Chapter Ninety: Make an Appointment with German Orthopedics

“I’ve actually already been putting songs together for this. Right now is a period of intense promotion, so once I get through this stretch, I’ll start working on the demo.”

Nagato nodded. “In that case, once the rough cut is ready, remember to bring it to me so I can listen.”

Even if Ye Zhao could write the lyrics, compose the melody, and arrange the music all by himself, Nagato remained, in name, his producer. Though that producer had never once stepped into the studio to oversee a recording session for him, and rarely interfered with the making of a single, it in no way prevented him from holding the singer’s fate firmly in his hands.

At BEING, although there were many veteran figures at the core of the company, in truth it was still Nagato alone who called the shots. Everything, from the company’s business direction to the shaping of each singer’s career path, was decided by him personally. Even Oda Tetsuro, who had founded the company with him and served as its chief composer, creating BEING’s commercial miracle, often could only suffer a silent defeat whenever he found himself at odds with Nagato.

If singers with strong, distinctive personalities like Nanase Aikawa or Kazuyo Kawamoto were to enter BEING, they would likely end up losing their shine through sheer incompatibility with the company’s environment, let alone setting any records.

Though he grumbled inwardly, Ye Zhao still agreed at once. Even if Nagato were not his producer, he would gladly have him listen to the demo and offer his thoughts, because in the end, releasing a single and releasing an album were two very different matters. The difference lay not merely in the number of tracks or the price.

RB had the largest single market in the world, and unlike the practice in Europe and America, where artists first released albums and then dropped singles to promote them, RB released several singles one after another and only later included them in an album.

There were two reasons for this. First, making an album took far longer and cost considerably more, while a single was much simpler. Prolific artists could even release one single a month, so if one released music in single form, money came in faster.

Second, a single was an efficient way to test the market. Whether an artist was popular, whether a song’s style was acceptable to the public, all of it showed up immediately, allowing adjustments to be made in response to market feedback. And if a single became a huge hit, including it on an album could very effectively boost album sales as well.

It could be said that the prosperity of the single market was, in fact, also a reflection of the highly commercialized nature of RB’s recording industry.

Releasing a single was relatively straightforward and required fewer considerations, but an album was different. A truly excellent album was not simply a matter of collecting several hit singles or simmering a chaotic stew of masterpieces together. Beyond whether the songs were good in themselves, one also had to consider the cohesion of the whole record. If an album was too disordered or too mixed in style, it was little different from driving listeners away.

And compared with a single priced at one thousand yen, an album cost nearly three times as much. Spending one thousand yen on a beloved single was an easy decision, but spending around three thousand yen on an album that might not even suit one’s taste required a little thought.

Nagato’s business instincts and musical taste were still trustworthy, at least for now, so when it came to choosing songs for the album, Ye Zhao was very willing to listen to his opinion and strive to create a true album, rather than a hodgepodge that wasted good songs.

After they finished discussing the album, Nagato asked as if making casual conversation, “You took on music for a television drama a while back?”

“Yes, the music for The Kindaichi Case Files. At first it was only going to be a special episode, but this summer season they’ve decided to make it a regular series, and NTV asked me to continue. They also invited me to appear as a guest role.” Although the music commission had been sent directly to his agency, the actual production process still took place in a BEING studio, so it was impossible for Nagato not to know. Even so, Ye Zhao still reported it to him obediently.

“So you have to prepare an album, write the drama music, and even act in a TV series. You’ll certainly be busy.”

“It’s fine. The music already has thirteen tracks from the earlier special, so the workload isn’t that heavy, and the drama role is only a guest appearance in one episode. Please don’t worry, President Nagato; it won’t delay the album production.”

Nagato nodded. “I’m not worried about that. It’s just that, Ye-kun, although you may resent hearing this from me, we are BEING. Music must always come first. If something extra can be avoided, it’s better not to do it at all.”

Music is music too... Ye Zhao complained silently to himself. Of course, he understood what Nagato meant by “music first,” and had no desire to argue, so he only nodded honestly. “Understood.”

Nagato was quite satisfied with his response. Smiling, he patted Ye Zhao’s shoulder. “Do your best, Ye-kun.”

Having tasted the benefits of the mysterious, Nagato had resolved to carry that mystique through to the end, to win through music. But as the times progressed—and without even looking to the future, merely in the present year of 1995—the drawbacks of this approach were already becoming glaringly obvious.

