, but not an isolated one. Debell soon joined Shanren—a band that would go on to put Yunnan on the global world music map. “At the time they were based in Beijing, so I moved there too. I ended up working at the record label that promoted Shanren, and ironically I became the overseas market manager for my own band!”

That irony blossomed into a serious mission: to take the sound of Yunnan—so specific, so local—and project it outward. “Yeah, and Shanren travelled all over—we did US tours, played in Ecuador, Womad in New Zealand, Japan, Thailand, Europe… even in a casino in Slovenia. It was great. We were funded, so it gave us a chance to get the name ‘Yunnan’ out there.”

Their 2013 album, The Left Foot Dance of the Yi, released on the World Music Network label, became a landmark. “That album really put Yunnan on the map in terms of world music. It was a mix. Yunnan traditional music blended with various elements—some of it quite heavy rock and roll, some lighter, even a bit of reggae. But really, it was more about the format. A band lineup—bass, guitar, drums—behind traditional music. It’s become a sort of ‘Yunnan style,’ though not tied to any single genre.”

He recommends “Drinking Song” and “30 Years” as entry points to Shanren’s unique blend.

By 2016, Debell had returned to Yunnan, this time with a new mission. “I’d spent about 10 years in Yunnan, then six in Beijing. By that point I thought—we’ve done all this work, made all these contacts, built a foundation. Now what about the other bands in Yunnan who still need help?”

And so Sea of Wood Records was born—not just as a label, but as a conduit for connecting the local with the global. “That became the principle behind Sea of Wood Records—to do the same thing for other bands that we’d done with Shanren.”

Part of Sea of Wood Records’ mission involved deep listening—not just to finished songs, but to the raw, living materials of the region’s musical heritage. “I’d become really obsessed with field recording. I’d taken countless trips into the countryside, getting to know people, documenting music. But the more I discovered, the more I realised how little I knew.”

The problem wasn’t a lack of material—it was getting it heard. “Yunnan had been recorded by ethnomusicologists, but their work rarely reached commercial music audiences. We wanted to change that. To get regular listeners hearing Yunnan music.”

Sea of Wood’s first signing was Manhu, whose debut album arrived just before the pandemic. “You might want to check out ‘Ashima’ from that album—Manhu are more traditional than Shanren but share a similar approach,” Sam suggested.

But that musical diversity also presented a problem. “We started hitting a challenge early on—the sound was so diverse. The instruments, the vocal styles—no two bands sounded the same. It made it hard to market.”

And yet, that diversity is also the story. “Yunnan is in southwest China, bordering Myanmar, Laos, and Vietnam. It also leads into Tibet. You’ve got the Himalayas on one side, and Southeast Asia on the other,” Sam explained. “There are these three major rivers—the Mekong, the Yangtze, and the Nu River—that run in parallel for long stretches. It creates what’s called the ‘three canyons’ region. Each river forms a separate microclimate.”

What grows in one valley may not survive in the next. What one group sings, another may never hear. “It’s the most biodiverse place in Asia, possibly the world after the Amazon. And that diversity applies to people too.”

Among the most intriguing examples of that cultural richness is a seed-planting song by the Hani people. “It’s called ‘Wu Chi A Ci’—it’s also onThe Rough Guide To The Music Of Yunnan,” Sam told us. “The Hani are known internationally for their terraced rice fields. When they transplant the seedlings, they sing this polyphonic songs.”

He mimed the shape of the sound with his hands. “It’s not quite call-and-response—it’s more like overlapping layers, different people joining in at different levels. It was once described as having eight parts, but actually it depends on how many people are singing. It reflects the geography too—it’s like their mindset, how they think about space and community.”

This intuitive link between sound and space recurs throughout Sam’s recollections. Whether performed on a hillside, in a studio or a street corner, Yunnan’s music is shaped by environment as much as it shapes identity. “These are field recordings, but they’ve also been recorded in studios, so even then—they’re not 100% traditional anymore. Still, they capture something real.”

