Chapter Sixty-Five: Collaborative Single (2/2)

The story goes back to that day backstage at MS. After discussing being set up as formulaic rivals by the magazines, Masaharu Fukuyama took the initiative to invite Ye Zhao to his radio program as a guest, if she had time.

A large part of this invitation actually stemmed from external pressures. When rumors began circulating about a “second Masaharu Fukuyama,” some of Fukuyama’s fans did quite a bit to smear Ye Zhao. Once Ye Zhao made a comeback with “WINTER, AGAIN,” her previously suppressed fans and the so-called “justice bystanders” retaliated, turning their attacks on Fukuyama.

In such a tense atmosphere, both Fukuyama and Ye Zhao, as the central figures, wanted to resolve the situation as quickly as possible. So, when Fukuyama extended the invitation, Ye Zhao readily accepted, hoping together to ease the increasingly antagonistic mood among their fans.

The day after MS ended, Fukuyama’s manager sent the radio invitation directly to ZYE, and Ye Zhao, as promised, cleared her schedule to appear on the show.

Though both of them might seem like “idol types” based on appearances, their guitar skills were rather impressive among singers—though, of course, this was only relative to “singers,” not professional guitarists.

Both were singer-guitarists, and with Ye Zhao’s relentless self-improvement in music after her rebirth giving her the confidence to hold her own in conversation with real musicians, the two hit it off. When the radio show ended, these kindred spirits instantly agreed to collaborate on a single, startling their respective managers.

…

The Japanese entertainment industry has always been somewhat insular, and this is especially evident in record company strategies. In the Japanese music scene, even artists from the same label rarely collaborate on records; the most common form of cooperation is one party providing lyrics or music for the other to perform. Actual co-releases are rare—let alone in a case like Ye Zhao and Fukuyama, where even their record labels and management companies are entirely different.

Of course, cross-company collaborations, while rare, are not unheard of. Take, for example, WANDS and Miho Nakayama—a collaboration across companies, agencies, and factions that was only made possible through the joint efforts of the top brass from all sides. But this was quite different from the private agreement Ye Zhao and Fukuyama reached now.

Still, since there was precedent, pushing things forward wasn’t impossible.

Both Ye Zhao and Fukuyama were proactive. After deciding to collaborate, they each agreed to negotiate with the higher-ups on their respective sides.

Things were easier for Ye Zhao—her management contract was in her own hands, and the only person she needed to convince was Daikou Nagato. Fukuyama, on the other hand, had more hurdles to clear: he needed to negotiate not only with his agency, AMUSE, but also with his record company, BMG JAPAN. (At this time, Fukuyama was signed with BMG JAPAN, before later moving to Universal.)

AMUSE, as an agency, could be considered a breath of fresh air in the otherwise stingy and rigid Japanese entertainment industry. Their management philosophy was highly de-localized; unlike other agencies that treated their artists as indentured servants, AMUSE respected the wishes of their artists and maintained a cooperative relationship with them.

To use perhaps an imperfect analogy, AMUSE was like the operator of a large shopping mall, and their artists were like independent stores renting space. While the stores paid the operator a commission (a share of profits), the artists were essentially independent rather than employees. This granted AMUSE artists a significant degree of autonomy within allowable limits.

When Fukuyama approached the higher-ups at AMUSE, not only did they readily agree to the collaboration, but they also proactively helped him negotiate with BMG. With AMUSE’s support, BMG swiftly gave their consent.

As for Ye Zhao, at this time, BEING’s relationship with BMG was still decent, so Daikou Nagato had no particular objections to collaborating with AMUSE and BMG. The only annoyance was that the single would be published by BMG rather than BEING, meaning BEING wouldn’t profit as much from the release.

But this was inevitable—Fukuyama’s seniority and fame eclipsed Ye Zhao’s, so the single would have to be “Masaharu Fukuyama × Ye Zhao,” rather than the other way around.

Of course, BEING wasn’t giving away profits for nothing. In exchange, they secured tie-in deals for two AMUSE artists to appear in upcoming dramas and films.

Once the collaboration was set, Ye Zhao and Fukuyama, inspired by Tamori’s joke during MS, decided to produce a spring-themed single. Even though only the concept was determined and neither had produced an actual song yet, they couldn't wait to leak news of their collaboration through magazines.

Upon hearing the news, the onlookers who’d spent the past six months following the “Fukuyama Ye Zhao Crossfire,” the fans who’d been tearing each other apart for their idols, the so-called justice bystanders stirring trouble on both sides—all were left dumbfounded: What was this maneuver supposed to be?

…

For song selection, Ye Zhao and Fukuyama agreed that each would write a song, and after considering the opinions of their record companies, one would be chosen as the title track, the other as a coupling song (C/W).

In fact, Fukuyama already had a spring song, “Sakurazaka,” which was released in 2000 and sold an astonishing two million copies, making it his most iconic song.

But Ye Zhao had no intention of using this song. Having just shaken off the label of “second Masaharu Fukuyama,” it would be asking for trouble to immediately offer a song steeped in Fukuyama’s style. Besides, the “Sakurazaka” in Fukuyama’s song referred to a place in his hometown, Nagasaki’s Matsushima, not the one in Tokyo’s Ōta Ward. Trying to fudge that detail right in front of the original artist was far too risky and unnecessary.

In the end, Ye Zhao chose another cherry blossom song: “Sakura,” originally performed by Kobukuro, a duo as well.

Ever since “Sakurazaka” became a hit, the Japanese music scene had seen a new cherry blossom song released every year. Search for “sakura,” and you’d find hundreds of related songs. Kobukuro’s “Sakura” wasn’t the best-selling of them all, but its melody and lyrics were outstanding, and it was included in every annual roundup of cherry blossom songs. By 2006, when this single was to be officially released, judging songs by sales alone had long become unreliable.

