Chapter Ninety-Three: You’ll Absolutely Burst Out Laughing
He found the business card that Mitsu Iijima had given him during his first visit to the MS backstage and dialed the number written on it. The wait felt interminable; just as Ye Zhao was about to hang up, the call was finally answered.
“Hello, this is Iijima.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Iijima. This is Ye Zhao. I hope I’m not inconveniencing you by calling now?”
After Ye Zhao introduced himself, a warmth entered Mitsu Iijima’s voice. “Ye Zhao’s calls are never an inconvenience, no matter when they come.”
“You’re far too courteous,” Ye Zhao replied politely, then, without waiting for her to ask, he moved directly to the topic at hand. “I’m calling to let you know that the song for SMAP is finished. I’ll send the demo to the record company soon, so please keep an eye out for it.”
Mitsu Iijima sounded surprised. “Already? That’s so fast.”
“Well, I did promise you first. It would be quite rude to keep you waiting too long,” Ye Zhao’s words soothed her. “Honestly, I thought you were so busy these days, we’d have to wait a while longer. In that case, I’ll be looking forward to receiving the song.”
“If you find it unsuitable,” Ye Zhao said with a smile, though his tone was earnest, “I’m happy to accept a return.”
Johnny’s, though it had built a vast idol empire, always signed its artists’ record deals with other companies: for example, Hikaru Genji with Pony Canyon, SMAP with Victor, and TOKIO with Sony. It wasn’t until the eve of KinKi Kids’ debut that Kitagawa established Johnny’s own label for them, after which more groups began to debut through Johnny’s own record company.
The demo Ye Zhao sent to SMAP was not only fully arranged, but he’d also hired studio backing vocalists to sing the sections assigned to each member, making the completion level quite high. He was confident in “Beyond the Night Sky,” believing it would move both SMAP and Mitsu Iijima, and sway the executives responsible for approving singles.
...
“Right now, I’m thinking of you, wanting to tell you through song.”
“How can I be by your side on rainy nights, on winter mornings?”
“Singing while imagining the happy endings in movies, there’s a lovely phrase, short, please listen.”
“I love you.”
...
When Ye Zhao emerged from the recording booth, he saw Izumi Sakai seated at the control console, admiration shining in her eyes. She removed her headphones and looked at him. “That’s a wonderful song.”
“Thank you, though I feel a bit embarrassed,” Ye Zhao looked away slightly.
“Embarrassed?” Izumi Sakai propped her chin with one hand, intrigued.
“It’s just that singing ‘I love you’ so plainly feels a little awkward,” Ye Zhao rubbed his cheek with his index finger. “If this song really ends up on the album, I’ll probably draw the curtains when recording.”
“My feeling’s quite the opposite,” Izumi Sakai said. “People who aren’t good at expressing themselves have to confess their feelings through music—it’s actually quite reserved, isn’t it? Didn’t you write in the lyrics, ‘too shy to express’?”
“That’s true, but during formal recording, the engineer makes us repeat the same line over and over. If I have to keep singing ‘I love you, I love you’ nonstop, without the curtains drawn, I’d definitely break into laughter when I make eye contact with the engineer.”
Recording in a studio is never as straightforward as one might imagine. Because of the environment, the voice you hear in the monitor headphones is always dry, with no reverb or echo. The professional recording and monitoring equipment picks up every tiny flaw—pitch, breath, rhythm—exposing them mercilessly.
Thus, studio recording means singing the same segment repeatedly, polishing each line over and over, until countless scattered tracks are sent to the mixing room for synthesis. Songs that are too difficult, or when the singer is off their game, it’s not unheard of to spend hours singing one line. Those with fragile nerves might even feel like throwing down their headphones and storming out.
Forget the million-yen-a-year sound engineer; as proper singers—not amateurs dabbling from another field—if you have to rely on the engineer, you might as well retire behind the scenes before you become infamous for a musical disaster, doomed to be shamed for years, even decades.
This brings up the MUSIC MAIR stage. The reason singers often crack on MF is that the stage’s sound effects are very close to those of a recording studio, amplifying every flaw, leading to an endless parade of singers crashing and burning here.
As a veteran rooted in the studio, Izumi Sakai understood this well. Hearing Ye Zhao’s explanation, she couldn’t help but smile. Then she teased, “Ye, have you fallen for someone?”
“What?” Ye Zhao paused, hand reaching for his teacup.
“With such deep lyrics, it feels like you couldn’t have written them without that kind of emotion. So I just had to ask,” Izumi Sakai added, “But please don’t take me for a gossiping auntie.”
“There’s no such beautiful auntie in the world,” Ye Zhao took a sip of black tea. “Of course, there’s someone I like, but just liking someone isn’t enough to support such profound lyrics. To write well, you need a bit of a dreamer’s heart.”
“A dreamer?” Izumi Sakai found the idea novel, thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Actually, when I write lyrics, I imagine a ‘he’ in my mind, as if I’m writing the words for him.”
“What’s your ‘he’ like, Izumi?” Ye Zhao asked, curious.
“That—” Izumi Sakai smiled slightly. “That’s a secret.”
...
The song Ye Zhao was singing now is called “Singer’s Love Song,” a single released by Kazuyoshi Saito in 1997. As Izumi Sakai said, it is indeed a reserved love song. The singer, not good with words, confesses love through song—though he boldly says “I love you” twice, the surrounding lyrics convey a sense of mustering courage, anxious yet resolute.
As a love song, both the lyrics and melody are top-notch. Because it touches people so deeply, it’s been continuously sung as a classic ever since it was born.
After sending out the demo for “Beyond the Night Sky,” Ye Zhao finally found time to prepare his new album. The drama soundtrack, having a generous production timeline, could be set aside for now—he’d work on it slowly once filming started and the first episode was ready.
Compared to singles, album production takes much longer—preparation must begin at least half a year in advance. This is true only with Ye Zhao’s abundance of songs; if he had to collect songs bit by bit like most singers, the preparation period could stretch to a year or more. Thus, even starting to make song demos in May, the earliest the album could officially release would be October or November.
By coincidence, the album’s preparation period overlapped with Izumi Sakai’s single production, so nearly every night Ye Zhao came to the studio, he’d run into her.
After their previous conversation in the recording room, Ye Zhao found it much easier to interact with Izumi Sakai. Recording is a tedious and flavorless task—even the most passionate musicians can feel this at times. So, during breaks, Ye Zhao and Izumi would occasionally visit each other’s studios, listening to the songs being recorded, chatting about trivial matters, and easing the tension brought on by their pursuit of perfection.
...
“By the way, Izumi, your new song this time is incredible.”
“Incredible?”
“Yes, the tempo really shocked me. If it were me, I’d definitely bite my tongue.” Izumi Sakai was scheduled to release her new single, “Love Can’t Be Seen,” in June. The composer and arranger weren’t her usual collaborators Tetsuro Oda, Seiichiro Kuribayashi, or Masao Akashi, but instead Masumi Ozawa, guitarist of the band PAMELAH.
Speaking of Masumi Ozawa, one cannot ignore his “Attraction,” which served as background music for the Top Ten Goals segment on CCTV’s “World Football,” making his name known to countless Chinese fans.
“Love Can’t Be Seen” is a rare fast song for Izumi Sakai; not only are the lyrics sung at a rapid pace, but the entire rhythm is swift and intense, truly testing a singer’s skill.