Sam is also quick to acknowledge the efforts of earlier recordists like Jiang Xinrong, a professor who began documenting minority music in the ’80s. “He deserves a mention—he recorded so much in the ’80s and ’90s, and much of it would’ve been lost otherwise. He found some of those singers and brought them to Kunming and did this recording.”

But it isn’t just sound Sea of Wood is documenting, it’s the very shape of cultural resilience. The languages alone form a tapestry more intricate than many realise. “There’s several language families,” Sam explained. “I’m not a linguist, but there’s Tibeto-Burman, which is a large family that accounts for many of the tribes. So they’re kind of—you can tell that they’re related to some degree. Then you have Hmong, which is different from everybody else. Then you have Bai language, which is a language isolate, so no one knows where they came from. And then you have Austronesian language, which is similar to maybe Pacific Islanders.”

Some of these groups have taken on particular prominence in the label’s orbit. “The Wa people and the Bulang people are both important for the label, because many of the musicians are from these two ethnic groups. Well, they’ve just become a particularly exuberant group of people.”

That exuberance has crystallised in an unexpected form: reggae.

“This is an example of this musical kind of, like, roots revival type movement having an effect on the people of the area,” Sam explained. “So—very marginalised, right on the border, not really feeling that they have any influence on any aspect of Chinese life. Suddenly, through music, they’ve become influential.”

The epicentre of this transformation? A small town called Ximeng, perched on the Myanmar border. “If you chose a point in China which is the hardest place to get to, that would be one of them. Furthest away from Beijing or whatever. And it’s become a musical centre.”

Kawa, one of the region’s most prominent acts, emerged from this milieu. “The bass player from Shanren, my band, was from that area. He joined Kawa. And Kawa became a reggae band that incorporated elements of the Wa people’s music. And reggae then became the new traditional music. So—new nan-reggae. It came from one little town, and it empowered these ethnic groups. Not to do anything in particular—but just to be confident. Have pride.”

The sound may have started as fusion, but now it’s a language of its own. “It’s almost become a style of reggae. Not standard reggae—it has reggae elements, but it has Yunnan elements too, which make it different.”

There’s no strict formula. “It has no definite elements that have to be in it. It could be a song that’s put to reggae with no traditional instruments, or it could have traditional percussion, maybe plucked instruments, wind instruments. That gives it the flavour.”

And what binds it isn’t just rhythm, it’s relationships. “I guess it’s also the attitude, and how the musicians have influenced each other—and just the way that they work—it’s become almost like a model for other people. It’s become a style of playing.”

Lyrics, too, are a negotiation. “Well, linguistically, it’s a mixture. There are Chinese songs, because there’s a limit to using the Wa language—everybody else, including all the other ethnic groups in Yunnan, don’t understand it. But there’s also a need to do it—to have that identity. So it’s a mixture. Some songs in Chinese, some in Wa, now some songs in various other languages of the bands. Songs in Yi, songs in Bulang, Hani, Miao…”

Though some might call it “Yunnan reggae” from the outside, Sam stresses that it isn’t a formal label. “This is a style where people now say, ‘Oh, we play Yunnan reggae’—but it’s more someone from the outside would say that.”

From polyphonic planting songs to syncopated dub grooves, Sea of Wood’s catalogue captures a striking negotiation between roots and reinvention. And in Sam Debell’s telling, it’s not just about making music—it’s about creating space.

What happens when a rice-planting chant from the hills of Yunnan meets a dub producer in London? The answer, according to Sam Debell, is something that doesn’t just cross borders, it scrambles them entirely.

The turning point was a single track: “B’Lang Beauty.” “Bulang being one of the ethnic groups I mentioned earlier,” Sam reminds us. “It was a traditional song, and Puman turned it into a reggae track. They discovered it during their travels through the region.” Sung by a local elder with a choir of his students, the piece features the Bulang ding — a rarely recorded plucked instrument. Puman’s version is an audacious blend of deep tradition and inventive groove: unmistakably reggae, but not like any reggae you’ve heard before.

