Chapter 22: Legends of an Era

RB's copyright system is clear-cut: the royalties for a single comprise about 6% of the CD's retail price. The songwriter and composer each receive between 2% and 3%, the singer 1%, and the arranger either gets a one-off payment or a share; if they opt for the latter, they receive roughly one-twelfth of that 6%. Beyond that, every time the song is played in a karaoke bar or on the radio, another royalty is collected. Television stations must pay royalties even if they use just a single line of the lyrics. And since this is an underground single, even the original disk royalties—which normally have nothing to do with the singer—belong entirely to Ye Zhao.

All told, Ye Zhao now estimates his net worth to exceed fifteen million yen. Even after subtracting the outrageous 37% personal income tax, he still has about ten million yen left.

What should one do with ten million yen? At the very least, he ought to move out of his five-thousand yen-a-month wooden apartment into a nicer elevator-equipped building, and take his bank card for a stroll through Roppongi in Minato Ward, rewarding himself from head to toe. Unfortunately, due to the royalty settlement system, Ye Zhao must wait several more months before he can actually access the money. Until then, he has to keep living in his cheap apartment, eating discounted bento, and selling his songs.

Still, it’s not without its perks—the record company and agency representatives know exactly where to find him.

That day, Ye Zhao had just returned home, only to be surrounded by scouts lurking downstairs. They greeted him with bows while stuffing business cards into his hands.

“Hello, Mr. Ye Zhao, I’m a manager from AMUSE Agency. Do you have time to talk now?”

“Mr. Ye Zhao, please speak with me!” said a scout from EMI Records.

“Mr. Ye Zhao, I’m with Sony Music…”

Ye Zhao accepted the cards one by one, smiling with modest restraint. “Thank you all, I’ll consider it.” He then parted the crowd and ascended the stairs to his apartment. Seeing this, the scouts dispersed.

Back in his room, Ye Zhao spread the cards across his table; no fewer than twenty companies had reached out—AMUSE, EMI, SONY, Universal, Avex, HORIPRO, BRUNING…

He picked up Sony’s card and tossed it aside. He had sent them a demo, but never heard back—clearly abandoned. They ignored his work, yet now want to sign him? Not a chance. Years later, when AKB48 became a sensation, Sony’s failure to recruit Ye Zhao was brought up again, and these two incidents cemented Sony’s reputation as the industry’s archetype of poor judgment.

As he browsed through the cards, one from BEING Inc. made him pause. BEING, though merely mid-sized, was renowned in both RB and China. This was not only due to the commercial miracle dubbed the “BEING Dynasty” in the early 1990s, but also because they produced theme songs for classic anime like Slam Dunk, Cooking Master Boy, and Detective Conan.

In his previous life, Ye Zhao’s routine after school was to turn on the TV and watch Slam Dunk while doing his homework. He even started playing basketball because of its influence. BEING, which handled all the opening and ending themes for Slam Dunk, could be considered his introduction to RB’s music.

Given his familiarity with BEING’s history, Ye Zhao knew their hallmark was rock. While most of their songs could only be called pop rock compared to true rock, the public’s impression remained: BEING equals rock.

Why would such a company be interested in a singer whose main genre is folk?

He pondered this, then took the card downstairs and dialed the number from a public phone.

A gentle woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”

“Hello, is this Ms. Kaoruko Fujiwara from BEING?” Ye Zhao asked, reading the name printed on the card.

“Yes. And you are?”

“I’m Ye Zhao, the one who just received your card. Do you have time now? I’d like to talk.”

“Of course. By the way, have you had dinner, Mr. Ye?”

“Not yet.”

“In that case,” Kaoruko Fujiwara suggested, “why don’t we meet at a Chinese restaurant in North Ikebukuro and talk over dinner? If I’m not mistaken, you’re Chinese, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Her thoughtfulness left Ye Zhao with a favorable first impression.

In 1994, BEING was at its peak, boasting top musicians like B’z, WANDS, ZARD, DEEN, and Maki Ohguro. The legendary composers Oda Tetsuro and Kuribayashi Seiichiro, known as the “Double Dragons,” had not yet departed. Most people believed BEING’s glory would last and never fade.

