Chapter Thirty-Five: Two Kinds of Change

As the most prestigious music program in Japan, stepping onto the stage of "MUSIC STATION" has always been the dream of countless singers and idol groups. Making a successful debut on this show is considered a symbol of breaking into the mainstream music scene. As a result, many artists, on their first appearance, have made all sorts of blunders out of excitement—rambling incoherently or bursting into tears mid-performance are minor matters; there have even been those who missed a step and tumbled down the iconic staircase during their entrance. Even the biggest Western stars, when promoting in Japan, make it a point to appear on "MUSIC STATION."

Don’t be fooled by Ye Zhao’s bold claim that he would only perform on MS after reaching number one for the week; this show is not one anyone can join at will. Especially for new artists, securing a spot on MS is extremely difficult—not only must their sales be up to par, but their company must also pull strings. After all, the program airs only once a week, with just a few guest spots each time; veteran performers and industry insiders are often given preferential treatment, so there's rarely more than two or three spots for newcomers.

In the 1990s, when BEING still had a good relationship with MS, getting Ye Zhao onto the stage wasn’t a difficult feat. As Nagato Daikou had said, as long as Ye Zhao broke into the top ten of the weekly charts, he’d have a shot. But even with that advantage, Ye Zhao insisted on only appearing after taking the weekly crown, signaling his determination to earn his place through sheer ability.

The BEING company headquarters is not far from the TV Asahi building, which is said to be one reason BEING never refused to send their artists to MS—it was just a leisurely stroll away, a good walk to digest one's meal.

On Friday afternoon, accompanied by his assistant, Ye Zhao arrived at TV Asahi's headquarters in a Toyota van. As a live program, MS required several rehearsals before the official broadcast.

Ye Zhao’s assistant, assigned by BEING, was named Akihiko Aragaki, a man in his early thirties, mature in both appearance and demeanor. When Ye Zhao first learned his surname and that he was from Okinawa, he nearly asked if he was related to a certain Yui—of course, that was only a thought. After all, having the surname Aragaki in Okinawa was akin to being a Sato in Tokyo; call out the name and a crowd would respond.

Entering backstage, Ye Zhao, as a newly debuted singer, had a crucial first task: paying his respects. In the Japanese entertainment world, politeness is never misplaced—greeting everyone timely and courteously raises your reputation; failing to do so, or being slow about it, makes you seem arrogant to fellow performers and staff.

In this particular realm of MS, the one person you must pay respects to is the host, Tamori. Since MS began airing in 1986, apart from the first year with Hiroshi Sekiguchi as host, Tamori had held the post for the next thirty years. In that time, he had witnessed the rise and fall of countless stars.

The MS green rooms are assigned by seniority—the top room belongs to Tamori himself, while the singers' rooms are arranged in order of debut date. As the least experienced guest of this episode, Ye Zhao’s room was at the very end of the corridor, conveniently opposite the restroom.

Arriving at Tamori’s room, he knocked, and a voice from within said, “Come in.” Ye Zhao politely announced his presence as he entered.

Tamori’s dressing room was his private domain and was furnished accordingly; many items inside belonged to Tamori personally, making it quite different from Ye Zhao’s own. Bowing, Ye Zhao said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Tamori, I’m Ye Zhao, a new artist. This is my new single—please accept it.” He presented his single respectfully with both hands.

“So, you’re Ye Zhao?” Tamori took the CD, glanced at it, then set it down on the low table in front of him. Behind his tinted glasses, he regarded Ye Zhao with a subtle, unreadable expression. “A promising young man. Do your best in today’s performance.” In these brief seconds, Tamori seemed like an amiable, ordinary uncle, but Ye Zhao wouldn’t let his guard down just because of that. After all, Tamori had stood unshaken in the entertainment world for decades; alongside Takeshi Kitano and Sanma Akashiya, he was one of the “Big Three” comedy legends, standing at the very apex of the industry. While currying favor with him might not bring immediate benefits, offending him meant your career was over before it began.

As a newcomer, Ye Zhao had no illusions about winning Tamori’s favor or engaging in witty banter with him. After the polite introduction, he took his leave with good sense.

Today’s lineup was star-studded, both in the present and in retrospect. Aside from Ye Zhao, the fresh face, the other guests were SMAP, Kyoko Koizumi, Noriyuki Makihara, LINDBERG, NOKKO, and DEEN, who were also from BEING.

