Chapter 23: Signing the Contract

At this point in the conversation, Ye Zhao stopped beating around the bush and spoke plainly, “Miss Fujiwara, as you saw earlier, besides BEING, I’ve received business cards from many companies, including major ones like Universal, Sony, and Warner. Since you wish to sign me, you’ll need to offer something that truly moves me.”

Fujiwara Kaoruko responded adeptly, “Since you chose to negotiate with BEING first out of so many companies, I imagine BEING must have already impressed you in some way, right?”

A true professional agent! Ye Zhao secretly praised her, then said, “To be honest, an agency recently tried to sign me, but their contract was simply too harsh.” At this, both Ye Zhao and Fujiwara Kaoruko smiled.

“In the end, if signing a contract means I have to unconditionally obey the company’s arrangements—even if they want me to participate in midnight prank shows—that’s just unreasonable. I make my living through music; music is my foundation, and that won’t change. As for everything outside of music, I want the freedom to choose whether to do it, and how to do it. That’s why I made BEING, a company that produces good music without binding artists with restrictive contracts, my first choice.”

Fujiwara Kaoruko was not surprised by Ye Zhao’s thoughts; after all, many musicians shared the same view. Now that Ye Zhao had confirmed BEING’s greatest advantage, she intended to amplify this strength and persuade him.

“I understand your perspective, Mr. Ye. True musicians shouldn’t be disturbed by outside influences. As you said, our company is a record producer and holds only the recording contracts for our artists. As for management contracts, while we can refer them to affiliated agencies, many artists keep their own management contracts, and we don’t force this matter. Moreover, our main revenue comes from record sales, not from the artists’ share, so the issues you worry about won’t arise at BEING.”

“In that case, when shall we discuss the contract details?”

“President Nagato instructed me that if you intend to sign, he will be waiting at the company anytime and will personally discuss the specifics with you,” said Fujiwara Kaoruko.

Such generous treatment for a newcomer proved at least that Nagato Daikichi valued him highly. If he valued him, then surely he had much to hope for from him. Ye Zhao understood this well, but replied candidly, “Then I’ll visit tomorrow, Miss Fujiwara. Please let President Nagato know in advance.”

...

Since B.B.QUEENS’ theme song for “Chibi Maruko-chan” became a blockbuster in 1990, BEING’s development soared like a rocket. From a small player under the shadow of major record companies, it rose overnight to become a dazzling star in the music industry. This dramatic change made many in the company feel inflated, even fostering a “BEING is number one” mentality. Yet as the company’s helmsman, Nagato Daikichi felt a cloud of worry shadowing his heart.

At 45 years old, Nagato Daikichi had witnessed the rise of Western music, new folk, and idols in RB, and had seen their decline firsthand. Now, having finally built his own vast music empire, the downfall of those “predecessors” was vivid in his mind.

By mid-1994, compared to last year’s sweeping triumphs, BEING’s best-selling single, B’z’s “Don’t Leave Me,” had crossed a million sales, but only ranked fourth on the yearly singles chart. In the top ten, whereas last year BEING claimed six spots, this year only B’z, Maki Ohguro, and WANDS remained. In fact, Maki Ohguro’s “Only Gaze at You” was released in December 1993, but since the ORICON chart ends in early December, it counted toward this year.

In contrast to BEING’s waning momentum was the rise of Tetsuya Komuro, who produced three of the top ten singles this year, matching BEING’s tally! And BEING had mobilized its entire company, while Tetsuya Komuro stood alone. Even more threatening, in this rivalry, a band called Mr.Children had burst onto the scene and seized the sales crown for the year!

The emergence of these two forces signaled something to Nagato Daikichi: after years of BEING’s relentless bombardment, the novelty-seeking RB audience was showing signs of auditory fatigue.

BEING depended most on two composers: Tetsuro Oda and Seiichiro Kuribayashi. Aside from a few artists and bands who could compose independently, most sang songs written by these two. Thus, BEING’s roster tended to sound alike; when audiences liked this flavor, the artists soared together, but once boredom set in, BEING’s fate was easy to predict. To prevent a collapse should Tetsuro Oda leave, Nagato Daikichi decided to prepare in advance, bringing in some fresh creative talent—even if many would only shine briefly.

At this time, he spotted an underground singer named Ye Zhao and his single “Summer Colors” in “CDDATA.” After listening to the two songs on the single, Nagato Daikichi keenly sensed Ye Zhao’s immense potential; this talent even reminded him of the youthful Tetsuro Oda—who was also nineteen when Nagato first discovered him.