But Ye Zhao knew otherwise. Komuro Tetsuya would soon conquer the scene with his electronic dance music; Oda and Kuribayashi would leave due to disagreements with Nagato Daikou. Then came the era of female divas: Ayumi Hamasaki and Hikaru Utada would dominate fiercely, pop music would diversify, and BEING, stubbornly clinging to its ways, would be overwhelmed by wave after wave of change—falling from industry titan to second-rate company. Newcomers would fail to make a splash; veterans would retire, pass away, or lose popularity. Only B’z and Mai Kuraki would remain as their standard-bearers.

Knowing history’s course, Ye Zhao still put BEING at the top of his list. Sentiment played a part, but the real reason was BEING’s status as a pure record production company. They handled only album production and distribution, never meddling in their artists’ management contracts. This guaranteed both freedom and spared singers from double exploitation by agencies—a perfect destination.

That evening, the Chinese restaurant Yongli was packed to bursting. Kaoruko Fujiwara had somehow managed to book a table at this peak hour.

Unlike Yokohama’s Chinatown, which was home to long-established immigrants, most Chinese in Ikebukuro had arrived in recent years. They set up homes, opened restaurants, grocery stores, even Chinese bookstores, turning the northwest exit into a new Chinese street. Though Ye Zhao lived in Ikebukuro, he had never once set foot in these restaurants, preferring cooking himself to eating Westernized Chinese food.

Kaoruko Fujiwara, around thirty, wore a blue silk blouse paired with a black-and-white striped long skirt, sporting a short bob and a beauty mark beneath her right eye. She always met Ye Zhao’s gaze when she spoke. “We’ve already seen your talent in your single ‘Summer Shades,’ Mr. Ye. I didn’t expect you to be so handsome as well.”

“You flatter me, Miss Fujiwara.”

“Are you familiar with BEING? We may not match the size of Universal or Sony, but we have RB’s top production talent and have achieved impressive results in recent years. If you join us, I believe we’ll create a win-win situation.”

“I certainly know about BEING’s triumphs on the ORICON charts. But as far as I know, your company’s trademark is rock. Why would you consider signing someone whose main genre is folk?”

“That’s not quite right,” Kaoruko Fujiwara replied. “Music is universal—you can’t crudely divide it by labels like rock, folk, or jazz. Take your single ‘Summer Shades’ as an example: with rearrangement, it could easily shift from folk to metal. The true measure of a song is its melody, and it’s your composing potential that caught our attention.”

“But as you saw, my single’s main track is folk, and the C/W song is rock. I plan to experiment with even more styles in the future. Even if I join BEING, I won’t simply follow your company’s trend and become a rock singer. Wouldn’t that conflict with your philosophy?”

Ye Zhao’s words made Kaoruko Fujiwara smile slightly. “Why should it be a problem? We’ve released pop acts like B.B. QUEENS and the girl idol group MI-KE. Artists like Maki Ohguro have consistently experimented with blues, folk, and other genres in their albums. Besides, BEING’s reputation for rock largely stems from breaking into the market with rock at the right moment. If idols had brought us fame instead, perhaps BEING’s specialty today would be idol music.”

Her candidness amused Ye Zhao, who couldn’t help but internally comment on her “honesty.” Truth be told, though BEING’s founder Nagato Daikou loved rock and their core members—Oda Tetsuro, Akashi Masao—excelled in it, the company’s early policy was “imitation is fine as long as it’s popular.” They focused on rock, but never shied away from trends. Only after their mid-1980s success producing TUBE, and B’z’s vibrant hard rock, combined with Oda’s maturation and the recruitment of arrangers like Akashi, did BEING’s current style crystallize.

When the era of female divas arrived and Hikaru Utada sparked an R&B wave, BEING responded with Mai Kuraki, known in China as one of the Heisei Three Great Divas. Yet in RB, TV hosts openly joked she was “Utada Hikaru the Second.” Later, BEING launched Azumi Uehara, whose appearance closely resembled Ayumi Hamasaki’s. When the industry favored guitar-playing female singer-songwriters, BEING, grasping at straws, packaged Shioli Niiyama as such, though she never wrote a decent song.

In essence, Nagato Daikou was simply a businessman. It didn’t matter if Ye Zhao sang songs unrelated to rock—if he released an album of nothing but cat noises and it sold, Nagato would be fine with it.