But musically, it wasn’t straightforward. “It’s not a straight 4/4 beat. Like a lot of Yunnan music, it doesn’t fit into a standard time. It’s based on phrases that go together—could be a phrase of 7, a phrase of 5, then 4, then 6. Quite often it has to do with how the dance would be done. How many times you kick your foot—kick it twice, it becomes a 5 instead of a 4.”

That rhythmic logic, rooted in the body rather than the barline, posed a challenge in translation. “You have to see how they’re dancing to understand why. But the challenge was to make it… so people don’t even notice that when they listen.”

The result is subtle but striking. “It doesn’t sound… you know, what are they doing? It’s weird—there’s an extra beat, why? Fitting the bass line in, fitting everything—it’s a bit weird, but it sounds cool. So it stood out on the album.”

Sam had a hunch it would resonate beyond Yunnan. “We asked Nick Manasseh in London to remix it, he’s a reggae legend.”

Manasseh, a foundational figure in the UK dub scene since the 1980s, was immediately intrigued. “Yeah, I reached out specifically to ask him to mix this song. I played it to him thinking, this will interest him, this is something he’d want to do. And he agreed—which worked! And then he ended up doing most of the tracks on the album as well.”

But what came back was more than just a finished track. “When Nick mixes a track, he always does dubs. So when you get a track back from him, you get a whole folder—like 15, 20 files. Different mixes, dubs, his own dubby favourite, the official version, an instrumental, all of it. That was new for us. In China, you just get the one track back, that’s it. So we were like—whoa. These dubs sound amazing.”

The ripple effect was immediate. DJ and producer DSK—a long-time friend and collaborator based in China—heard the Manasseh dub and wanted to remix it. “He has a label called DNA Records. He puts out 7-inch vinyls—funk, breaks, hip-hop, reggae, whatever he likes or remixes. He heard Nick Manasseh’s dub and wanted to do a remix. So he did his version, and we put that out on a 7-inch. The original was on the B-side, and his dub mix was on the A-side.”

Then came the unexpected call: L’Entourloop got in touch. Festival favourites across Europe, known for their cinematic, sample-heavy blend of reggae and hip-hop, they wanted to do their own version.

“That one became the most influential—especially in Europe, but also in the U.S. That kind of collaboration is interesting, because it’s really different from the rest of Puman’s music. So it’s not like the band suddenly becomes famous because of it. People who like L’Entourloop hear it as their track. But what it’s done is help pull people towards the rest of the album. On Spotify it’s listed under Puman, so it’s part of their catalogue.”

In a sense, it’s the perfect metaphor for the Sea of Wood approach: begin with something rooted and local, then remix it outward, letting it mutate, refract and circulate. A traditional song of the Bulang people becomes a French festival banger. And suddenly, somewhere between Pu’er and Paris, the sound finds a new audience.

And now Puman—Sea of Wood’s breakout act—are preparing for their next chapter. “Yeah, they’re the band we’re really focusing on at the moment,” Sam said. “That track came from their first album. They’ve now finished a second album—it’s not released yet, but it’s ready. We’ll release it next year. It kind of depends on the touring schedule. We’ve got gigs booked, I can’t say too much yet, but yeah—June or July 2025. It’ll be their first proper tour abroad.”

For a band from the mountain villages of China’s far southwest, whose songs carry the textures of languages rarely heard even within China, this is no small thing. But Sam makes no grand statements. No ‘East meets West’ headlines. Just the quiet conviction of someone who knows how much remains unsaid—and unheard.

With Puman poised for international touring and their second album ready for release, Sea of Wood Records is now moving at a faster pace than ever. But rather than doubling down on one “sound,” the label has leaned further into Yunnan’s natural diversity. Their most recent release shows just how far that openness can go.

“We’ve just released an album by a band called Wild Mushrooms,” Sam told us as our conversation continued at WOMEX. “It’s titled Under The Dragon Tree and came out on Spotify on the 16th of October—so really recently.”