And in order to uphold this strategy, Nagato continually restricted the personal development of the artists under his label, refusing to let them take advertising work and opposing their participation in commercial activities. This, too, had already caused dissatisfaction among some singers. After all, being unable to turn popularity into money at the height of one’s fame was a deeply frustrating thing.

...

In the end, the production team of The Kindaichi Case Files met Ye Zhao’s hopes and invited him to play the murderer, Eiji Tono, in the episode “The Murder on Hiren Lake.”

Who was Eiji Tono? A senior from the high school attended by the female lead, Miyuki Nanase, the former student council president, eighteen years old, born into wealth, and a total heartthrob. In a regular school drama, this kind of character would have had to be a leading man at minimum. Even if he were not the lead, he would surely have been someone the heroine deeply loved, or secretly admired.

But in “The Murder on Hiren Lake”? It was the story of a big brother with German-fetish tendencies, adopted by a wealthy family, who went mad murdering people in revenge for his younger sister’s accidental death, only to kill several in a row without getting the right target, then, after being exposed, leap onto a speedboat and blow himself up, leaving his fate unknown... Siblings ended up as lovers, and though the handsome man did not go gay, he did belong to his sister. What a perfectly beautiful world.

Yukihiko Tsutsumi even called him personally, announcing with great pride, “This role was decided by Producer Hazuyama after discussing it with everyone. Well? Pretty good, isn’t it?”

“It really is quite good,” Ye Zhao replied honestly.

Complaints aside, in Kindaichi, a murderer like Eiji Tono was already receiving the highest possible treatment.

“For the time being, the network has only decided that I’ll direct the two episodes set in the Strange House Village and Hiren Lake. Once filming officially begins, Ye-kun can come by the set and take a look, get familiar with how a drama is made. After all, that was something I promised you.”

That was another characteristic of Japanese drama production: many writers were responsible for a series from beginning to end, but almost no directors were. In most cases, several directors would take turns helming the episodes.

...

After the single’s first week, the intensive promotional period finally came to a gradual end, and there was still more than half a month before the drama began filming. Ye Zhao at last found the time to return to the studio. The drama music and the new album were colliding head-on, and between those two major projects still lay his promise to provide a song for SMAP.

So, before the true large-scale work began, Ye Zhao decided to finish a demo of “On the Far Side of the Night Sky” first. That way, when things became truly hectic, he would not forget about it.

Since he was officially supplying a song to another artist, he certainly could not do it the way he had before, simply recording an a cappella line on tape. At the very least, he had to consider harmony and instrumentation. Even if the demo was only a rough draft, the person receiving the song needed to understand its concept. There was also a private motive: Ye Zhao felt that the original version of this song was already perfect, and if possible, he would rather complete the original arrangement in full.

In the recording room, Ye Zhao sat on the floor with headphones on, humming the tune while his pen moved intermittently across the paper before him. The sheet that had once contained only staff lines and lyrics grew richer and richer in content. Only after he settled on the final version did he pick up the guitar, press the record button on the tape deck, and begin recording the proper demo.

When the final syllable ended, Ye Zhao set down the guitar and was stretching lazily, halfway through the motion, when he suddenly froze: standing before the control console across from him was Sakai Izumi, whom he had not seen in a long time.

The moment their eyes met, Sakai Izumi gave a small smile and moved her lips. Though he could not read them, her subsequent gesture was probably something like, “Carry on, don’t mind me.”

Finishing the rest of his stretch slowly, Ye Zhao rose from the floor, took the recorder and the score with him, and walked out of the recording room. A little embarrassed, he asked, “Have you been here long, Izumi?”

“Not really. I probably came in when you picked up the guitar.” Saying that, Sakai Izumi asked kindly, “Why did you stop? Did I interrupt you?”

“No, I’m done already.” Ye Zhao smiled at her and held up the score in his hand. “Are you here to record today, Izumi?”

Sakai Izumi nodded. “It started about two or three days ago. I’m scheduled to release a new single in June, so I can’t afford to be idle. I just happened to hear the studio staff mention that you were here today, and since it’s been a while, I thought I’d come say hello.”

“You just released a new album in March, and you already have another single?” Ye Zhao said, surprised, and then, with some concern: “I may be out of line saying this, but please take good care of yourself when work is this busy, Izumi.” Especially with the kind of nocturnal schedule she kept, the toll on the body would be immense.

“I don’t think that’s out of line at all.” Sakai Izumi looked at him. “On the contrary, hearing such sincere concern makes me very happy.”