Chapter Fourteen: Preparing the Underground Single

The afternoon shoot went smoothly, passing on the very first take. When the director called for a halt, he praised with a look of approval, “Not bad at all, you got into character so quickly.”

“Thank you, director, it’s the least I could do,” Ye Zhao replied modestly, his gaze drifting past the director to the figure sitting outside the set, Shiori Kudo, who was sipping from a bottle of mineral water. He paused for a moment before quickly looking away.

Although Ye Zhao wasn’t exactly a seasoned veteran, neither was he a naïve newcomer; he certainly wouldn’t be flustered or unable to meet someone’s eyes just because an eighteen-year-old girl had kissed him. In fact, thanks to that little episode, his demeanor toward Shiori Kudo during filming became much more relaxed and natural. At least now, anyone looking could tell he was about to confess rather than ask for a loan.

The final scene was scheduled for dusk, so before the evening descended, the crew simply waited. With experienced actors, such a short commercial would have required only the afternoon, but Ye Zhao was a complete novice.

Shiori Kudo had other shoots to attend to, and since she no longer had any scenes left, she didn’t need to remain. After explaining to the director, she left the set under her manager’s guidance. Before departing, she said goodbye to the crew one by one, and when she reached Ye Zhao, she simply bowed and said politely, “It was a pleasure working with you. Goodbye.” The well-behaved, reserved girl before him seemed a far cry from the mischievous little devil in the lounge.

Just as Ye Zhao didn’t take the incident at noon to heart, neither did Shiori Kudo. For her, it was likely a whim, perhaps a fleeting fondness for Ye Zhao, but much like young people playing truth or dare in a karaoke room, such intimacy was merely a bit of fun outside of work.

By five in the afternoon, the sky was growing dim.

The last scene was the simplest of the entire commercial: Ye Zhao merely needed to look dejected while walking down the street. When the pager in his pocket rang, he would take it out.

To film this scene, the crew cordoned off a quiet street and hired dozens of extras to pose as passersby, creating the illusion of a bustling city. Such a simple scene, Ye Zhao naturally passed in one take. When the director announced the wrap, his first reaction was to quickly remove his school uniform jacket—wearing it in June left his shirt soaked with sweat.

For the wrap party, the crew booked a small Japanese restaurant in Asakusa. With Shiori Kudo gone early and the staff unfamiliar to him, Ye Zhao had met only the director, Kyohei Inamura, briefly during the audition. Under such circumstances, he focused on his food, pretending to be invisible.

Once staff began leaving in succession, Ye Zhao, full and content, rose to take his leave as well. Kyohei Inamura asked, out of courtesy, if he needed someone to escort him home. Ye Zhao, not wanting to be a bother, declined and left the restaurant alone, boarding a train back to his apartment.

...

Apollo Records was located in Shimura Sanchome, housed in an old, unremarkable four-story office building. The day after finishing the commercial shoot, Ye Zhao brought his scores and, following the address on Arakawa Kazushi’s business card, found his way there.

The reception desk at Apollo Records was staffed by two young women in their twenties, both sporting ponytails and black hair, looking like sisters at first glance. Since Ye Zhao had called ahead, as soon as he gave his name, one of the receptionists kindly led him upstairs to Arakawa Kazushi’s office.

Arakawa Kazushi was standing by the window on the phone. Upon seeing Ye Zhao, he gestured for him to wait. Besides Arakawa, two other employees—a man and a woman—sat in the office, busy with paperwork. When Ye Zhao entered, they glanced at him but showed no curiosity.

After about ten minutes, Arakawa finished his call, greeted Ye Zhao with a smile, and led him to the seating area by the window. He personally made two cups of coffee and said, “Welcome. I must say, your performance left quite an impression on me.”

“Thank you,” Ye Zhao replied, taking the coffee. “I’ve come today to discuss releasing an underground single.”

“No problem. But before that, I should explain the process of publishing an underground record,” Arakawa said. “Strictly speaking, Apollo Records is just a distribution company. While we can connect you with studios and pressing plants, since we don’t handle those ourselves, you’ll need to pay extra for mediation, in addition to recording, distribution, and printing fees. Also, due to cost, the minimum run for a record is 1,500 copies.”

To outsiders, releasing an underground record might seem simple, but in reality, it was more complicated than expected. More than the complexity, Ye Zhao was unsure whether the one million yen in his pocket would be enough.

“Mr. Arakawa, if the minimum run is 2,000 copies, how much would it cost to release a single?”

“Well,” Arakawa got up, fetched a calculator and paper, and itemized the costs.

“Ordinary studio rental is about 12,000 yen per hour, calculated by your usage. If you need musicians for accompaniment, there’s an additional commission. If you need arrangements, underground records buy out arrangements outright, so you’ll pay about 80,000 to 120,000 yen per song. As for PV and cover design, that depends on your plan. Printing costs vary; a disc costs roughly 15 to 30 yen depending on quality, CD cases about 60 yen each. Besides music-related expenses, there’s our commission and mediation fee…” Arakawa tapped away at the calculator and gave a figure: “1,180,000 yen.”

Ye Zhao picked up the pen and crossed out accompaniment and arrangement, “I can handle musicians and arrangements myself.” He also crossed out PV shooting, “It’s just an underground single, so a PV isn’t necessary.” He paused at cover design and crossed that off as well, “I’ll provide the cover myself.”

“In that case,” Arakawa subtracted those costs, “820,000 yen. And I’ll give you a further discount—790,000 yen. How does that sound?”

Ye Zhao nodded. 790,000 yen was a fair price, though it assumed he could handle arrangement and accompaniment, and didn’t include recording costs.

Immediately, Ye Zhao and Arakawa drafted a contract: Apollo Records would provide recording equipment, disc production, and distribution channels, limited to 392 record stores in the Tokyo area; Ye Zhao would be responsible for lyrics, composition, arrangement, accompaniment, and cover design.

After confirming the details, Ye Zhao signed the contract and paid a 150,000 yen signing fee to Apollo Records. As for the actual recording schedule, he would need to assemble his musicians and then book a studio.

If a song’s melody is its face, then arrangement is its skeleton, and accompaniment is its temperament—none can be dispensed with. With his current abilities, Ye Zhao could barely manage simple arrangements, but handling all instrumentals alone was out of the question. Thus, he needed outside help.

The person he thought of was Riku Watanabe.