The name might suggest pastoral whimsy, but the sound is something else entirely. “It’s reggae-influenced, but much more psychedelic,” Sam explains. “They mix ska, reggae, dub, and psychedelic rock with Hani music. So it’s got traditional instruments, traditional singing—but a totally different energy from Puman. Same philosophy: take something local and reimagine it. But the outcome is really different.”

As with much of the label’s work, the challenge isn’t just musical—it’s also cultural and contextual. “I’m really curious to see how people hear it. My instinct is usually okay—but I always worry about certain things, like sound choices. There might be a keyboard line that sounds very modern in China, but in the West, people might go, ah no, that sounds cheesy, that’s dated. Or a guitar tone that was cool 30 years ago.”

In this sense, Sam’s role is equal parts producer and translator—not just between languages, but between aesthetics. “So my job is to try and limit that kind of thing, without interfering too much in what the band are doing.”

One track in particular stands out for him: “Sulaku.” “It’s a ‘calling of the spirit’ song—it comes from a shamanic ritual that’s still very much practiced. The idea is that when you suffer a shock—like an accident, illness, emotional trauma—your soul leaves your body, and the body gets sick. So they do this ritual to call the soul back. And ‘Sulaku’ is that ritual, turned into music. It’s a long track, and you can really hear that shamanic element. It’s unique.”

That same spirit of transformation runs through another standout act on the label: Bagedai.

“They were released in May this year,” says Sam. “They’re Yunnan reggae, but a lot of people ask, ‘Is this really reggae?’ And the answer is—well, no, not really. It’s Yunnan reggae. It’s different.”

Their entire setlist is made up of traditional Wa songs. “And they’re amazing melodies,” he says. “These are songs that have survived through generations. I like to think of that as natural selection—only the best songs made it this far.”

What Bagadai manage to do is retain the emotional charge of these ancestral melodies while letting them bloom through modern groove and collective energy. “They’ve captured the essence of Wa spirit in these songs—but in a modern way. It’s infectious. People hear it and go, wow. Maybe they start with questions—‘Is this reggae?’, ‘What is this?’—but then they just forget all that. It’s powerful music.”

He recommends “Endless Love” as an ideal entry point. “As mentioned, their self-titled debut album came out in late May and received really good reviews,” Sam notes. “We’re very happy with that.”

It’s a clear example of the balancing act Sea of Wood occupies—straddling local authenticity and global accessibility, oral tradition and digital platforms, improvisation and documentation.

One recent case involved Tulegur, a band from outside Yunnan. “They released their latest album in September,” Sam explains. “They’re the only band on our label not from Yunnan. They’re from Inner Mongolia—a really cool band. Kind of grungy guitar, progressive rock mixed with Mongolian folk singing.” But translation became a barrier. “Because we couldn’t translate the lyrics properly, we couldn’t do a physical CD release. That’s the kind of problem we face.”

That difficulty isn’t unique. In fact, one of the most persistent challenges Sea of Wood encounters is simply understanding the words. “Singing in ethnic languages is getting more and more difficult, because it’s hard to translate. Take the Wa language—it varies from village to village. So finding someone who knows where a song comes from, who can accurately translate it, is tough. Often we get it wrong.”

Even with the best intentions, accuracy is elusive. “Someone might say, ‘That’s not the right lyric.’ Or, ‘That word doesn’t mean that.’ Even the band themselves might not pronounce it exactly right. And if we can’t translate it, then we can’t release it—especially for a physical CD.”

Those linguistic issues are compounded by the reality of censorship in China. Translating lyrics across dozens of dialects—many without standardised writing systems—can delay a release. But it’s the content itself that sometimes poses the greatest risk. “Yeah, definitely. Especially when it comes to lyrics,” Sam explains. “On platforms like Spotify, there’s not really a limit—if we accidentally release something with problematic lyrics, it only becomes an issue if it gets big. If it stays under the radar, no one notices. But on Chinese DSPs, it’s different. It could be a problem—tracks might get taken down.”

Still, challenges like these don’t seem to shake Sam’s focus. Sea of Wood isn’t chasing scale. It’s carving out something quieter, more grounded: a space where musicians can speak in their own voices—rooted in tradition, but open to evolution.

