Chapter Forty-Six: A Melody

On the morning of November 4th, Ye Zhao appeared in BEING's internal recording studio. As soon as he pushed open the studio door, Mika Kawashima, who was lounging on the sofa, lazily waved at him. "Hey, you're here."

“Mika?” Ye Zhao was momentarily taken aback. “What brings you here?”

Kawashima stood up from the sofa. “I ran into Mr. Akashi yesterday in the mixing room in Shibuya. He told me you’d be bringing a new song here today for a listen, so I decided to come along and join the fun.”

“Mika’s been looking forward to this since yesterday,” Masao Akashi added. “Ye, hurry up and let’s hear the song.”

Ye Zhao took a cassette tape from the pocket of his black motorcycle jacket and handed it to Masao Akashi. “This is the demo.” Accepting the tape, Akashi slotted it into the player sitting on the table and pressed play.

Music magazines had dubbed Ye Zhao “the second Masaharu Fukuyama.” Though both insiders and outsiders in the industry had voiced their objections to this label, Ye Zhao himself had no rebuttal. After all, “Rainbow” had originally been a Fukuyama song, and Fukuyama’s works were marked by a distinctive personal style—even a decade later, at the height of his creative maturity, the core of his music remained unchanged. Not long after, Mika Ogawa’s scandal broke, diverting everyone’s attention. Now that the scandal had subsided, the old conversation had resurfaced, and the public seemed more and more inclined to see Ye Zhao as a second-rate figure.

In the entertainment world, being called “the second so-and-so” or “so-and-so’s successor” is a double-edged sword. If the original figure has retired or passed away, it’s not too bad; but if they’re still active, it inevitably gives the public the impression that you’re not quite their equal—after all, if you were truly talented, would you need to follow in someone else’s footsteps?

A similar thing happened when Mai Kuraki’s debut album sold phenomenally well, yet the media dubbed her “the second Hikaru Utada,” sparking a fierce fan war between the two camps. Forced by circumstances, Kuraki and her team had to seek a new direction before her popularity had even stabilized, resulting in a downward spiral for subsequent albums. This shows just how much artists dread being shackled by such labels.

Against this backdrop, Ye Zhao’s newly chosen song not only departed sharply from the folk-rock style of his previous two singles, but also differed from the pop-rock products churned out by BEING’s assembly line. Even compared to “Let’s Wander,” which he’d written for WANDS, it was another world entirely. The song’s title was “WINTER, AGAIN,” originally released by the top-class Japanese rock band GLAY in 1999.

GLAY, for various reasons, had by 2017 fallen behind some of their perennial peers in terms of sales, giving the impression that though their fame was great, their momentum was fading. Nevertheless, they were undeniably one of the giants of Japan’s pop music scene. With nearly 38 million records sold, they ranked seventh in Japanese music history, and at their peak, they’d held a legendary concert that drew an audience of 200,000—an achievement never before seen, and unlikely to be repeated.

Formed in 1988, GLAY remained an underground band until 1994, when they were discovered by YOSHIKI, drummer of the legendary X-JAPAN. Years of quiet perseverance had honed their style; thus, when their benefactor appeared, they rose to stardom almost overnight.

“WINTER, AGAIN,” as the name suggests, is a song of winter. Having already tasted success with “Summer Colors,” Ye Zhao decided to once again use the seasons as his muse and launch a winter-themed single. 1999 marked the dual peak of GLAY’s popularity and creative prowess, and this song showcased their extraordinary talent—a seamless blend of commercial appeal and musical artistry. The single sold 1.64 million copies that year, surpassing even the two superstar divas Ayumi Hamasaki and Hikaru Utada, and ranked second on the annual singles chart. (In truth, the second spot should have gone to Utada’s “Automatic/time will tell,” but due to ORICON’s policy of separating 8cm and 12cm singles, GLAY’s song claimed the runner-up position. Incidentally, the top spot that year was a children’s song.)

However, there was a major issue Ye Zhao faced in using this song: it was originally written by GLAY, all of whose members hailed from Hokkaido, as a heartfelt ode to their homeland, with lyrics repeatedly referencing “heavy snow” and “hometown.” For Ye Zhao, who had been born and raised in Yokohama, to express such sentiments would have felt disingenuous. So, after deciding to use the song, he made minor adjustments to the original lyrics—a small act of adaptation, but, if one overlooked the fact that he was copying and altering others’ work, this could be considered his first real attempt at lyric-writing since his rebirth.

