Chapter Eleven: Summer's Famous Melody

The demo he sent to Sony Music disappeared without a trace, and the contract presented by Yuko Nakano also dispelled his idea of signing with a management company as a roundabout way to break into the industry. Other artists might be able to wait patiently for their day to shine, but Ye Zhao could not, because what he possessed was time-limited, and with each passing day, its value would only diminish. So, on the very night after meeting with Yuko Nakano, Ye Zhao began to hatch a rather bold idea in his mind: to use his one million yen to self-fund the release of an underground single.

On the RBORICON annual singles chart in 1993, the third place was taken by an underground single called “Road.” It was said that when the band tried to release this song, they approached forty-four record companies, but not a single one would agree to publish it. In the end, they had to release it through an indie label, and the single went on to sell nearly two million copies that year. The band, THE Toraryu, became an overnight sensation, fiercely courted by all the major record companies.

Moreover, because it was an independently released single, all the royalties for the lyrics and music, the master royalties, the publishing royalties, and all secondary usage fees belonged to the band. The band’s vocalist, George Takahashi, who wrote both the lyrics and the music, earned as much as two hundred million yen in royalties in just one year.

Ye Zhao didn’t intend to replicate such a miracle; he only wanted to produce a hit single to serve as his calling card for entering the mainstream music scene. Was he just an unknown nobody right now? That was fine—he could create his own business card.

Since he was staking everything he had in this all-or-nothing gamble, Ye Zhao was extremely prudent in song selection. He even passed over several million-selling singles that would become classics in years to come.

But earlier, as he stepped out of the restaurant and felt Tokyo’s stifling heat, a song suitable as a single’s title track immediately floated into his mind. This song, released in 1997, never sold by the millions, but its immense popularity made it the number one “song people most want to hear in summer” for more than a decade, becoming an enduring summer classic in the hearts of RB’s people.

Its name was “Summer Hue,” originally written by a folk duo called Yuzu.

In 1994 RB, there was a special circumstance: it was the second hottest summer in Tokyo during the entire 1990s. Though the true heat of July and August had yet to arrive, the heatwave was already noticeably fiercer than in previous years. Releasing a simple, fresh, catchy summer folk tune at this time would surely sweep away the frustration brought by the oppressive weather.

The most direct way to test whether a song resonates with the public is, of course, to perform it live. So after thinking of this song, Ye Zhao immediately decided to give an impromptu public performance right there.

—

Yuki Ueda was a student at Aoyama University. Though she had loved music since childhood, she never pursued it as a career, instead studying diligently and earning admission to this prestigious private institution. Once, while visiting Ueno Park, she had been inspired by the buskers’ brilliant performances and began to entertain the idea of singing on the street herself.

On this day, as usual, she finished her studies, took the train to a restaurant where she used to work, and the kind owner granted her permission to perform outside. But things weren’t going well for her today—after three songs, she’d only received a scattering of coins. Just as she was starting to feel discouraged, a young man and woman came walking toward her.

The man was as handsome as a movie star, and the woman was strikingly beautiful—Yuki Ueda even thought they might both be celebrities. It seemed they were heading into the restaurant, but upon seeing her, the man paused thoughtfully, then stopped in front of her and placed a 1,000-yen note into her guitar case.

It was the first—and as it turned out, the last—1,000-yen bill she received that day. She sang for another hour or so, sweat trickling down her temple in the oppressive heat. It was little wonder no one stopped to listen; who would want to stand around sweltering in such weather just to watch a busker perform?

As she was packing up her tips, having decided to finish early, the same couple she’d seen at dusk appeared in front of her again. The man stepped forward and asked, “Excuse me, may I borrow your guitar for a moment?”

Yuki Ueda’s first thought was that this man was going to serenade the girl beside him; after all, she’d seen such scenes countless times in romance novels and movies. Wanting to help and remembering that this man was her biggest customer today, Yuki graciously said, “Please, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” The man took the guitar from its stand and expertly tuned it, clearly no novice. But instead of serenading the girl as she’d imagined, the man faced the street with the guitar, cleared his throat, and strummed a chord—the exact same setup as when she herself performed.

No way, she thought in disbelief. Borrowing her guitar at night just to busk in her place? Was he just bored? Her gaze at the man grew subtly critical.

At that moment, the man began to play.

“Folk music? He’s quite good at guitar,” Yuki Ueda mused as the intro played. But as the melody unfolded, she realized something was off: she didn’t recognize this song.

As a busker, her greatest pride was knowing every song of any renown. On top of that, as a music enthusiast, she bought new albums every week at the record store. So, if she hadn’t heard a song before, it was either very obscure—or original.

“Original or not, this intro is just so pleasant…” As Yuki’s mind wandered, the man began to sing.

“The cats in the parking lot are all yawning…”

The first line shone before her eyes, conjuring a vivid scene in her mind.

—

“A big sunset at half past five, just like when we were kids.”

“Whether it’s the sea, the sky, the clouds, or us… everything is dyed crimson…”

As the song continued, Yuki Ueda felt her thoughts take flight, carrying her back to her hometown of Fukuoka, back to the long embankment she walked every day to school. She had passed along it countless times with her friends after class—those had been her most carefree days.

—

“On holidays, everyone’s sleeping in, but you’re always busy.”

“Let’s find time to go there again.”

“The sound of the midsummer tide, so mysteriously soothing, let’s forget everything in the sound of the waves…”

—

“Down this long slope, you sit on the back of my bicycle, I grip the brakes tightly, and slowly, slowly, we coast down…”

The song’s lyrics were never sentimental, its melody bright and brisk, yet Yuki Ueda found her eyes growing red. Since coming to Tokyo, her days had been a blur of classes, part-time jobs, and busking. Even when she went shopping with friends, the fashion-conscious girls would lose themselves in the labyrinthine malls, and when they finally emerged, the red that colored their world was no longer the sunset, but the neon lights of the bustling city.

“In August, I’ll return home and go to the fireworks festival with my friends,” Yuki promised herself. Looking at the young man again, her earlier confusion and disdain had long since vanished, replaced by deep admiration. Such a nearly perfect song, if it had already been released, would surely be sung on every street corner; since she had never heard it before, there could be only one explanation—it was truly his own work.

A great song can transcend its era, and this one proved it. On the busy street, as Ye Zhao sang, more and more people turned to look. If this were the future, with its flourishing internet, his performance would probably have quickly spread across video sites and social media. But for now, all the audience could do was stop and listen quietly.

When the song ended, the listeners, still immersed in the world of music Ye Zhao had created, took a moment to recover. The first to break the silence was a little girl, about five or six years old, holding an ice cream cone, dressed in a white dress trimmed with lace, her hair in a princess style, with big, fawnlike eyes—altogether adorable.

She skipped over to Ye Zhao, opened her small, tightly clenched left hand, and held out a twenty-yen coin, probably change from her ice cream. She crouched down and gently placed the two coins into the guitar case, beaming. “Big brother, you sing so well!”

The rest of the audience, as if reminded, eagerly reached into their wallets and began dropping notes of various denominations into the guitar case.