This sense of purpose is also reflected in how the label shares its music with the world. “We’re not that visible,” Sam admits. “Our Facebook and Instagram are barely known. But we’ve got a website, and everything’s on Spotify. If you search ‘Yunnan’, a lot of the music will come up.”

For those curious where to start, he has a clear recommendation. “The Rough Guide to Yunnan is a very good place to begin—especially if you want a cross-section of Yunnan music.” The label’s catalogue has steadily expanded, and Sam is keen to point listeners to the core artists shaping its sound. “For Yunnan reggae, I’d say listen to Shanren, Kawah, Puman, Bagadai, Wild Mushrooms—maybe Manhu. We’ve mentioned most of them in this interview, and I’ve suggested songs for nearly all of them.”

That discovery process is key to the label’s ethos. “We just need people to get into it,” he says. “You can contact us through the website. You can buy CDs. It’s all on SeaOfWood.com—easy to remember.”

As the conversation draws to a close, what becomes clear is that Sea of Wood isn’t just a record label. It’s a bridge; a listening post where regional sounds meet international ears, where field recordings echo across dancefloors, and where remoteness becomes resonance.

Some obstacles persist. Translating lyrics accurately enough to satisfy state censors—especially for physical media—can still be an issue in places like China, where language and politics are deeply entangled. But Sea of Wood’s hybrid structure—a label that’s as much inside Yunnan as it is looking outward—gives it rare agility.

“I think what helps,” Sam says, “is that there are two foreigners—me and Elie Rosenberg, my project partner—who are really invested in the scene. People can talk to us. That’s something that’s held a lot of Chinese music back.”

But it’s not just about language, he adds, it’s about presence. “There are plenty of Chinese people who speak English just fine. But it’s not only about that. It’s about building trust, being involved—showing up, going to showcases, coming to WOMEX, doing the work.”

And that consistency takes energy. “We’re hoping we can afford to keep doing it—and keep the momentum going.”

When asked what people outside China often miss about its music culture, Sam doesn’t hesitate. “There’s a huge wealth of cool music in China. Really creative people, and a situation that, in a way, lends itself to creativity. It’s a fast-developing scene. You could maybe compare the 1990s in China to the 1960s in the West—a period where things just exploded. New music emerged rapidly, people were suddenly exposed to different sounds, people started putting stuff out, experimenting, trying things.”

It’s a portrait that rarely makes it past surface-level international media, which tends to frame Chinese music as either a traditional artefact or a political flashpoint.

“Well, outside China, people’s impression of Chinese music often starts with politics, right? That’s usually the first association. Then maybe it’s traditional Chinese instruments—like Peking opera, or instruments like the pipa, erhu, guqin. And don’t get me wrong—those are great. That’s an important part of the culture. But it’s only one tiny part.”

The reality, he says, is far more dynamic. “There’s so much more going on—indie, electronic, hip hop, punk, experimental, folk fusions. But because of language, because of how music platforms are separated, it’s very difficult to access. That’s a barrier, but also an opportunity.”

One track he points to that challenges those assumptions is “Dance of the Shortgrass.” “It shows a different side of Chinese music that’s outside of the mainstream associations.”

And as for the future?

“I think Sea of Wood is going to be a very, very big thing,” Sam says with quiet conviction. “We’re doing a lot of work to get the music out there. We’re staying focused on what we set out to do—support artists, document traditional music, bridge cultures—but doing it in a way that’s also forward-looking, not just preservation.”

The upcoming releases—Puman’s second album, Wild Mushrooms’ genre-defying fusion, the growing interest around Bagadai—all suggest a label not simply curating Yunnan’s musical past, but actively shaping its sonic present.

“There’s so much more to come—new releases, international showcases, deeper fieldwork. And the more we go into it, the more we realise how much there still is to discover.”

He pauses, not for effect, but as someone who knows just how much work lies ahead.

“It’s a long game. But I think Sea of Wood is only just getting started.”

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