Huayu: A master director who debuted as a singer

Chapter 9 Piracy?

In Tsim Sha Tsui, there is a small office building with a Star Entertainment sign hanging on it.

In an office space of less than 30 square meters, Zheng Hui sat on a leather sofa covered in cigarette burns, opposite a bald, greasy middle-aged man.

The boss held the Sony cassette tape in his hand as if he were weighing a piece of pork.

"A Mandarin song?" The boss tossed the cassette tape onto the coffee table.

Zheng Hui reached out and pressed the cassette tape: "Yes, it's a Mandarin inspirational song."

"Inspirational?" The boss scoffed, flicked a cigarette out of his pack, and lit it with a tilt of his head. "Young man, are you still half asleep? What era are we living in?"

What everyone wants to hear is love and heartbreak, the Pacific Ocean of sorrow. Inspirational? Who wants your inspiration? The Filipino domestic helpers working in this city?

Zheng Hui looked directly at the other person: "There is also a Mandarin market in Hong Kong, and the Four Heavenly Kings also release Mandarin albums."

"You dare compare yourself to the Four Heavenly Kings?" The boss exhaled a puff of smoke from his nostrils. "They're Heavenly Kings; even their farts are praised. You're a newcomer. In this industry, a newcomer singing Mandarin is a dead end."

He flicked his cigarette ash, which landed on his pants. He reached out and swatted it away. "To tell you the truth," he said, "only those mainland trolls in the north listen to this kind of song."

If you were willing to sell pirated tapes on the streets of Shenzhen, you might find a decent market. In Hong Kong? Forget it. We deal in high-end goods here; we don't accept this kind of country bumpkin stuff."

"Country bumpkin?" Zheng Hui repeated the three words.

"Isn't that right?" The boss pointed out the window: "Look at the street, who's wearing a portable music player listening to Mandarin inspirational songs? Everyone wants to be stylish and trendy. Your so-called stubbornness and dreams are too old-fashioned."

What's trending now? Suffering, misery, and madcap love are all the rage. Your stuff has no market.

Zheng Hui stood up, reached for the cassette tape on the table, and put it in his pocket.

"Sorry to bother you."

He turned to leave, and just as his hand touched the doorknob, he heard the boss's voice behind him: "Handsome, you look good. If you're willing to have dinner with a few rich women, I can introduce you to a way to make money faster than singing."

Zheng Hui opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. The door frame shook, trapping the unspoken curse inside.

Walking on the streets of Mong Kok, with neon signs flashing overhead, Zheng Hui looked at the cassette tape in his hand.

There is no place to stay here.

These people in Hong Kong are arrogant and look down on everything, clinging to their so-called high-end market.

The boss is right, this song is for mainland Chinese listeners.

How many people are there in mainland China? Over a billion.

How many people are there in Hong Kong? A few million.

For a market of millions of people, why would I beg and plead, sign a contract of servitude, and put up with this kind of humiliation?

Zheng Hui stopped and looked at a music store on the side of the road. Richie Jen's "Too Softhearted" was playing inside, and several students in school uniforms were picking out cassette tapes at the door.

Piracy?

An idea suddenly popped into his head, but he wasn't in a hurry; he'd go record the song first.

Zheng Hui hailed a red taxi.

"Where to?"

"Hung Hom Railway Station." Zheng Hui opened the car door and got in. "Buy tickets. To Guangzhou."

He'd figured out the people here; he didn't even bother recording here anymore. He didn't want the musicians to start nagging about his Mandarin songs during the recording. He'd rather record back in mainland China—it'd be much easier.

……

In Guangzhou, at a recording studio owned by Swan Audio-Visual Publishing House, Zheng Hui entered the studio's reception room.

A middle-aged man was drinking tea. The sign on the table read: Director of Recording Department, Zhang Jianguo.

"Recording a song?" Zhang Jianguo put down his teacup and looked Zheng Hui up and down.

"Yes, self-funded, recording ten songs, with the best studio and the best musicians."