Perhaps this young man would support BEING’s next decade, just as Oda had. With this thought, Nagato Daikichi immediately contacted Apollo Records, obtained Ye Zhao’s address and information, and dispatched one of the company’s top agents, Fujiwara Kaoruko, instructing her to spare no effort to recruit him!

The next morning at nine, Ye Zhao arrived at BEING’s headquarters in Minato Ward, Tokyo. Riding the wave of recent success, BEING had moved out of its old, shabby rented offices two years ago and now owned its own building in the expensive Minato Ward. After reporting his name at reception, the young attendant led him directly to Nagato Daikichi’s office.

Nagato Daikichi was of average height, with white hair visible at his temples. When he saw Ye Zhao, a spark of delight flashed in his shrewd eyes; he hadn’t expected Ye Zhao’s looks to be so striking—he was practically born to be an artist!

“Please have a seat, Mr. Ye,” Nagato Daikichi gestured to the long leather sofa by the door.

“I’m not yet twenty, so ‘Mr.’ hardly fits. President Nagato, please just call me by my name,” Ye Zhao said as he sat.

Ye Zhao’s modesty greatly pleased Nagato Daikichi, who smiled and replied, “In that case, I’ll take the liberty and call you Xiao Ye.”

A female assistant in a suit and skirt served two cups of coffee. Nagato Daikichi didn’t touch his cup, but got straight to business: “I’m sure Fujiwara has briefed you about the company, and she has relayed your concerns to me. Rest assured, we always respect our artists’ wishes and never bind them with excessive contracts. Nor do we assign work without their consent.”

“With President Nagato’s assurance, I feel at ease. If so, may I see the contract first?”

“Of course.” Nagato Daikichi stood and retrieved a contract from his desk drawer. “Take your time reviewing it. If anything seems unsuitable, let’s discuss it.”

Ye Zhao nodded and took the contract, reading it closely.

The contract was for music: during the term, the company would pay Ye Zhao a fixed monthly salary of 100,000 yen. His music would be released through BEING. For work invitations, Ye Zhao could refuse in advance, but must not be absent without reason. For concerts and company-arranged commercial performances and advertisements, the company would take eighty percent of the income; for music releases, lyric and composition royalties belonged entirely to Ye Zhao. If he provided songs for other artists within the company, payment remained the same; for artists from other companies, BEING would take sixty percent of the purchase price and radio fee, but not participate in royalty distribution.

During the contract, the company would provide professional courses for Ye Zhao at his expense, deducted directly from his income. The initial contract was three years; barring special issues, BEING held first renewal rights.

In the context of RB’s entertainment industry, this was a highly sincere contract: the revenue split was not harsh, there were no clauses restricting his personal freedom, and most notably, lyric and composition royalties—the main income for musicians—were almost untouched by BEING. As for the company’s cut from performances, advertisements, and concerts, Ye Zhao didn’t mind, since the contract granted him freedom to refuse. Whether these activities happened depended on his own wishes.

At this point, Nagato Daikichi said, “If you’re unsure, feel free to take the contract home and study it. You’re not yet twenty; such an important matter should be discussed with your parents.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ye Zhao gently placed the contract on the coffee table. “I can decide this myself.”

“Oh?” Nagato Daikichi looked at him expectantly.

“I have no objections to the contract you’ve offered, President Nagato, and I agree to join BEING. However, I’d like to know—will I debut as a solo artist, or as part of a band like other company artists?” This was a reasonable question; BEING had launched many female solo acts, but almost no successful male solo acts—most were placed in bands.

“With your ability to compose, write, and sing, debuting in a group doesn’t make much sense; you’re already doing everything your teammates would. Of course, if you’re worried about the difficulty of breaking into the market as a male soloist, I could find some musicians for you and form a one-man band like ZARD.”

The RB market was not friendly to male soloists. Compared to the top female soloist Ayumi Hamasaki’s fifty million sales, the top male soloist Masaharu Fukuyama had barely over twenty million. Female soloists were strong, but in front of bands, they had to bow. Among the top ten on RB’s all-time sales chart, bands and groups held six spots; counting ZARD, the one-man band, that made seven. The ‘1+1>2’ effect was especially clear here.

“I’d still prefer to debut solo,” Ye Zhao decided after some thought.

“That’s good, too,” Nagato Daikichi smiled. “Our company has launched many successful bands and strong female soloists like Maki Ohguro, but we’ve never had a successful male soloist. I hope you’ll create a miracle and become a platinum male soloist, no less than Masaharu Fukuyama.”

Masaharu Fukuyama again… It wasn’t easy being a star—always dragged out as a benchmark.