Chapter Eighty-Two: Retribution Is Real

Fukuyama Masaharu and Ye Zhao were two of the hottest names in the current music scene. For their double A-side single “Utsukushiki Hana / Sakura,” BMG made an audacious move, shipping an initial batch of three hundred thousand copies. And it wasn’t three hundred thousand total, but three hundred thousand each for the 8cm and 12cm versions—combined, a staggering six hundred thousand copies for a single release.

After a flurry of magazine publicity and a live performance on a music show on April 15th, the single—which had been attracting attention since the press release in February and throughout its much-publicized production—finally appeared on the shelves of record stores across the country on April 18th.

The morning of April 19th, at the ZYE Agency, Tamura Yuki animatedly recounted to Ye Zhao, “Boss, I went out with some friends to Shibuya last night. The record store was packed! Your single with Fukuyama was displayed in the most prominent spot, and there were so many girls lining up to buy it. I couldn’t resist—I bought both versions myself.”

“Haven’t I already given you a copy? Wasn’t buying more just a waste?”

“To show my support for you, Boss! What’s a single or two for that?”

“Really?”

“Well…” Tamura Yuki glanced up at the ceiling, a little sheepish. “Actually, my friends wanted to buy it, so I just went along. Everyone was caught up in the excitement—if I’d just stood there like I didn’t care at all, it would’ve been weird.”

Ye Zhao gave her a look that said, “I knew it,” and teased, “You could’ve held out a little longer. I was almost touched by your loyalty.” In the end, it was just another example of how easy it was to get swept along by the crowd.

With the ZYE name backing her, Kawamoto Kazuyo didn’t have to stumble around like Ye Zhao had done before debut, sending out demo tapes and waiting endlessly for a reply. Now, even if the answer was no, the record companies would at least send a formal notice.

Of the major labels—Sony, Universal, Avex, EMI, and Victor—Ye Zhao’s ideal order was Universal, Avex, Sony, EMI, Victor. But when he consulted Kawamoto, she expressed a strong desire to sign with Sony.

“Is it because Sony is a big company with lots of resources?”

“Not entirely,” Kawamoto shook her head. “Some of my favorite artists—JUDY AND MARY, Dreams Come True, Masayuki Suzuki—are all with Sony. It feels like Sony is more accepting of different musical styles. Of course, it’d be great to become popular, but I really want to make the music I love.”

If Kawamoto signed with Sony, that wouldn’t be a bad thing—in fact, it could be very good. Sony’s resources were second to none; every year they invested in countless anime and game productions, and the theme songs for those projects naturally went to their own artists.

Sony’s strategy for promoting talent was also shrewd: they didn’t just throw all their resources behind one breakout star, but instead spread their bets across many new acts. This broad-net approach allowed them to experiment and invest without gambling everything on one group, nor did they rashly give up on an artist just because immediate results weren’t forthcoming.

But despite all the advantages of joining Sony, there was one thing that gave Ye Zhao pause: what if history repeated itself, and Kawamoto ended up in a dispute with Sony, just like before?

Then again, he thought, so what? He held Kawamoto’s management contract, and the recording contract would be contingent on him serving as producer. If history dared to repeat itself under those circumstances, he might as well retire to his hometown and take up fishing.

As for his original grudge against Sony? It wasn’t so much an excuse as a vague, meaningless sentiment, like being jealous of Okada Taro for marrying Sayuri Yoshinaga. Besides, signing with Sony himself and signing an artist to Sony were two entirely different things. In the former, he himself was the product; in the latter, it was simply a win-win, leveraging Sony’s powerful platform.

Thus, Sony Records once again became Ye Zhao’s first choice. As for how things would turn out, only time would tell.

That afternoon, April 19th, Ye Zhao returned to Fuji TV headquarters for the formal recording of HEY! HEY! HEY! Since its debut the previous October, the show had quickly become a fixture in prime time, boasting both ratings and guest lineups worthy of its coveted slot. When HEY! HEY! HEY! ended, the famed “Monday at Nine” drama slot would follow.

Whatever the future held, the Monday night dramas of the moment were true cultural phenomena; many tuned in early just to catch them, which was one reason HEY! HEY! HEY! had consistently strong ratings.