No need to explain SMAP—the nation’s idol group. Kyoko Koizumi was a triple-threat queen of acting, singing, and variety. Noriyuki Makihara was a best-selling singer-songwriter, author of SMAP’s “The Only Flower in the World.” LINDBERG were the trailblazers of late-80s girl’s rock with over ten million records sold. NOKKO was the lead vocalist of Rebecca, pioneers of the female-vocalist-with-male-band-members format. As for DEEN, though their peak was brief, at the time they held the stunning record of being the first act to have both a debut single and album sell over a million copies.

Though DEEN and Ye Zhao were under the same label, they’d never crossed paths before. DEEN’s lead singer, Shuichi Ikemori, was shy and kind; after exchanging greetings, he encouraged Ye Zhao, “Don’t worry, just keep calm and you’ll do fine.” Despite his words, Ikemori looked even more nervous than Ye Zhao—a natural reaction, as DEEN had debuted only a year earlier, and BEING artists were known for being introverted.

“Thank you, Ikemori-senpai.” Ye Zhao smiled. He wasn’t particularly nervous; in fact, he was more curious than anything. In two lifetimes, this was his first time entering a studio like this, and for such a major program as MS. Although he couldn’t wander freely, he couldn’t help but let his gaze roam discreetly around.

His wandering eyes soon landed on a familiar group—a team of five familiar faces and one new, led by a petite, unremarkable woman with sharp eyes. This was SMAP and their manager, Michi Iijima. At this time, Mori Katsuyuki had not yet left the group and the agency to pursue his dream of racing, and SMAP was still just a popular idol group—not yet the national phenomenon they would become.

The most remarkable thing about SMAP was not breaking records or producing the phenomenon that was Takuya Kimura, but how their existence fundamentally changed the public’s perception of what it meant to be an idol.

In Japan, the corresponding word for idol is “IDOL.” In the seventies and eighties, it was a revered profession—names like Momoe Yamaguchi, Seiko Matsuda, Hideki Saijo, and Hiromi Go evoked images of beautiful faces, dazzling stage presence, and refined elegance. Idols were the embodiment of all things beautiful.

Traditionally, idols emphasized innocence and virtue; in interviews they’d say their favorite thing was “strawberry ice cream” or that their ideal type was “someone gentle.” To protect their image, variety show hosts—even the most mischievous—would never play pranks on them.

This code was eventually broken by two groups: Onyanko Club and SMAP, though their impact was vastly different.

In the 1980s, Japanese television launched many talent competitions—“Star Birth!” for idols, “Yuzo Miyake’s Power Band Heaven” for bands. In 1985, Fuji TV, following the suggestion of a chubby man with black-rimmed glasses, created “Evening Meow Meow,” recruiting high school girls as assistant hosts and spawning the idol group Onyanko Club. Unlike other shows with rigorous selection, “Evening Meow Meow” had a low bar, letting many amateurs taste the thrill of being an idol.

Onyanko Club’s arrival shattered the pristine image of idols—these ordinary students, suddenly famous, candidly confessed their thoughts on air and were embroiled in negative scandals. The easy entry devalued the idol profession, stripping it of its former glamour and leaving it in disrepute. This led to a decade-long idol “ice age” in Japanese entertainment, and the profession, once every girl’s dream, became almost worthless. Considering the later rise of AKB—idols you could actually meet—it’s clear Yasushi Akimoto bears much responsibility for the further decline in status of female idols.

By contrast, SMAP’s influence was largely positive. Debuting in 1991, they were unlucky enough to launch during the massive success of Chage & Aska’s “SAY YES,” and with the idol market shrinking, they lingered in semi-obscurity. It wasn’t until they appeared on the variety show “Dream MORIMORI” that things changed—they dared to be funny. Before SMAP, idols were not allowed to be comedians, even during the idol ice age. “No comedy” was the last bastion of idol dignity.

SMAP, discarding the old constraints, boldly did everything previous idols would never do, winning immense public favor. Later, Takuya Kimura broke into dramas, Masahiro Nakai became a host, and Shingo Katori even appeared in drag in 2000, releasing his own million-selling single, “Shingo Mama’s OHA Rock.” The five members showcased their talents across diverse fields, proving idols could be multifaceted and genuinely skilled.

Though SMAP disbanded in 2016 after twenty-five years, no other idol group before them had managed to stay at the top for more than two decades. No matter the challengers, their status was unshaken. Through their ventures into every corner of the entertainment world, they flung open doors that had long been closed, giving idols new ways to survive and thrive. In that sense, SMAP, who dared to eat the first crab, earned the respect and remembrance of all idols who came after them.