Chapter 77: A Few Tales of Conquering the God of Sleep

The 1990s were not only a vibrant era for the music scene, with artists flourishing in all directions, but also a golden age for producers. The achievements of Masahide Sakuma, producer of GLAY; Takeshi Kobayashi, behind Mr. Children; Hiroshi Ijichi, who produced SPEED; Tetsuya Komuro, the mastermind for Namie Amuro; and later, Tamio Okuda, who shaped PUFFY, and Tsunku, the father of Morning Musume, were all plain for everyone to see.

Since 1978, Tetsuro Oda's name had always been intertwined with BEING. Despite having composed songs for others that sold tens of millions over his career, he had rarely had the chance to fully oversee and control a singer’s style as the chief producer. As a top-tier composer, especially with the precedent set by Tetsuya Komuro’s meteoric rise, it was impossible for Oda not to aspire to become a producer and create the works he truly favored.

This was evident in his discovery and nurturing of Nanase Aikawa. If he didn’t hold high hopes for her, Oda wouldn’t have personally taught her music, bestowing upon her all he had to offer.

Upon hearing Ye Zhao’s answer, Oda scratched his head. “You aren’t thinking of becoming her producer yourself, are you?”

“I hope so,” Ye Zhao answered honestly. “Even if I don’t hold the role long-term, it’d be best if I could oversee Kawamoto’s musical style during her first year or two as a newcomer.” If the production rights weren’t in his hands, his plans would be meaningless.

“Quite ambitious, aren’t you?” Oda smiled, then grew serious. “But let me remind you, for a new artist, the producer’s importance is undeniable. I know you have some talent in composing, but being a singer-songwriter and producing for others are two different things. Every decision you make, Ye, could determine her future, so you must be extremely cautious.”

Ye Zhao listened intently and responded solemnly, “I understand, Teacher.”

“I only felt these things when I decided to become Misaki’s producer,” Oda leaned back into the sofa, relaxing. “Some people think holding someone else’s fate is exhilarating, but for me, it’s nothing but tremendous pressure.” Sensing he’d made the atmosphere too heavy, he joked, “On the other hand, it’s been years since I felt this kind of pressure—so in a way, it’s not bad.”

“Pressure is not bad?” Nanase Aikawa tilted her head.

Oda smiled affectionately at her. “Pressure gives you motivation to break through your limits. It’s the same reason I keep pushing you. If I didn’t spur you on, you’d probably have lost yourself in pride by now.”

Nanase Aikawa gave a dismissive huff—not out of defiance this time, but somewhat sheepishly. This would later be proven when she returned to the studio to record.

After finishing their coffee, Nanase Aikawa volunteered to return to the recording booth for another try, with Ye Zhao and Oda overseeing her session. Oda’s debut song for Aikawa was titled “The Girl Who Refuses to Only Dream,” with both composition and arrangement handled solely by him. Unlike BEING’s keyboard-heavy style, he emphasized the bass, so even though he was the composer, the song bore no trace of BEING’s signature sound.

After Aikawa sang for a while, Oda invited Kawamoto to join her, letting the two girls of similar age collaborate on a song. Unfortunately, their voices didn’t mesh at all, and after one song, the experiment ended. While they were still in the booth, Oda said to Ye Zhao, “Regarding Kawamoto’s future, have you considered Avex? They’re quite accommodating to new producers. If you’re interested, I could introduce you.”

“Let’s wait until Kawamoto’s demo is finished before discussing that,” Ye Zhao replied, neither accepting nor rejecting.

Oda nodded. “That’s fair.”

…

After leaving the studio and settling into the car, Kawamoto turned to Ye Zhao. “I never expected to meet Oda-san—it really startled me.”

“Are you a big fan of Oda-san?” Ye Zhao asked.

“Rather than liking or admiring him, Oda-san seems almost like a deity to me.”

“That’s high praise. So why didn’t you take the chance to chat with Oda-san in the studio?”

Kawamoto shook her head. “Just responding to his questions took all my effort. If I tried to talk more, I’d probably just end up saying something that sounded like empty flattery.”

Ye Zhao laughed at her answer, then changed the subject. “By the way, you got along well with Misaki-san.”

“Yes, before leaving, we exchanged pager numbers and agreed to be ‘pager pals’.”

