Chapter Sixteen: Production and Launch

Watanabe Riku found a three-member band performing at a LIVE HOUSE to serve as accompaniment for Ye Zhao. The three were about the same age as Watanabe Riku and had been playing their instruments for nearly ten years. Though they all had regular jobs and treated music as a side pursuit, their playing was exceptionally skilled.

Since the recording studio charged 12,000 yen per hour, to save on expenses, the five first gathered for two days of rehearsal in an abandoned old warehouse before officially entering the studio. Ye Zhao played lead guitar, the band’s vocalist—a tall, thin man named Tanaka—handled rhythm guitar, the bassist, Okazaki, sported a vivid blue dragon tattoo on his arm, and the drummer, Takada, was a habitual smoker who puffed away even while playing. As for Watanabe Riku, though his main instrument was bass, he had first learned piano, so he took on the role of keyboardist for this session.

To accommodate the band members’ work schedules, the recording sessions were set for eight in the evening.

Submarine Studio in Yoyogi, one of Apollo Records’ regular partners, was modest in scale and simply decorated—the most striking feature being a giant poster of the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” hanging in the lobby, which inspired the studio’s name.

During two days of practice, this temporary ensemble developed enough chemistry to work smoothly together during the recording of the backing tracks. Their suggestions for arranging the two songs were invaluable to Ye Zhao. When the tracks were finished and Ye Zhao asked Watanabe Riku about payment for the band, Watanabe waved it off: “No need to talk about money. Tanaka and the others are old friends. A few drinks at the izakaya will settle it.”

With the backing tracks done, Ye Zhao spent another ten hours recording vocals, after which the studio staff took over for final mixing and mastering.

Ye Zhao had also prepared for the album cover. In a previous photo album, there was a picture taken during a vacation on the Shonan coast: shimmering waves, foam breaking on the sand, and Ye Zhao sitting, facing the vast sea. Though only his back was visible, it made a perfect summer single cover—the sea, after all, must be the star of summer.

He copied the photo at a print shop, adjusted the tones and size, and delivered it to Apollo Records. At this point, Ye Zhao had completed everything he could.

Once mastering was finished and Ye Zhao approved it, the contract moved to its final stage: contacting the pressing plant for mass production, then distributing the finished single to record stores in the Tokyo area via Apollo’s channels. Ye Zhao also had to pay the remaining balance—600,000 yen—plus eighteen hours of studio time, totaling 216,000 yen. All told, producing the single cost him 1,006,000 yen, exhausting his bonus and leaving him 6,000 yen short. Had it not been for discounts from Arakawa and Shi, and Watanabe Riku’s friendly sponsorship of the band, his limited funds would never have sufficed.

Incidentally, under RB copyright law, royalties are generated upon CD manufacture, not upon sale. So for these two thousand CDs, assuming a 20% return rate, Ye Zhao would still be owed royalties for 1,600 units—but for now, that money was out of reach.

A week later, production was complete, with a release date set for June 22. Officially the 22nd, but since ORICON charts tally sales from the previous day, the single would actually be available on the 21st. As singer and producer, Ye Zhao received the finished product ahead of time.

Removing the shrink wrap and opening the CD case, he found only a compact 8cm disc—no extras, not even a lyric sheet, which was printed on the back of the cover. But this minimalist configuration was standard for 8cm singles at the time.

8cm discs, introduced in the late 1980s, dominated the RB music scene until Hikaru Utada launched the 12cm single revolution at the end of the 1990s. Their small size made them easy to carry and, compared to square 12cm CDs, they saved materials and greatly reduced production costs. If Ye Zhao had pressed a 12cm single, he would have paid nearly a third more in manufacturing fees.

Yet despite their advantages, 8cm singles had a major drawback: limited capacity, holding only four tracks. As the industry evolved and new music marketing strategies emerged, 8cm singles gradually faded into history.

Looking at this single he had managed almost entirely on his own, Ye Zhao was filled with emotion. The effort and hope he poured into it rivaled the expectations of parents longing for their child’s success.

He received ten copies from the record company. With few friends in Tokyo, he gave one to Watanabe Riku, one each to the three band members, mailed one to Fujii Natsumi, and kept the rest for himself.

Among singles released on June 22, the most attention-grabbing were TRF’s “Boy Meets Girl” and DEEN’s “Don’t Look Away.” The former was a powerhouse from the Komuro family, the latter a chart-topping act from BEING. That week’s energy was focused almost entirely on these two groups; record stores prominently displayed their CDs at the entrance and played their songs in-store.

Ye Zhao’s single, meanwhile, was relegated to a hidden corner with a heap of unknown artists. The 1990s were a golden age for CD sales—even comedians forming temporary groups for TV shows could sell hundreds of thousands of copies—but that didn’t mean anyone could carve out a share of the enormous market.

In 1994 alone, over 300 groups—excluding actors, idols, models, and comedians—debuted as singers. Veteran record store clerks didn’t bother checking the names of these obscure acts, mechanically placing their CDs on the shelves, unconcerned with whether a dragon might someday emerge from among them.

For singers with their own record companies and agencies, releasing a new song meant an all-inclusive promotional campaign: TV appearances, magazine interviews, even arranging small LIVE performances or street shows, all designed to maximize exposure during the publicity period. For underground artists like Ye Zhao, hoping for a breakthrough, outside of rare chances like being picked by a radio show, they could rely only on the reputation of their music.

This is why underground singers, after gaining some recognition, often strive to debut in the mainstream. Despite greater musical freedom and better profit shares, they have no guarantee of publicity or exposure. Without compelling work, they are quickly forgotten.