Chapter Twenty-Nine: Sixty-Eight Million

The so-called TIE-UP refers to a commercial strategy in which a song is used as the theme for a film, TV drama, commercial, or anime series, thereby exposing audiences to the song in a semi-compulsory manner as they watch television or animation. This method significantly increases the song’s exposure and in turn drives sales. The use of TIE-UPs is ubiquitous: take, for instance, Kazumasa Oda’s famous “Sudden Love.” Had it not been chosen as the theme for “Tokyo Love Story,” it might never have sold over two million copies. Or, more recently, in 2016, the runaway success of the theme song “Love” from the hit drama “We Married as a Job,” starring the nation’s sweetheart Yui Aragaki, owed a great deal to the show's ever-climbing viewership.

In the domestic market, TIE-UP’s power is not to be underestimated either. For example, Super Girl contestant Zhang Hanyun’s song “Sweet and Sour Is Me” became a nationwide sensation when paired with a popular yogurt commercial. Or that acrobat-turned-singer, whose entire career could essentially be summed up by his hit “Faint Fragrance.”

In the 1990s, one reason BEING’s artists could conquer the market without much promotion was that nearly every single they released had an impressive TIE-UP, such as commercials for the Pocari Sweat series or theme songs for anime like “Slam Dunk” and “Dragon Ball.” Even without showing their faces, their songs received massive exposure, ensuring robust sales.

As BEING’s new “super rookie,” Ye Zhao naturally benefited from the company’s strong financial backing. BEING, still riding high at this point, spared no expense and landed him the coveted Pocari Sweat ad campaign—truly a “super TIE-UP.” Reflecting on how BEING would later decline to the point of having nothing to offer but “Detective Conan” TV themes, Ye Zhao couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret.

In the era of the 8CM single, CDs served only one purpose: music. There were no music videos, no bonus handshake tickets, nothing but the two songs themselves. Once the music production was complete, Ye Zhao’s task jumped straight to the final step: shooting the cover.

If you look at the album covers of BEING’s artists from the 90s, they generally fall into several categories: candid headshots in the recording studio, headshots with a blurred background, seemingly casual full-body street shots, and the most classic—the profile headshot. In short, the company strove to present the artist in their most natural state.

Yet, while what reached the audience seemed unpolished and natural, in reality, each setup required hundreds of photos and three hours of shooting. By the end, Ye Zhao was taut with exhaustion, both mentally and physically.

Previously, Ye Zhao had only witnessed the so-called “freedom and naturalness” of BEING’s artists from afar. Now, being part of it, he realized that the freedom captured on camera was itself a form of intense constraint. Clearly, if one wished to truly do as they pleased in this industry, joining a “free” company was not enough.

The single’s cover was finally decided: a candid profile shot of Ye Zhao seated before the mixing console. The cool tones highlighted his sharply defined features to striking effect. Even Ye Zhao had to admit, upon seeing this photo which so perfectly showcased his looks, that BEING’s photographer truly deserved praise—a master of his craft!

With all preparations complete, the pressing plant began producing the singles.

Although Ye Zhao’s “Summer Colors” had already surpassed 600,000 copies on the ORICON chart, Takayuki Nagato did not immediately ramp up production for his debut single. As a seasoned businessman, Nagato knew well that the explosive success of “Summer Colors” was a perfect storm of timing and luck. While the single had given Ye Zhao name recognition to rival established stars, how much of that fame would translate into sales for the new single remained to be seen. After all, the history of pop music is littered with flash-in-the-pan artists who burned bright and faded fast.

A prime example: after “Road” sold 1.8 million copies, THE Tiger Dragon released “Road, Chapter 2” the following year. Despite the golden brand, sales plummeted by 1.4 million, with the second single selling only 400,000 copies. Subsequent releases fared even worse, eventually pushing the band out of the mainstream. While established stars have a stable fanbase, for new artists like Ye Zhao, still in the “song famous, singer not” phase, predicting sales is a gamble.

After weighing the options, Nagato set the initial shipment at 100,000 copies. That’s neither a lot nor a little; most new artists see first releases of 3,000 to 20,000 copies, and reaching 100,000 is a major victory. For a rookie with a hit single like Ye Zhao, however, 100,000 was merely passing grade.

Since BEING was determined to push Ye Zhao, Nagato went further. In addition to the Pocari Sweat TIE-UP, he also purchased the golden advertising slot right before the start of MUSIC STATION, RB’s most famous music program, to promote Ye Zhao.

MUSIC STATION, which began in 1986 and was still going strong in 2017, was the dream stage for countless artists. As the highest-rated, most consistently watched music show, each episode drew an audience of at least ten million. To advertise before its opening was incredibly effective—though correspondingly expensive.

With BEING investing so much, if Ye Zhao failed to sell at least 100,000 copies, his standing with Nagato would plummet—from golden boy to dispensable clay figurine.

Perhaps it was the unshakable confidence of one reborn, but Ye Zhao never doubted he would become famous. With the resources he held, he could tag half the entertainment industry just by writing songs for others. Any ordinary newcomer would be trembling with anxiety at such massive investment, but Ye Zhao remained unfazed.

By late August, both the Pocari Sweat and MUSIC STATION advertisements aired simultaneously. Over half the country now knew that Ye Zhao, the singer of “Summer Colors,” had joined BEING and would release a new single on September 7th. Even his sister Ye Qing called to boast that everyone at school knew she was his sister.

“What’s the use of just knowing? They should go buy the record,” Ye Zhao said, munching on a rice ball.

“Brother, you’re so mercenary,” Ye Qing teased before shifting the topic. “Oh, by the way, even Mom and Dad know you’re a singer now.”

“And how did they react?”

“No reaction at all. But whenever the Pocari ad comes on TV, Mom always watches it through to the end.”

Ye Zhao fell silent, biting into his rice ball with extra force.

That day, after finishing his vocal lesson, Ye Zhao left the classroom to find a pager message from Arakawa Kazufumi. He headed to the company front desk and borrowed the phone to call back. “Mr. Arakawa?”

“Ye, if you have time, come over to Apollo.”

“What’s the matter?” Ye Zhao asked lazily.

“Your first royalty payment has been calculated.”

“I’ll be right over!” Now, that perked him up. For Ye Zhao, who was still living off savings and BEING’s base salary, and already worrying about having to busk on the street for living expenses after rent, no words were sweeter than “royalty payment calculated.”

He arrived at Apollo, where Arakawa himself was waiting at the door and led him straight to his office.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Arakawa.”

“It’s only proper,” Arakawa replied with a smile, ushering Ye Zhao to the couch. Then he turned, opened a drawer, and handed Ye Zhao a bank card. “This is your first royalty payment, with Apollo’s advanced production costs already deducted. Future royalties will be deposited to this card annually.”

As an honest young man, Ye Zhao made no attempt to hide his delight at seeing money. Grinning broadly, he accepted the card with heartfelt thanks.

“I should be the one thanking you,” Arakawa replied warmly. “Thanks to your project, the president has taken a liking to me—I’ve already been promised a promotion at the end of the year.” Clearly, he planned to stay on at Apollo.

After a few more polite exchanges, Ye Zhao took his leave. Once outside, he couldn’t wait to visit a nearby bank and see just how much he’d earned.

The ATM line was long in the afternoon, but Ye Zhao patiently waited his turn. When the woman ahead of him finally finished, he quickly took out his bank card, carefully inserted it, entered his PIN, selected “balance inquiry,” and was nearly blinded by the string of numbers that appeared.

Count the digits... Sixty-eight million yen!