Even in its current form—a simple demo accompanied only by guitar, without any arrangement—the song’s brilliance was undeniable. When the music finished, the room fell into a brief silence.

Masao Akashi hesitated for a moment. “Ye, did you really write this?”

“In any case, if you compare it to what’s in the company’s song library, you definitely won’t find anything similar.”

“It’s an excellent song!” Akashi exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you to create something this mature. It’s laughable that the media still calls you ‘the second Masaharu Fukuyama.’ With talent like this, why settle for second? Be the first.”

Kawashima joked, “If I didn’t know your background, I’d suspect you had some secret songwriting team. Otherwise, how would you be equally adept at folk, pop rock, and now hard rock?”

Ye Zhao felt a little sheepish—Kawashima had, in a sense, hit the nail on the head.

“Oh, come on. If you’d written such a good song, would you be willing to let someone else sing it? Ye, now that we have the lead track, do you have a C/W song ready?”

At the mention of the C/W song, Ye Zhao suddenly became a little bashful. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled a second cassette from the other pocket of his jacket, labeled “track1,” and handed it over to Akashi.

Full of expectation, Akashi slid the tape in and pressed play. Then—

First came an a cappella rendition of the climax from “Don’t Give Up,” ending on the line, “Chasing an unreachable dream.” Two knocks on the side panel followed, then the guitar gradually joined in, improvising a melody for about a minute and a half. The whole piece was upbeat and energetic; though there were no lyrics, one could still sense the creator’s optimistic spirit.

When the short melody ended, Akashi frowned, saying nothing. It was Kawashima, blunt as ever, who blurted out, “Ye, this one’s a bit below your usual standard.”

“Mika, Sensei, is this song really that bad?” Yes, this was a completely original composition by Ye Zhao. Ever since he’d been accused of being “the second Masaharu Fukuyama,” he’d been reflecting on his unearned success. Even if his varied style would soon put such suspicions to rest, he couldn’t help feeling that everything he now possessed was the fruit of someone else’s labor. That’s why, for this “comeback battle,” he was determined to present something truly his own, to make his stand with a clear conscience.

He sifted through all the unfinished melodies he’d written while learning to compose, and finally put together this piece. As for opening with ZARD’s “Don’t Give Up,” there was no deeper meaning—he simply felt that both the song’s background and its lyrics resonated with his current self.

“Well,” Akashi ruffled his hair, deciding to be frank. “First, I want to commend your use of chord progressions and composition techniques here—there’s nothing formulaic about the harmonies, which is quite creative. But compared to your earlier work, while it’s not utter rubbish, it is at best a second-rate, lower-tier piece.”

Second-rate and lower-tier—such a harsh verdict. Kawashima shot Akashi a reproachful look and tried to console Ye Zhao. “That’s how it is for singer-songwriters. You might write thousands of songs in a lifetime—even the most gifted composers can’t make every piece a masterpiece. Don’t let it bother you, Ye.”

Ye Zhao shook his head. “It’s all right, Mika.” His furrowed brow relaxed, and there was even a hint of happiness. For a seasoned songwriter, such a critique might have sparked offense, but for Ye Zhao, who was trying his hand at composition for the first time, it was the highest praise he could hope for.

His reaction puzzled both Akashi and Kawashima. Akashi probed, “Ye, you’re not seriously planning to use this as your C/W, are you? If you’re low on inspiration, you can always pick something from the company’s song library.”

“Sensei, is it really too poor to serve as a C/W?”

“Not quite. But with only such a short melody and no lyrics, even for a B-side, it seems a bit too perfunctory.”

“If it’s not so bad it can’t be used, then I won’t change my mind.” Ye Zhao’s voice was resolute. Seeing this, Akashi didn’t press further. “Fine, it’s just a C/W, after all. If you want to be willful, so be it. With a lead track this outstanding, I doubt President Nagato will make things difficult for you.”

After getting Akashi’s opinion, Ye Zhao brought both songs to Daikou Nagato. Though Nagato had seldom been involved in the actual production of Ye Zhao’s songs, he was, at least officially, Ye Zhao’s producer, so approval was needed for big decisions about musical direction.

Nagato’s reaction was much like Akashi’s—especially with the brilliance of “WINTER, AGAIN” as a comparison, “track1” seemed unworthy of the spotlight. Fortunately, Nagato did not make things difficult. When Ye Zhao insisted on using it as the C/W, he acquiesced.

With the green light granted and all songs in place, it was finally time for Ye Zhao’s new single to begin recording.