Interestingly, though “Sakura” was a cherry blossom song, Kobukuro released it not in spring, but in autumn.

As a literary plagiarist, Ye Zhao found it easy to produce her song, while Fukuyama had to expend real creative effort. Out of respect, Ye Zhao didn’t rush to contact Fukuyama, instead deciding to wait until he had finished before reaching out.

…

On February 10th, after a four-month legal battle, BEING’s lawsuit against Weekly Shincho finally concluded. The evidence was overwhelming, and Weekly Shincho had no chance of winning; at the final hearing, the magazine didn’t even send a representative, leaving the entire process to their lawyers.

Four months was a long time, but compared to lawsuits that could drag on for a year or more, it was almost miraculous. Ye Zhao took a rather “un-Japanese” approach to the resolution: once the judgment was finalized, she contacted Asahi Shimbun via ZYE and, for five million yen, bought half a page in the entertainment section, publishing Weekly Shincho’s apology in full.

As for the five million yen, although Weekly Shincho wasn’t ordered to pay the two hundred million yen BEING initially sought, they still faced a fine of fifty million yen. Under the terms of Ye Zhao’s contract with BEING, she received ten million yen of that sum. After paying for the newspaper ad, there was still five million yen left for ZYE.

But that’s another story.

When the Asahi Shimbun published the apology as scheduled, its sales soared by 360,000 copies that day. Even people who usually ignored entertainment news bought a copy just to witness this unprecedented move.

The public’s response to Ye Zhao was mixed. The positive comments praised her decisiveness, while the negative ones, predictably, accused her of being relentless and lacking magnanimity.

Ye Zhao remained unfazed by the criticism. Her friends, on the other hand, called her repeatedly. Maki Ohguro and Noboru Uesugi were adamant that her actions were bold and satisfying, giving her their full support. Tetsurō Oda, with some disdain, merely commented, “How boring.” Masao Akashi was less pleased, criticizing her for being too impulsive.

The most amusing response came from Masaharu Fukuyama. Although they had agreed to collaborate, the two had not exchanged phone numbers; only their managers had swapped contact information.

The day after the newspaper publication, as soon as he arrived at the office building, Yuki Uemura received a call from Fukuyama’s manager. When he answered, it was Fukuyama’s voice on the line: “Hello, this is Fukuyama. If it’s convenient, could I speak to Ye?”

“Oh, please hold on.” Uemura handed the phone to Ye Zhao. “Ye-san, it’s Fukuyama-san for you.”

Ye Zhao took the phone. “Hello, Fukuyama-san, this is Ye Zhao.”

“Hahahahahaha…” came a burst of laughter from the other end. Ye Zhao glanced at the caller ID, baffled, and asked Uemura, “Uemura, are you sure this isn’t a prank call?”

“That’s a bit harsh, Ye,” Fukuyama said through his laughter on the phone.

“No, this is entirely Fukuyama-san’s fault, isn’t it?” Ye Zhao retorted.

“Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to express my feelings about seeing the newspaper in a more… direct way.” Despite his words, there was no hint of apology in his tone. “Ye, you really are too much fun.”

Ye Zhao twitched her lips. “If that’s a compliment, I’ll accept it. Otherwise, allow me to refuse it outright.”

“A compliment, definitely a compliment!” Fukuyama’s tone grew earnest. “Ye, I really liked the way you handled things.”

“Thank you,” Ye Zhao replied, then shifted gears. “But, Fukuyama-san, did you call just for that?”

“Of course… not!” Fukuyama said. “Ye, you haven’t forgotten we each promised to write a song, have you? I’ve already finished on my end. Don’t tell me you haven’t?”

“Of course…” Ye Zhao imitated his drawn-out tone, “of course I’ve finished!”

“In that case, let’s set a time to listen to them together?”

“No problem, Fukuyama-san, you pick the time and place.”

…

She went upstairs to the office, and as soon as she sat down, Yuki Tamura came in carrying a small package.

“President, you have a package.”

“Just leave it on the desk,” Ye Zhao nodded, glancing at Tamura. “Got a haircut?” Tamura’s hair, which used to fall to her shoulders, was now cut short in a tomboyish style.

Tamura subconsciously touched the ends. “I modeled it after Ms. Uchida’s hairstyle. What do you think, President?”

“Uchida Yuki?”

“That’s right! I’ve never seen anyone suit short hair as well as Ms. Uchida. I couldn’t help but copy her.”

“It looks good, but you could never pull off her heroic vibe.”

“Of course, Ms. Uchida is one of a kind.” Tamura laughed, bowed slightly, and left the office.

“Uchida Yuki, huh…”

Ye Zhao had two and a half impressions of her. The first was her 1992 melodramatic yuri drama, “Who Stole My Heart?” in which she turned the female lead, who originally had a crush on Takuya Kimura, and achieved the epic feat of “stealing Kimura’s girl.” The second was her role in the 2012 drama “Doctor X: Surgeon Michiko Daimon,” starring Ryoko Yonekura. In that series, her anesthesiologist character and Yonekura’s Daimon Michiko exchanged glances thick with subtext, giving the medical drama a distinct yuri flavor—every time she appeared on screen, the comments section would overflow with “pregnant gaze” jokes.

The other half-impression was that this yuri community icon had once had a long romance with Ye Zhao’s current collaborator, Masaharu Fukuyama, reportedly to the point of discussing marriage. The only reason Ye Zhao knew this gossip was thanks to the tabloids that covered their breakup.

It was 1995 now—Fukuyama and Uchida must still be going strong… After this bit of surreptitious gossiping, Ye Zhao turned her attention to the package on the desk.

The sender’s address was marked SENSUI.