Chapter Twenty-Four: Senior Black

The contract was made in duplicate, and BEING had already affixed their official seal, waiting only for Ye Zhao’s signature and fingerprint to put it into effect. After signing his name, Ye Zhao wondered absurdly if he was now BEING’s top male solo act right from the start.

He put away the contract and asked, “What should I do next?”

“Your ‘Summer Colors’ is doing well, isn’t it?” Nagato Daikichi’s words seemed a bit off-topic.

Ye Zhao nodded, “Apollo said they’ve printed another 200,000 copies.”

“As an underground single, that’s no easy feat.” Nagato Daikichi paused. “But in my assessment, this song’s potential is far from exhausted. This is merely the beginning before it becomes a sensation. If you make your official debut right now, it’ll affect the single’s sales. Most people still believe official releases are superior to underground ones.”

“So, what do you suggest, President Nagato?”

“I listened to your performance on the single—it sounds like you haven’t had formal vocal training.” Seeing Ye Zhao nod, Nagato Daikichi continued, “Your current singing is fine in the studio, but you’ll need to perform live after debuting. You can’t afford to falter then. If a singer doesn’t learn proper vocal technique, their voice will deteriorate faster. My plan is to arrange about a month of training for you, during which you’ll study and prepare songs for your next single. When ‘Summer Colors’ reaches its peak, we’ll launch you at just the right moment.”

The suggestion was reasonable, and Ye Zhao gladly accepted. Once his assistant brought him a company pass, Ye Zhao took his leave. Nagato Daikichi personally escorted him to the elevator—a gesture that would amaze any newcomer.

...

Although musicians didn’t need to clock in like regular office workers, Ye Zhao, as a student enrolled in vocal lessons, had to report to BEING by nine every morning for a ninety-minute class in the morning and two hours in the afternoon. The journey from Ikebukuro to Roppongi was long, and every morning he squeezed into the packed trains, still unable to believe he was now a signed singer.

Arriving at the company, Ye Zhao asked the receptionist for the exact floor of the vocal classroom and walked toward the elevator. A woman wearing sunglasses, dressed simply in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, entered the elevator ahead of him. The doors closed halfway and then reopened—she must have pressed the open button.

Ye Zhao stepped in and politely thanked her, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She had already removed her sunglasses. Her face wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense; rather than calling her pretty or cute, she had a commanding, dashing air—like a charismatic older sister. Her distinctive, cheerful voice was familiar, and a name surfaced in Ye Zhao’s mind.

Among BEING’s theme songs for Slam Dunk, besides the most famous “Four Pounds of Soybeans and Three Belts,” there was “Until the World Ends” and “Just Staring at You.” As a diehard Slam Dunk fan, Ye Zhao not only knew these songs by heart but also the singers. Instantly, he realized who was before him—

“Maiki Daikuro?” Ye Zhao blurted out, forgetting even the honorific.

Fortunately, Maiki Daikuro was easygoing and didn’t mind his lack of manners. She greeted him warmly, “Hello, I’m Maiki Daikuro. Are you the new recruit?”

Ye Zhao quickly introduced himself, “I’m Ye Zhao. I just joined the company yesterday.”

“Ye Zhao? The underground artist who released ‘Summer Colors’?” Maiki Daikuro smiled. “Your single caused quite a stir in the industry. Who would’ve thought our company would land such a treasure?”

“But how did you know I’m a new artist and not staff?”

“That’s easy,” Maiki Daikuro teased, unfazed by his casualness. “Because you’re handsome. President Nagato is famous for launching good-looking people.”

BEING’s artists were among the best-looking in entertainment. Nagato Daikichi used idol packaging for his singers, creating “rock idol singers.” To debut under him, looks came first; no matter your talent or skill, you’d have to wait your turn without good looks.

Take Maiki Daikuro herself—when she joined BEING, she was already accomplished, a powerhouse vocalist and one of the few who could write her own songs without relying on Tetsuro Oda. Yet Nagato Daikichi delayed her debut, assigning her only backing vocals. Rumors said her personality was hard to manage, but gossip had it the real reason was she wasn’t pretty enough.

