Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Millionaire Club

The singers had all made their entrance, and Tamori began his customary round of greetings. To call them greetings was perhaps generous—they were really just brief exchanges of “Hello, so-and-so,” or “Welcome, so-and-so,” the sort of perfunctory small talk that had become his steadfast style over the years. Yet when it came time to greet SMAP, Tamori added a little more: “Your outfits are really something today—are you planning a circus performance or something?”

Masahiro Nakai picked up the joke instantly, “That’s right. So during our act, we’ll have lions and elephants join us on stage…”

The audience played along, letting out a chorus of surprised “Eh~?” at the banter.

“Don’t start making up tall tales on live television, you rascal!” Tamori chided him good-naturedly, then steered the conversation back on course. “Well then, let’s begin tonight’s program.”

Hiroshi Ikushima took up his duties as announcer: “Our first performers tonight are DEEN, who will bring us their hit single, ‘Don’t Look Away.’ Please enjoy.”

Backstage, the crew scrambled to set up DEEN’s instruments as quickly as possible. During this brief interval, everyone on stage moved to the seating area at the back, leaving only DEEN to prepare for their turn in the spotlight.

The format of the show alternated between interviews and performances. For the entire hour-long broadcast, all the guests were expected to sit quietly on the viewing stands, waiting for Tamori to call them up for a chat. Viewers at home might not realize it, but the wait could be excruciatingly dull, especially for solo artists like Ye Zhao who, unless they happened to be seated next to a friend, had no one to talk to. Group acts like SMAP or DEEN could at least keep each other company.

As luck would have it, Ye Zhao found himself seated at the far right of the stands, with Kyoko Koizumi beside him.

Well, there was nothing for it but to let his mind wander.

As the program progressed, two-thirds of the way through, Ye Zhao’s seat was shifted from the second row to a spot beside Tamori.

“Next up, we welcome Ye Zhao!”

“Thank you for having me.” Ye Zhao gave a slight bow.

“First, congratulations—your new single has taken the top spot on the ORICON weekly chart.”

“Thank you.”

“You started out as an underground singer, didn’t you? That song ‘Summer Hues’ really caused a stir. It’s strange, though—how could such outstanding music go unsigned by a record company?”

“Well,” Ye Zhao smiled, “I did want to debut in the mainstream. I sent demo tapes to several labels, but none picked me. Later, while I was busking on the streets, someone from an indie label found me and offered to release my music. That’s how ‘Summer Hues’ came about.”

“Eh~? I bet those record companies who passed on you are kicking themselves now.” Tamori laughed. A seasoned host, he knew better than to ask outright, “Which company rejected you?” And as a newcomer, Ye Zhao was wise enough not to name names on live TV and risk offending industry giants like Sony.

“You look really young. How old are you this year?”

“Nineteen—just a bit over that.”

“How nice,” Tamori said with a hint of nostalgia. “When I was nineteen, I was still a clueless country boy working odd jobs. By the way, how does it feel to be on TV for the first time?”

“I’m pretty nervous. Just now, coming down the stairs, I kept worrying I’d miss a step and fall flat on my face.” Ye Zhao half-joked.

Hiroshi Ikushima teased, “That’s perfectly normal for a first-timer. There have been people who actually fell off the stairs, you know. And some get so nervous before the performance that they almost can’t sing at all… Will you manage? You’re up next, after all.”

The audience responded with waves of friendly laughter.

Ye Zhao smiled, “Well then, please look forward to it.” With that, he stood and made his way to the stage. The band was already in position. Ye Zhao picked up the acoustic guitar resting nearby, raised the microphone stand a little, and after a quick adjustment, strummed the strings to signal he was ready.

The performance began.

As a top-tier music program, at that very moment, tens of millions were watching Ye Zhao’s performance from their living rooms. Among them were those who had bought his records, but far more had never heard of him or only knew his name in passing.

Before this public appearance, speculation about Ye Zhao was rampant. Malicious rumors abounded—that he was hideous, or had a problematic personality—rumors that only intensified after he signed with BEING, a label notorious for keeping its artists out of the limelight. For a time, even Maki Ohguro was suspected of being a different person from the one on her album covers, before she ever performed publicly.