Zhang Jianguo pointed to the price list on the wall: "Prices are clearly marked. 800 yuan per hour for a large booth, 400 yuan for a small booth. Musicians are extra. What level do you want?"

Zheng Hui pulled out a chair and sat down: "The best one is the kind that can read the score, can record as soon as it enters the studio, and doesn't require me to teach it how to play."

"Then we'll have to find a teacher from the provincial song and dance troupe to earn extra money."

Zhang Jianguo opened a notebook: "Guitar player, bassist, drummer, keyboardist. This whole team would cost at least two thousand yuan per song. And that doesn't even include studio hours."

Two thousand? Zheng Hui did the math in his mind.

In Hong Kong, hiring a musician with even a little bit of fame starts at HK$5,000, and you still have to be mindful of their mood. If they're in a bad mood or think your song isn't good enough, they might just do a shoddy job during the recording, and you can't really complain.

Here, two thousand RMB can hire the principal player of a provincial-level orchestra.

These people are government employees; they have solid basic skills and excellent sight-reading ability. They'll do anything for money, and their attitude will be absolutely impeccable.

Zheng Hui took out a wad of cash from his bag: "Okay, let's go with this standard. Here's the deposit. I want to start as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow."

Zhang Jianguo took the money, counted it, checked its authenticity, and then smiled: "Great! Since you're so straightforward, I'll give you a heads-up. Tomorrow happens to be a day off for those teachers from the provincial song and dance troupe; I'll arrange it for you."

However, let me make this clear from the start: these teachers' time is valuable. If your score isn't done well and it wastes time, you'll still be charged.

Zheng Hui patted his bag: "The sheet music is all here, and the parts are all written out."

Zhang Jianguo glanced at Zheng Hui with some surprise: "An expert? That makes things much easier."

……

The next morning, at Recording Studio No. 1.

Once the soundproof door was closed, the outside noise disappeared instantly, and the four musicians were already in place.

The drummer is twirling his drumsticks, adjusting the tension of the snare drum's skin; the bassist is plugging the cable into the amp; the guitarist is testing the sound; and the keyboardist is tweaking the synthesizer's tone.

There's no question of anyone looking down on anyone else. These guys are all seasoned veterans; taking jobs and making money is their right. The employer pays them, they do the work—that's professional ethics.

Zheng Hui went into the sound room and distributed the divided sheet music to everyone.

"The first song, 'Stubborn,' is in 4/4 time and has a tempo of 138. The drums should be hard, the bass should be heavy, and the guitar strumming should be crisp."

The bald drummer took the sheet music, glanced at it, and said, "You're here already?"

"Come."

Zheng Hui returned to the control room, put on his monitoring headphones, and said into the microphone, "Record the drums and bass first, go through it once."

"Thump, tap, thump, tap."

The drumbeats exploded in my headphones.

Zheng Hui closed his eyes, and the original music in his mind and the sound from his headphones began to overlap.

Zheng Hui pressed the intercom button: "Stop, drummer, loosen the bass drum a little, don't tighten it so much. I want that feeling of stepping on a heartbeat, not stepping on a metal plate. And snare drum, tone down the harmonics a bit."

The bald drummer paused for a moment, then picked up the drum key and turned it twice: "Like this?"

He stomped on it twice more.

"Yes, that's the feel." Zheng Hui nodded: "Bass teacher, when you get into the chorus, hold the slide a little longer, leave some space for the guitar."

"clear."

A true expert's skill is immediately apparent. The musicians breathed a sigh of relief; this young man was indeed an expert, requiring no further explanation of why he wanted a multicolored black.

Since everyone here makes a living through technical skills, this kind of communication is the most comfortable and worry-free, which is why the recording progress is surprisingly fast.

Separate recording tracks are extremely efficient.

First came the base drums and bass, then the guitar and keyboard, and finally only the vocals were left to be recorded.

Zheng Hui walked into the recording studio, which was covered with sound-absorbing cotton. He adjusted the position of the pop filter and cleared his throat.

The backing track started playing in my headphones.

"If I'm different from the world, then let me be different..."