Yet to Ye Zhao, she was certainly above average—though not as beautiful as Izumi Sakai, she was more than qualified as a singer.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. Ye Zhao and Maiki Daikuro stepped out; he headed for the vocal studio, she for the rehearsal room next door.

Hearing Ye Zhao was going to class, Maiki Daikuro kindly said, “Professor Maeda is excellent, though strict. If she scolds you, don’t take it to heart—she means well.”

Ye Zhao nodded, “Thank you for the advice, Maiki.”

The vocal classroom was at the end of the hall. Ye Zhao arrived about five minutes before Professor Maeda. When she entered and saw Ye Zhao already there, she gave a subtle nod. Courteous humility is a universal virtue.

Professor Maeda, about forty, looked plain, with two vertical lines at her mouth that made her seem stern. “Hello, I’m Maeda Sachi, your vocal instructor from today.”

“Hello, Professor Maeda. I’m Ye Zhao, the new recruit. Please teach me well.”

“Good,” Professor Maeda nodded. “Let’s begin. First, sing something a cappella so I can gauge your level.”

Having never trained formally, Ye Zhao had only been a lead guitarist in his band. His singing relied on youthful bravado to impress outsiders, but before a true professional, it was painfully inadequate. Professor Maeda listened with a stern face, then pointed out five or six major issues and urged Ye Zhao to start from basic vocalization and proper technique, guiding him gradually toward professionalism.

The ninety minutes flew by. Near the end, Professor Maeda finally smiled and encouraged him, “Although your foundation is weak, you have good intuition and learn faster than I expected. By the end of this course, I’m confident you’ll be a professional singer.”

Ye Zhao bid her farewell and stepped out. At that moment, the rehearsal room door opened, and Maiki Daikuro emerged, chatting on her phone. Seeing Ye Zhao, she said into the phone, “What a coincidence.” She finished her call and greeted Ye Zhao, “Finished class?”

“Yes, Maiki.”

“How is it? Are you getting used to the lessons?”

“It’s fine. Thanks to Professor Maeda, I’ve corrected a lot of bad habits.”

Maiki Daikuro nodded, “Do you have plans now? If not, I’ll take you somewhere—someone’s very interested in you!”

“Who?” Ye Zhao asked.

“You’ll find out!” Maiki made a let’s go gesture.

...

The elevator descended to the basement. Maiki Daikuro led Ye Zhao to BEING’s internal recording studio. The equipment here was simple, nothing compared to BEING’s top studios around Tokyo, but this was where many composers and singers created and demoed their songs.

Three people were already gathered inside. The tallest was someone Ye Zhao recognized—BEING’s ace composer, Tetsuro Oda, who had one foot on a chair and was chatting energetically, without a trace of producer’s airs.

The other two: one was a gray-haired, slightly overweight, genial-looking middle-aged man; the woman, about twenty, had wavy long hair and wore a deep red sequined T-shirt with a black mini skirt, exuding a wild vibe similar to Maiki Daikuro.

“Mika, I’ve brought him for you,” Maiki Daikuro said loudly as she entered.

Anyone who could banter with Tetsuro Oda and went by the name Mika could only be one person: Mika Kawashima.

Mika Kawashima was one of BEING’s female composers and a mainstay in the company. Her most famous works included ZARD’s “Don’t Forget That Smile,” voted number one by fans, and MANISH’s “Capturing Shining Moments” for Slam Dunk. Though less well-known than Tetsuro Oda or Seiichiro Kuribayashi, her strength was undeniable; many BEING artists—ZARD, WANDS, MANISH, Rina Aiuchi, Aya Kamiki—had sung her songs. Outside BEING, she had written for Noriko Sakai, with lyrics by a certain bespectacled fat man; perhaps that connection led her to compose a theater song for Namba 48 later.

Mika Kawashima’s gaze bypassed Maiki Daikuro and fell on Ye Zhao. “I didn’t expect the young man who writes such good songs to be so handsome. Well, how about joining my BEER Club?”