Now, Ye Zhao stood in the center of the stage, singing in a crisp white shirt—a striking image for the viewers. For those who’d never heard of him, their first impression was overwhelmingly positive; even those who had bought his singles found their affection for him soaring. If they’d only liked his music before, now they found themselves wanting to like the person as well.

It must be said: good looks are always an advantage.

At this moment, the vocal lessons Ye Zhao had taken with BEING also bore fruit. A singer who can only deliver a “train wreck” live, no matter how good the song or how attractive they are, will never win over a demanding audience—especially in an era when genuine talent still matters more than image.

While his singing wasn’t yet dazzling, it was at least on par with his recordings—enough to avoid disappointment from those hearing him live for the first time.

To make a successful debut performance on a program watched by tens of millions—the promotional effect was self-evident. That very night, after the show ended, the MS program hotline at TV Asahi was bombarded with calls from across the country. Beyond questions about Ye Zhao’s background, every caller wanted to know: when would this mysterious singer appear on MS again?

If the deluge of calls reflected the audience’s curiosity, the ORICON chart results that followed were proof of a concrete, lasting impact.

When Ye Zhao appeared on MS, sales of “Rainbow” had already reached 750,000 copies. Both Nagato Daikou and Ye Zhao himself were more than satisfied with that number—after all, “Rainbow” had been on sale for less than three weeks, and at this rate, a million copies was within reach. “Summer Hues” had only just crossed the 700,000 mark, and as autumn approached, that summer single was slipping off the charts.

Since the ORICON chart tallies sales from the previous day, the true effect of Friday’s MS broadcast would only become clear when the weekend numbers were released.

On Friday, “Rainbow” sold a little over 47,000 copies. Compared to the runaway sales of the second week, the slowdown was obvious. Without a boost, sales would only decline, and with new singles about to be released, “Rainbow” would soon fall out of the top spots. Appearing on MS at this moment was nothing short of a shot in the arm for the single’s performance.

On Sunday evening, an ORICON fax was delivered to Nagato Daikou’s desk. On the long ranking sheet, “Rainbow,” which had slipped to second place the day before, now sat firmly at number one with sales of 207,000 copies—leaving the runner-up more than 100,000 behind! With this surge, “Rainbow” officially surpassed one million copies sold in its third week on the market.

…

At eight that evening, a taxi pulled up near a high-end yakiniku restaurant in Roppongi.

The man in the back seat handed over a ten-thousand yen bill. As he waited for his change, the driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, hesitated, and asked, “Excuse me… are you Mr. Ye Zhao by any chance?”

The man smiled, “Do I look that much like him? I get that a lot.”

“I see…” The driver nodded, somewhat disappointed, and handed back the change and receipt. “Here’s your change.”

After getting out, he entered the restaurant, where a well-trained hostess greeted him with a polite smile. “Welcome. Are you dining alone, or do you have a reservation?”

“I’m meeting friends in the Shichisuitei private room.”

“Please follow me.” The hostess gestured gracefully for him to proceed.

The Shichisuitei room was decorated in traditional Japanese style. As the paper door slid open, Akashi Masao, seated at the head of the long, low table, took a hearty swig of beer and grumbled, “You’re late!”

“Sorry, sorry, I got held up on the way,” Ye Zhao replied with a smile, sitting down at the entrance and removing his shoes. He didn’t notice two people stealthily approaching from behind.

With a pair of muffled pops, Ye Zhao spun around in surprise to find Maki Ohguro and Mika Kawashima standing there, each holding a confetti cannon and grinning mischievously.

“Congratulations, Ye-kun! You’re officially a million-selling single artist!”

No sooner had Maki Ohguro finished speaking than everyone in the room broke into applause. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you, everyone!” Ye Zhao bowed deeply.

It was only then that he realized just how star-studded the gathering was. In addition to his arranger, Akashi Masao, Maki Ohguro, and Mika Kawashima, there were Tak Matsumoto from B’z, Show Wesugi from WANDS, Nobuteru Maeda and Michiya Haruhata from TUBE. Among these, B’z, WANDS, TUBE, and Maki Ohguro were already established as top artists with several million-selling singles and albums, while Akashi Masao and Mika Kawashima were the behind-the-scenes heroes supporting these superstars.