A pager pal was essentially the precursor to the later ‘email buddy,’ friends who used pager messaging instead of texts to keep in touch. With cell phones yet to dominate the market and text messaging just emerging, nothing could dampen the Japanese public’s love of messaging, so ‘pager pals’ naturally came into existence.

…

Since Ye Zhao wasn’t planning to sign Kawamoto to BEING, he could no longer use their music teachers or studios. But with money not an issue, these things were quickly solved.

The agency arranged for Kawamoto to attend a vocal school in Shinsen-cho, five sessions per week. The tuition would be fronted by ZYE and deducted from her earnings after debut. On the two days she wasn’t at the vocal school, she would go to the studio for vocal recording trials.

Given Kawamoto’s talents, Ye Zhao didn’t have much to worry about—her only real shortcoming was her singing technique. Yet her powerful, distinctive voice wasn’t a weakness but a unique asset. For other singers, breathlessness would be a glaring flaw, but for Kawamoto, it became an intriguing charm.

…

April 8th, 8:55 PM.

“Brother Ye Zhao, have you switched the channel yet?” Nakama Yukie urged on the phone.

Holding his phone between shoulder and ear while slicing ham, Ye Zhao replied, “Hang on, I’ll switch it right now.”

“If I hadn’t called, you probably would’ve forgotten, right?”

“Uh… Well, I remembered, didn’t I?” Layering sliced ham, perfectly cut eggs, and shredded cabbage onto convenience store bread, he finished assembling a rather lazy sandwich.

Between the relentless pace of March and the equally hectic April looming ahead, Ye Zhao had managed to secure a rare day off on the eighth. He didn’t take a short trip or meet friends—he simply holed up at home and slept the clock around.

At two in the afternoon, after three hundred rounds with sleep, Ye Zhao finally broke free of his bed and climbed out of the covers. He went downstairs for a light meal at a café, wandered aimlessly through the maze-like streets of Sangenjaya, and caught a play at a small theater, “Caligula.” The acting was solid if unremarkable, but their effort was evident, making the ticket price worthwhile.

After the show, back home, Ye Zhao sat at his typewriter for the first time in ages, carefully translating the film scenes flowing through his mind into words.

At the end of his first term at screenwriting school, his teacher had praised him highly. With a new confidence born of recognition, Ye Zhao decided to practice by adapting his favorite film—Isao Yukisada’s 2004 “Crying Out Love in the Center of the World.”

At this point, Yukisada was still working as an assistant director under Shunji Iwai. Ye Zhao had spotted his name in the credits at the premiere of “Love Letter.” It would still be a while before he started directing on his own.

Ye Zhao’s adaptation of “Crying Out Love in the Center of the World” wasn’t meant to be produced. The film's success was more than just cinematic; the original novel had sold over a million copies, later surpassing three million, and the radio drama had been a phenomenon. Now, since the novel didn’t exist, Ye Zhao had no intention of writing such a book himself. Without the original, and with a different era, a flop could mean ZYE’s demise.

He chose this film to practice for two reasons: one, its box office success meant it had merit; two, the film was made in 2004, but now it was 1995. Many scenarios didn’t match the current era. Unlike songs, movies with “time anomalies” feel odd, but if Ye Zhao ever ventured into filmmaking, whether in Japan or elsewhere, he would have to face this challenge.

Before he had to confront this, he needed to devise a solution.

…

“Brother Ye Zhao?” Nakama Yukie’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Ah, I hear you. I’ll turn on the TV now.” Freeing the phone from shoulder and ear, he went to the living room, found the remote, and switched to NTV.

Tonight was the broadcast of the SP drama “Kindaichi Case Files,” for which Ye Zhao had composed the score. Since he only provided music and didn’t appear, his name would roll by in the credits at most, so he had little expectation. Nakama Yukie, on the other hand, had remembered this detail—a passing remark Ye Zhao had made when she visited the agency.

Having successfully passed the Sunrise Girls Academy entrance exam, Nakama Yukie had now moved into the apartment rented for her by Ogipro, and begun systematic training in acting and other skills. Newly arrived in Tokyo, perhaps worried her daughter would have no support, Nakama Yukie’s mother had brought her to visit ZYE when she accompanied her to the city.