Unlike Music Station—which always featured a Johnny’s group—HEY! HEY! HEY! had close ties with the Komuro Family; artists produced by Tetsuya Komuro were frequent guests, and Komuro himself had recently formed a unit with one of the hosts, Masatoshi Hamada: H Jungle With t.

Backstage, before recording began, Ye Zhao followed custom and brought a single to the hosts, DOWNTOWN. This kind of gift-giving was reserved for juniors and seniors, or guests with good rapport—never the other way around.

At this point, Masatoshi Matsumoto still had a head of thick black hair, unlike his later years, and his looks were less intimidating than they would become. Though his main job was comedy, both members of DOWNTOWN were enormously talented. Last September, Matsumoto published his book “Last Testament,” which spent twelve weeks atop the ORICON book charts, earning him the new title of best-selling author.

On the show, Matsumoto was always in a suit, but now he wore a black T-shirt and track pants—an uncommon sight. He accepted the single, saying, “Looking forward to the show, Ye-san.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Ye Zhao replied. Since it was their first meeting, the exchange was brief, and Ye Zhao soon excused himself.

The DOWNTOWN hosts had separate dressing rooms; Hamada’s was across the hall. After leaving Matsumoto’s room, Ye Zhao took another single from Uemura Yuki, who was waiting outside.

Masatoshi Hamada, with his naturally curly hair and faintly gorilla-like features, always dressed casually, on or off stage, projecting a relaxed, slightly slovenly image.

Taking the single, Hamada joked, “When we start recording, is it all right if I go a little overboard?”

That sort of question was tricky—neither a yes nor a no was really appropriate. After a moment’s thought, Ye Zhao feigned ignorance. “Er… by ‘overboard,’ do you mean how hard you hit people on the head?”

Hamada’s habit of smacking people’s heads was a famous running joke—not just Matsumoto, but even luminaries like Ryuichi Sakamoto and Ayumi Hamasaki had been on the receiving end.

Yet urban legend had it that anyone struck by Hamada would become successful, and plenty dreamed of that whack, just as people lined up to be slapped by Antonio Inoki in hopes of receiving his “fighting spirit.”

This odd brand of comedy and ritual was something Ye Zhao could never quite understand.

“How hard I hit? You’ve got some nerve!” Hamada burst out laughing. On screen he was known for his sadistic streak, but now he seemed friendly and cheerful. Of course, perhaps that warmth was reserved for guests—there was another rumor that in meetings, Hamada required his staff to kneel throughout.

When recording finished and they returned backstage, Fukuyama invited Ye Zhao once more: “Ye, want to grab a bite to eat?”

Then, with mock seriousness, he added, “Don’t worry, this time it’s just you and me.”

Ye Zhao pulled a face. “Fukuyama, the way you say that is kind of creepy.”

“So, are you coming or not?”

“Why wouldn’t I, if someone else is paying?” Ye Zhao replied cheerfully.

“Who said I was paying? We’re splitting the bill,” Fukuyama grinned.

Fukuyama took Ye Zhao to a sushi bar in Akasaka that he’d reserved in advance. Hidden in the basement of the Mitsuba building, the little restaurant could seat only eight or nine guests at a time. Two young chefs assisted, while the head sushi chef, his hair and beard snowy white, radiated a powerful presence and the graceful bearing of a true craftsman.

There was no risk of being bothered by fans or paparazzi here, and the chef’s skills were impeccable, making it a favored gathering spot for people in show business.

After a few cups of sake with their sushi, Fukuyama, still in high spirits as they left the restaurant, suggested, “How about we keep the night going? There’s a really nice bar in Toranomon. Nakamura from Dreams Come True and the others go there a lot.”

“Afraid I can’t tonight,” Ye Zhao apologized. “I have a last-minute appointment.”

“An appointment? Is it a date, or just dinner?” Fukuyama showed no sign of disappointment—if anything, he was eyeing Ye Zhao with mischievous curiosity, as if hoping to spot something on his face.

Ye Zhao, who would normally respond with a sharp retort, instead hesitated for a long moment before mumbling, “It’s less a date or a dinner than… more like a public humiliation session.”

“Huh?”

“Fukuyama,” Ye Zhao said, looking at him solemnly, “it turns out that if you spend your whole life talking nonsense, karma really does catch up with you.”

“…???” Fukuyama Masaharu was left completely baffled.